Читать книгу The Electrifying Exploits of the English Three - Elysabeth Williams - Страница 8

Chapter 4

Jillian left Eliza’s house and directed her carriage toward the local dressmaker. If she was to attend the end of season ball, she would do so in a brand new dress.

Jillian Johnsworth was the only unmarried one of their trio. She had adamantly declined all offers of marriage–much to her parents’ dismay–and held fast to information her father would never want revealed. The blackmail allowed her to keep her own residence in the city, with an allowance and the ability to move about without scandal.

Her father was the sole proprietor of the most exclusive dining and entertainment establishment in London, Miss Merriweather’s–which had made him a millionaire the moment the doors opened. An elaborate and ornately decorated three-story facility, the club was an overnight success, providing meals, high tea, comedic performances, plays, live music and dancing to the highest of classes.

Little did the majority of polite society know, Miss Merriweather’s had two faces. After the front doors closed for the night, a secret entrance three blocks away would lead gentlemen back into the club–now transformed into a gentleman’s dream, including looser women, burlesque shows, gambling, cards, and booze. Men could see their wives safely home and return to the street on the opposite side of the grand building with no one the wiser. The place was always full, nearly twenty-four hours a day. Though most were not privy to such information, and the men who attended were sworn to secrecy from all women, Jillian knew. She’d known from the start, when she was just entering society and beginning to decline suitors. Eliza and Miriam knew the rumors too, since she had been working in such close quarters with them for so long.

Most people thought the name of the establishment was fictitious and made on the whimsy of Jillian’s young mind. However, Jillian knew the truth. Miss Merriweather had been a maiden who died in childbirth. All because of Mr. Johnsworth. Jillian’s knowledge of the girl frightened the wits out of her father, and to keep his name and reputation spotless, he bent over backward for his daughter. She claimed she would never have reason to use the information, as long as he allowed her to live on her own without argument, and to repent for his sins, to keep Miss Merriweather’s remaining family from ever needing anything for as long as they lived.

Jillian arrived at the dressmaker’s and stepped out onto the curb with her footman’s help. The owner all but fell over herself to greet her at the door.

“Miss Johnsworth! What a delightful surprise. What may I do to help you?”

Jillian usually hated the celebrity status she had acquired over the years, but sometimes it was useful in finding out information. She smiled sweetly and responded, “Why Mrs. Smythe, I’m looking to be fitted for a gown for the end of season celebration.”

“Oh, of course. I have the perfect thing for you, my dear.” The squat woman hurried to the back of the building to gather an armload of random silk dresses. Jillian looked around the shop while the woman fought to manage all of them at once.

“Mrs. Smythe, have you been busy with ball preparations?”

“Yes, dear, I have. There’s been a last minute flurry of activity.”

“I do hope my request won’t cause undue stress,” Jillian said with mock concern.

“Heavens no, Miss Johnsworth. I would drop everyone’s dress for yours. You’ve been my customer since you were knee high. I’d never think of refusing you.” She returned to the front room with a half dozen dresses.

“I wonder who’ll be there,” Jillian pondered, hoping to bait Mrs. Smythe into conversation. “Has anyone of interest visited you? Anyone peculiar?”

“There’ve been a few who haven’t been seen since earlier on in the season. Most have either been ill or–” She looked around as if there were someone else in the room and lowered her voice. “–otherwise occupied.” She winked at Jillian knowingly. It was the talk of the town that more than one lady had been ushered out of the city to recuperate in the country, when it was already well known they were with child.

Jillian let the woman measure her and pull out various dresses from the pile to only shake her head, grumble and pick out another.

“Now that I think of it, a very unfamiliar face did happen into the shop just last week. Very strange woman,” Mrs. Smythe said.

“Oh? Perhaps you just didn’t recognize her,” Jillian urged.

“No, dear. I can recall anyone who crosses my threshold. I take pride in the ability to recall not only faces, but sizes and color preferences for every lady. It’s my job as a seamstress.” She puffed out her chest as she ushered Jillian behind a screen to undress.

“I most certainly didn’t mean to imply otherwise. It’s just that the city is quite enormous now. I thought it might be possible she was someone you didn’t know.”

Mrs. Smythe tossed a deep olive green dress over the screen. “No worries at all, Miss Jillian. Let me know when you’re ready for buttoning.”

Jillian stepped out of her own dress and donned the ball gown. “Ready.”

