Page 6 of The Worst Spy in London (The Luckiest With Love #2)

D amaris stared out the parlor window, thinking.

The early afternoon sun had finally cut through the morning clouds and now drenched the Dunhams’ Bloomsbury street.

Two businessmen walked past, likely coming home for nuncheon before hurrying back to their offices.

A young man raced down the street, one hand holding a flapping white barrister wig on his head as he headed toward the Inn of Courts.

Mother was taking a long nap in preparation for the ball tonight.

It was tonight.

Damaris couldn’t decide if she was excited or nervous.

She’d spent the morning sketching still life, then figures of female dancers, and then finally the curls of Annette’s hair.

She loved drawing more than any other activity, for it gave her a chance to understand the world on her own terms with little pressure.

She studied her latest sketch. It was supposed to be a generic milkmaid, but somehow she’d ended up with dark curls, laughing brown eyes, and the most darling gap between her front two teeth. Annette .

Her heart panged in her chest, and she wondered if she was falling ill.

Lately she’d felt jittery and out of sorts, like her heart was malfunctioning or she was going to crawl right out of her skin or she was running a fever and her hands were clammy and she didn’t know what was wrong with her, but she didn’t want to fall ill because then she’d miss the ball and she wanted to wear Annette’s gown for her because it was special and beautiful and Damaris just needed to feel closer to her though she didn’t know why, and perhaps she was developing some feverish obsession, so maybe she really was sick because sometimes she felt like she couldn’t breathe, especially right now while looking at her sketch, but she didn’t know what the symptoms meant, and?—

She took a shaky breath.

Madame Morand had delivered the ballgowns this morning through an errand boy.

Damaris had opened her box and pulled apart the thin paper to see her gown.

It was just as she expected: a high waistline in pale yellow with a fussy collar.

But someone had added something else to the dress, and she’d stared with an open mouth, taking in the sight.

Deep purple now edged the dress, drawing the eye through dyed lace and velvet ribbons.

It sharpened the waistline and ribbons trailed behind her, drawing the eye away from the collar and accentuating Damaris’s slender height.

A little bow now marked the collar in the center, making it appear more youthful fashion.

It was striking and elegant and everything Damaris always wished she was.

Damaris couldn’t wait to wear it, even if her mother would complain about the last-minute changes.

It had to have been Annette. That was the only explanation.

Damaris would have to thank her. She’d dreamed of Annette last night.

It was an odd dream, where Annette was the client and Damaris was the modiste’s assistant, helping her up on the stool, unbuttoning Annette’s gown, and revealing curved shoulders, the length of her neck, those flaring hips hidden still by her chemise.

Damaris had knelt, unlacing Annette’s shoes. Then she’d wrapped her fingers around Annette’s shapely ankles and gently placed her stockinged feet back on the stool.

It was a strange, sensuous dream. Damaris could practically feel the silk stockings under her fingertips and hear the slide of fabric as more and more of Annette’s skin was revealed to her gaze. Even now, hours after she’d woken, the dream was vivid in her mind.

She picked up the embroidery project she’d been trying to work on all morning, completed one stitch, then tossed it on the settee with a frustrated sigh. Damaris crossed her legs this way, then that.

I could go see her. The thought pricked her like a needle. I could claim my gown tore, and it was an emergency. Her mind drifted to yesterday, when she'd last seen her. I did tell her cousin I’d deliver his message.

Before she could overthink it, Damaris stood and put on her spencer and bonnet, then asked the coachman to take her to Bond Street. Her mother would likely strangle her, but Damaris so rarely disobeyed she thought she could risk it this once.

The man closed his eyes for a moment, likely praying for patience because he knew how terrible the traffic was in that district, then agreed.

Nearly an hour later, Damaris exited the family coach just under the hanging sign that declared Madame Morand — Modiste .

Damaris balanced the box holding her gown in one hand and reached for the doorknob with the other, then faltered.

What if this was a bad idea? No, actually, this definitely was a bad idea.

She was playing the fool. Annette would be annoyed.

She’d probably already spoken to her odd-smelling cousin anyway.

Before she could turn away, however, Annette’s face popped into the nearby window. She smiled and beckoned Damaris to enter.

Sighing and already regretting her impetuous decision, Damaris slipped inside.

“Good afternoon.” Annette’s forehead creased as she took in the box Damaris held. “Is something wrong with your gown?”

Damaris glanced around the front room, grateful to see it wasn’t busy.

One seamstress was straightening wares, and the curtain was pulled back so she could see straight through the fitting rooms and into the back where the girls sewed.

“No,” she admitted. “I, uh, I just brought this with me because I needed a reason to visit you.” Damaris cringed.

“I mean, I do have a reason to visit you, but to make it more official, I brought this just in case.” Oh, this was ridiculous.

“My mother is napping,” she trailed off miserably. “That’s how I came alone.”

Annette chuckled at the end of Damaris’s speech. “Well, then.” She took the box from Damaris and opened it. “Must keep up appearances.” She pretended to look through the thin wrapping paper. “Tell me why you truly came.”

Annette had been so surprised to see Damaris Dunham outside the shop that she’d frozen for a heartbeat before inviting the customer inside.

Because that’s what Damaris was. A customer.

Even if Annette spent time sketching new dresses that would pair well with her body and her coloring.

Even if Annette wanted to press her finger right against Damaris’s philtrum.

That’s what that divot of the upper lip was called—a philtrum.

Annette could write a poem about Damaris’s deep philtrum and how it made her swoon.

She’d spent so much time thinking about it that she’d had to find an anatomy book to teach her the word philtrum.

