Free A Lady in Disguise by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

Lillian as though to challenge her with this vulgar display of calf love.
    “Good day, ladies,” Thorpe said, touching the brim of his hat with two fingers. Lillian, coming along in his wake, clearly heard Phrylidia give a sigh that seemed to rise from the depths of her neat brown shoes. Even the girl’s mother seemed to forget for a moment that it was her daughter’s interest she pursued and not her own as she stared after Thorpe.
    At last, the party from the castle reached the emporium Lady Genevieve wished to patronize. As was the custom, long banners of different fabrics covered the entrance, displaying the drape and pattern of the material as it would be shown in a gown, though one for an immensely tall woman. Addy enjoyed passing beneath this curtain, so much so that she repeated her entrance half a dozen times before Lady Genevieve called her to her side.
    Looking up, the elderly lady said, “You will most likely not find anything to suit you here, Miss Cole. This shop will be too far above your touch.”
    “No doubt.” The small bag that dangled from Lillian’s wrist contained some five sovereigns, more than sufficient for her wants during this expedition. At the castle, buried among her linen, another twenty-five coins were cached in her bureau drawer. While attiring herself in cloak and hat, Lillian had at first poured all her money into her reticule. But the way it bulged and jingled, she decided, looked most suspicious for a governess who made, ostensibly, no more than thirty pounds per year. However, she could and did smile, thinking of what reaction Lady Genevieve would have to those coins.
    “A chair for my lady,” called the proprietor, placing a wooden chair before the counter. He bowed low to hear Addy’s whisper. Of course. Miss Everard. We have a box in the rear.”
    “Babies,” Thorpe said in a low voice.
    Lillian jumped. Without the new-style plate glass windows coming into fashion in London, the interior of the shop was as gloomy as a church on a rainy Monday. Hearing his murmuring voice out of this half light created unseemly disorder within her. “I—I beg your pardon?”
    “Fashion babies. My grandmother looks at them to find out the latest mode, and then my daughter plays with them. They both enjoy themselves enormously.” He lowered his voice further, and Lillian held her breath as his warm whisper slipped along the shell-curve of her ear. “Mr. Fenniman’s wife makes up dresses. If I were you, Miss Cole, I don’t know if I’d trust the maids at the castle to perform adequately on my new clothes.”
    “Indeed? You are most kind to warn me.” She tilted her head to look up at him, her eyes wide. A sudden insane impulse took her. She wanted to ask him exactly what Baroness Pritchard meant to him. Only her private vow to find out nothing about him kept her from asking, though her lips parted before she could stop them.
    Lifting his hand, Thorpe briefly pressed his finger to her lips. “Don’t say I told you.”
    As she struggled to recover sense enough to say anything, he drifted away to the other end of the counter. Taking up a newspaper, he went to the doorway, parting the fabric with his shoulder so that the daylight might fall across the page. The light picked out the richness in his dark hair beneath the brim of his hat, and his shadow filled half the floor.
    Lillian was glad of the darkness in the rest of the shop, though she feared the brilliance of her cheeks must light the gloom like a candle. Unconsciously, she licked her lips as though she could still taste his touch. Shocked by her own reactions, she marched up to Lady Genevieve and said, “I saw many fine clothes when I was governess to the Garnets. May I tell you about them?”
    “The clothes young girls wear would hardly be suitable for me, Miss Cole. I have my own way of dressing which I prefer.”
    Snubbed again, Lillian thought, yet persevered. “And an excellent sense it is. Lady Genevieve. Yet, it is