Mrs. Smythe rounded the screen and tugged and pulled at various spots, then buttoned the very ornate dress.

“Can you tell me who this mystery woman was?” Jillian asked, walking the mirror.

“She was an eccentric one, if I may be blunt. A countess I have never heard of.”

“A countess? Rather big title for someone who doesn’t frequent balls.” Jillian pretended to be shocked.

“Exactly. She was very off-kilter. She wanted a very plain gown. She even refused gigot sleeves, can you believe? No beads or lace. Very simplistic.”

Jillian listened impatiently while the seamstress prattled on about the countess’s choice of dress. She interrupted, “Do you think it’s safe to assume she’ll be at the ball? I’d love to find out more about her.”

Mrs. Smythe blinked and stared at Jillian as if she’d forgotten the original conversation, lost in a bland description of an even blander dress.

“I believe–yes, she’ll certainly be there. She specifically said she would attend, and it would be most memorable. I’ve not a clue what she meant. Moreover, I might add–if I should be so bold–she was very disrespectful to my help and to me. Very bitter, short-tempered, sour woman. It’s no surprise she’s remained in the country, given her obvious distaste toward those beneath her station. I know too many people and have been here far too long to concern myself with bigotry. I know our lives are different, but there’s no reason for her downright hatred. It makes me wonder why she’d choose the end of the season to share her bad temper. There’s no reason to go about attempting to make things memorable. Baron Willoughby’s balls are always memorable.”

Jillian snorted and tried to cover her laughter. Mrs. Smythe sputtered and turned beet red as she toddled off into the back of the building. Jillian remained while the dressmaker hid her obvious embarrassment. She knew why the ball would be memorable. The countess wanted to be as close to the bridge as possible–if that was her plan. Baron Willoughby lived within blocks of the great structure. Jillian just wished she knew why the Tower Bridge was the target. It was very peculiar indeed.

Mrs. Smythe returned–along with her composure, Jillian noticed–and began pulling tighter on the corset, while Jillian choked back her amusement and mused. This was a huge piece of the puzzle. She wondered if the woman would attempt her mad scheme before or after the ball. Jillian grew impatient to leave. Oblivious, Mrs. Smythe continued to tailor the green velvet monster Jillian had paid little attention to in the first place.

She turned slightly and looked in the full-length mirror. The gown did look stunning, if she did say so herself. Though short in the train, it would be perfect for dancing. The beading around the waist was delicate and the scooped neckline was just low enough for modesty’s sake, yet still noticeable. The corseted front sported a single green satin bow, laced from her neckline to the end of the long corset, around her hips. If need be, she could pull it with one tug and be free. It was beautiful, but practical. She would turn heads. ...or a head, she thought. She envisioned Devin Dashing at the ball, dancing with her.

She scoffed at herself and urged the dressmaker to hurry so she could attend to other engagements. After re-dressing and paying, she made delivery arrangements to her townhouse and left the shop with haste.

Jillian walked to the nearby park, sat on a bench away from the foot traffic and pulled the communications device from her handbag. After twisting it to life, she clicked it onto her ear and waited while the static tone sounded.

“Hello, Jillian,” Eliza said on the other end.

“The countess’s presence has been confirmed for the ball.”

“Excellent. Where are you?”

“I just left Mrs. Smythe’s shop.”

“Oh! Of course. What a perfect place for information. Did she have anything pertinent to add?”

“She informed me the countess was unkind to her and the help, and she said she planned to make Baron Willoughby’s ball memorable. Mrs. Smythe said his balls were always memorable. That is all.” She heard Eliza stifle a snicker.

“Well, they are.”

“Spare me.”

“Otherwise, how very odd.”

“She is odd.”

“True. All right, I shall send word to Cuthbert.”

“Very well. Goodbye.” Jillian tucked the device back into her reticule and watched the people round the pond in the middle of the park, politely tipping hats or shaking hands as they encountered other people they knew.

At this distance and under a shade tree, Jillian was safe from such trivial niceties. It wasn’t that she disliked people, it was...actually, maybe it was that she disliked them. Years of watching deceitful males leave their wives to enter the arms of strangers at her father’s club had left a bitter taste in her mouth. Men weren’t trustworthy. They lied as they kissed their babies and left to gamble and carouse. She felt almost blessed to have caught her father’s lies when she had. She would never have to endure such emotional torment from another man as long as she had the carrot to dangle over her father’s head.

