Free Counterfeit Countess by Lynne Connolly

reminding herself, as she had so many times before that she wasn’t facing a firing squad, Faith maintained her position and gave the dressmaker a frosty 56 | Lynne Connolly
    smile. Cerisot had a figure much like Faith’s own, full breasts and hips with a small waist, a shape men admired but exceedingly difficult to dress elegantly. Her blonde hair was caught back in a loose style that Faith would wager her grandfather’s silver watch she’d pinned ruthlessly into place and her smile fixed and professional. Closer up, she revealed her true age in the fine lines on her face and the silver strands at her temples. Either that, or she chose to present herself thus to make her clients appear better.
    “May I help you?” Cerisot glanced outside to where the crested carriage waited by the kerb, the two chestnuts stamping their hooves and snorting in the cool sunshine. Her expression relaxed an infinitesimal amount.
    “You may. Thank you for asking.”
    Ah, Cerisot had not expected that. Her lips twitched. Faith carried on. “I’m the Countess of Graywood. My husband is John, the sixth earl.” That would save her counting. She wondered how far the news of the previous earl’s death had travelled, but apart from a couple of raised brows the other occupants of the shop didn’t appear surprised. Two women sat together studying sketches, mother and daughter she guessed from their respective ages and their resemblance to each other. Another woman of equally high fashion accompanied the lady with the bonnet. The two maids standing by the end wall had gasped. That told Faith how to continue. Cerisot merely waited, her countenance one of patience and fortitude. “My husband came unexpectedly into the title. I was living quietly so I had no need for fashionable garb, but I shall require a new wardrobe.” Remembering what John had told her about putting on a show, she plunged in recklessly. “A set of mourning and half mourning clothes immediately and for the first part of the season. Later I will want to go back into colours.”
    Cerisot’s eyes narrowed, but not with suspicion or dislike.
    Rather, speculation filled the robin’s egg blue. She took in Faith’s appearance in one comprehensive glance. “I am extremely busy.”
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    Faith continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “We’re planning a reception as soon as decently possible. My husband is a distant connection to the late earl. While we wish to demonstrate the respect he is due, full mourning for a long time would not be entirely appropriate.” A nod from the lady in the bonnet. Faith had gauged the reaction appropriately. To go into deepest black for six months would show a vulgar and inappropriate display.
    The people in the shop were unashamedly listening, their previous occupations totally abandoned. The complete realisation of what she had done hit Faith with the force of a rifleman’s bullet and she barely stopped herself sucking in a breath of horror. “There will be other events. The unfortunate demise of their brothers will curtail the activities of Lady Louisa and Lady Charlotte, so they’ll require completely new wardrobes later in the season, or maybe next year. That depends on their mother.”
    More interest from Cerisot. “I believe they frequent another seamstress.” Not a dressmaker or mantua-maker, Faith noticed.
    “However they are attractive young ladies under the unbecoming yellow and pea-green.”
    “If you decide you have the time to spare,” Faith said, without curling her lip, “I may endeavour to persuade their mother to allow them to change their minds. Lady Louisa has been receiving a great deal of attention from a certain young man,” she continued recklessly, “It would be a pity if she allowed this family tragedy to affect her prospects.” She had no idea who she was talking about, she just hoped Louisa had at least one suitor. It would give Cerisot the prospect of dressing a society bride, something