Free When She Was Wicked by Anne Barton Page B

Anabelle would write tomorrow and ask Daph for daily reports.
    Sighing, she went to work on Rose’s gown. The design Miss Starling had chosen for the young redhead in the dress shop seemed too fussy for her. Miss Starling had requested epaulettes of lace, crepe trimming, and three rows of muslin frills around the bottom. But now that Anabelle knew a little about Lady Rose, she felt certain that a simpler, more refined style would better suit.
    Deciding to trust her own judgment, Anabelle adjusted the lines of the dress and set about replacing the epaulettes with cap sleeves. She would decorate them with two rows of tiny pearls that would fall from the back of the shoulder to the front of the arm. The softer, more feminine sleeves would complement Lady Rose’s long, graceful arms.
    Anabelle cut, pinned, and sewed until the light from the nursery window was too dim for her to see her needle, and then she lit some lamps and worked some more even though her eyes ached from squinting. Mrs. Pottsbury stopped in to remind her to come down for dinner, but Anabelle was too caught up in her project to take a break, and, besides, she wasn’t hungry in the least.
    Several hours later, she was done—at least all that she could do that evening. Tomorrow morning, she would wake up early and begin working on Lady Olivia’s gown. She had put away the pale blue gown and was crawling on the floor, feeling for loose threads and tiny scraps of silk, when she heard a knock at the doorway. Her heart pounded. Surely the duke wouldn’t seek her out at this time of night.
    She scrambled to her feet and faced the doorway.Without her spectacles, she couldn’t tell who her visitor was, but since she wore a dress, Anabelle felt she could confidently rule out the duke. The red hair, however, was her best clue.
    “Lady Rose! It’s so late. Is everything all right?”
    The girl nodded and smiled, then produced a white bundle from behind her back. She placed it in Anabelle’s hands.
    “What’s this?” The soft white garment was folded in a neat square and smelled of crisp, clean cotton.
    Lady Rose said nothing, so Anabelle unfolded it. Waves of white lawn billowed to the floor.
    A nightgown.
    “Is this for me to sleep in?”
    Lady Rose raised her eyebrows and smirked, as though she’d have thought the answer would be obvious.
    A lump formed in Anabelle’s throat. “Thank you. It’s lovely.”
    The girl smiled and glided from the room.
    “Good night,” Anabelle called. She wasn’t sure why a simple act of kindness had almost moved her to tears.
    But she
was
sure of one thing. She was going to make Lady Rose a ball gown sure to bring every handsome bachelor in the
ton
to his knees. After the Miss Starlings of the world saw Lady Rose in her finery, they’d never again look at her with pity or condescension. In fact, the only emotion they’d feel toward her would be hot, desperate envy.

Chapter Seven
    Bolt: (1) An amount of fabric wrapped around a cylinder. (2) To flee; one’s natural inclination after behaving like a lightskirt.
    A fter getting off to a slow start, Miss Honeycote
finally
seemed to be earning her keep. Owen had last seen her taking a leisurely tea with his sisters in the nursery, of all things. But in the three days since, he’d received impressive reports of her industriousness from Mrs. Pottsbury and Olivia. If one believed the housekeeper, Miss Honeycote rarely slept and had to be reminded to stop and take her meals. Olivia gushed over the seamstress’s sketches as though she were an artistic genius—nothing short of Gainsborough with a needle and thread. Most surprising, though, was that Rose—who was an excellent judge of character—was purported to like Anabelle immensely.
    Anabelle.
    The extortionist-turned-seamstress had a name. Olivia had reasoned that since the three women would bespending the next several weeks together, they should be less formal.
    Owen grunted to himself. He didn’t give a damn what