Jillian never wanted to feel the pain her mother was forced into, and still endured. She was a shell of a woman who kept a smile plastered on her face at all times. Jillian was certain once her mother eventually passed, her father wouldn’t care who knew of his indiscretions.

He was rich beyond measure. What would he care if she exposed him as the biggest whorehouse owner in all of London? She had saved up most of her overabundant allowance–also known as the blackmail money–so she would be safe for a while after the truth came out. Jillian had thought far ahead. She would leave the country, most likely, or simply fade away into the background of London society and disappear. It was not as if she had anything to stay for here.

She let her eyes wander over the walkers again. She took notice of a gentleman walking in her direction, newspaper tucked under one arm.

“Oh, bugger me,” she mumbled as she recognized Mr. Devin Dashing.

Mr. Dashing, like the baron, was a gentleman of leisure. She’d lived next door to his parents’ estate while growing up, and had always seen him around. What little she did know about his personal life was his perpetual single status, the same as hers, and he was usually underfoot, annoyingly so. He managed to put himself wherever she was, whether it was in the city or in the country. She never understood why their paths kept crossing

Though she’d sworn she saw the dastardly man when she, Eliza and Miriam had slept in the woods during their last training event. Yet she’d been suffering from delirium at the time, induced by sleep deprivation and hunger. Combine those with homesickness and it made perfect sense to wake up thinking she saw the familiar face of Devin Dashing.

If there was a bright side to his existence, he was easy on the eyes. She watched him walk with a certain over-confident swagger and noticed nearby women glance his way. He was tall. His hazel eyes seemed to stand out with everything he wore–or perhaps she just paid more attention to them since he had such a tendency to stare at her. As he approached, she tried to avert her eyes as if she wasn’t watching the way he moved, or the way his grin spread only over half of his face. She ignored the way he made her legs burn and her heart race.

“Good afternoon, Miss Johnsworth,” he said, tipping his hat.

“Yes, good day, Mr. Dashing.”

“May I join you in your solitude?”

Jillian wanted to yell hell no but instead smiled sweetly and moved over. “Why, of course.”

He sat and unfolded his newspaper, just as he had at the baron’s house.

“Has anything happened in the last twelve hours that might warrant yet another paper, sir?”

He chuckled and folded it again, laying it across his lap. “My apologies. I suppose it’s rude of me to read and not engage in conversation. I tend not to know what to say in your presence, and...I would like a reason to shut my mouth and not need to say anything.”

Jillian looked into his eyes, paying close attention to his smirk. Something deep within her snapped. “Shut up and kiss me, Devin.”

He choked. “Come again?”

Her hand flew to her mouth, trying to pull the words back. She blinked in surprise and glanced around. Gathering courage, she stood and slipped behind a small group of trees and bushes. Devin stood slowly, walked around from the other side of the brush, and found her standing there with her back toward him.

“I shall ask once more. Come again?”

She didn’t turn around. “I said shut your gob and kiss me.” Her voice was shaky yet determined.

Devin swallowed hard as he took her by the shoulders. He spun her around to face him and kissed her soundly. She threw her arms around his neck and leaned into his embrace, caring not for anyone who might see. Devin threw his top hat to the ground. She ran her fingers through his hair. He pulled away, stared at her in disbelief, and pulled her back to him with his hands on her face, tracing her cheekbones with his thumbs.

“I don’t know what has come over me, Mr. Dashing. This is not proper.”

“Do you suddenly care what is proper, Miss Jillian, the perpetual maiden?”

“Yes and no,” she said, both her amorous mood and courage waning.

“Meet me in a more proper setting. We shall proceed from there.”

How she would love to, she thought to herself. If there were only a way to make it happen. She would never trust a man to enter her home, much less her life. She had learned the hard way what a man’s purpose in life was: to destroy the lives of women. Her father had made sure she realized time and time again that men would do nothing but destroy and hurt.

As if he had again peeked into her soul, Devin picked up his top hat and dusted it off. “I don’t want you to make a mistake you cannot take back, Jillian.”

It rocked her heart. He painted a picture she did not want to see in her life–a picture of a man capable of caring and decency.

Jillian turned her back and walked into public view. She climbed into her carriage and glanced over where Devin still stood. As he adjusted himself a blush rose to her cheeks. Her cab began to roll, and she turned her head toward the road with the nagging feeling he was still watching as she departed.