Now with Damaris leaning toward her, their heads pressed close over the gown and Damaris’s quiet words, Annette’s heart began to pound again. She was so pretty.

“Your cousin left a direction with me. Asked me to encourage you to visit, if you will not invite him to your home. It’s…it’s on Holywell Street.”

Annette’s eyes jerked up to meet Damaris’s, surprise running through her body. Not so much at the name of the street, but at Damaris’s obvious embarrassment in saying it. She hadn’t expected Damaris to know that it was where most of the pornography and political pamphlets in London were sold.

Damaris’s cheeks pinkened as she met Annette’s gaze. After a pause, she said, “He…he said it was urgent. You had to see him before the Westbrook ball.”

“That’s tonight. It begins at eight o’clock in the evening.”

Damaris nodded. “He smelled…odd.” She blushed again. “I do not mean to be rude. Rather, I mean that he had a distinct smell of rotten eggs. The only other time I’ve smelled that on a gentleman is when my father pulls down the dueling pistols he purchased years ago.”

Annette blinked, trying to make the connection.

“You know,” Damaris whispered, glancing around the front room. “ Gunpowder .”

Gunpowder. Bourbon fanaticism. Wanting to learn about the guests at the Westbrook ball. Brought to London in a smuggling ship. The pieces were fitting together.

“No,” Annette breathed. “Surely not.” It was too fantastical to even suggest.

But Damaris’s eyes sharpened. “What?”

“I think…” Annette took a deep breath. “I think I need to see what my cousin is up to.”

Damaris straightened. “Very well. Let me call the carriage.”

Annette blinked.

“I, uh, I mean…” she trailed off.

“Damaris,” Annette said softly and slowly, though her heart kicked high.

“Mmmm?” Damaris busied herself with folding the tissue paper back over her gown.

“Would you like to accompany me to Holywell?” Annette held her breath.

Damaris’s gray eyes sparkled. “Yes. Oh, yes.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Annette’s mouth. “Do you need to get ready for the ball tonight?”

Damaris brushed aside the concern. “It’s scarcely two hours past noon. My family will attend the ball at eight in the evening, when it begins.”

Annette took a breath, hoping to clear the dizziness in her head at the prospect of spending so much time with Damaris. “Very well.” She had permission from her mother to take a long nuncheon already.

A few moments later, the young women climbed into the Dunham’s coach.

The coachman raised his brows when Damaris brought Annette along, but didn’t say anything.

But when Damaris leaned her head out the window and called out their destination, Annette could hear the pained silence coming from his perch above.

“Miss Dunham,” he finally said. “Far be it from me to advise you. However, must I remind you that your mother would vehemently disapprove of this outing? Especially without a chaperone?”

“I have Miss Morand,” Damaris replied happily.

Annette’s toes scrunched in her shoes and heat spread through her body at those words.

“Miss Dunham,” the middle-aged man tried again.

“Oh, Beecham,” Damaris said. “If you take us, I will personally make sure Cook doesn’t bake that horrible concoction she calls bread pudding again for the next six months.”

An expectant air fell over the coach.

“And,” Damaris added, “I’m sure you’ll find plenty of window shopping for yourself at the booksellers while we tend to our business.”

Beecham choked so loudly Annette could hear it inside the carriage.

Annette’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped.

After a moment of grumbling, the carriage began to roll forward.

Damaris sighed happily and slid her upper half back into the carriage. She had a wild look in her eyes and the grin that lit up her face was a bit mad, if Annette was honest. “I can’t believe I said that.” Her gloved fingers flew to her lips. “That was inappropriate, wasn’t it?”

Annette bobbed her head for yes, actually that was shocking .

“I should apologize to Beecham for alluding to, ahem, his masculine, er…the engravings for sale…” she trailed off. “I’ll do it once I can look him in the eye again.”

Annette burst into laughter, tears coming to her eyes and stomach clenching painfully. “Damaris, I had no idea you were such an imp!”

Damaris giggled, hands covering her mouth. “I didn’t either, to be honest.”

When the carriage pulled off the Strand and onto Holywell, it slowed and rattled along.

Damaris drew the window open to peer at the shops lining the lane.

Booksellers, printshops, a public house called The Radical, and plastered signs for political meetings lined the street.

One shop was for staymakers, with a corset sitting in the window as advertisement.

Another shop wasn’t marked at all, and Annette uneasily remembered that all sorts of unsavory printed material happened on this street—not just pornography and radical politics, but forgers and other criminals, too.

The coach halted halfway down the street, drawing some attention from passersby, who were more used to coaches staying on the Strand, which ran parallel.

Mostly men walked up and down the street, but there were a few working class women either going to work a shift in the shops or perusing the windows for new reading material.

Annette watched as Damaris stepped out of the carriage, independent and confident as you please.

She’d never shown this side of herself before, when her parents were around.

Annette found herself more attracted to Damaris than ever.

She scrambled to catch up to Damaris, who would likely not see her as anything other than her modiste or friend.

“Now,” Damaris said, studying the signs along the lane. “We’re looking for a shop called the Monosyllable.”

Beecham erupted in a coughing fit, bending over. He gasped for air. “M-mono?” He didn’t complete the word. “Miss Dunham,” he said after standing upright again. “I must insist on bringing you home immediately. Your father will have my head on a platter.”

Annette hid a smile. She frequently thanked the heavens for her social status: wealthy, but not so wealthy she needed chaperones or debuts before the Queen. It made times like this possible—as long as her mother didn’t hear of it.

“I promise not to tell a soul,” Damaris soothed. “And we shan’t be long. Why don’t you go, uh, look at some books? Far over there. The other side of the street.”

Beecham straightened his hat and frowned, then walked away muttering about impossible minxes.