The lady’s maid grinned, ever enthusiastic when it came to the procurement of expensive clothing, and held open Isabel’s petticoat for her to step into. “I will indeed, my lady.”
“Good,” Isabel said absently as she studied herself in the mirror. Her chemise had heavy lace at the elbow-length sleeves and neck, and the gossamer material revealed the deep red of her nipples. Would such a sight tempt the priestly Winter?
Did she even want to tempt him?
“My lady.” Pinkney held out her silk stays and Isabel nodded, raising her arm so that the maid could slip the stays on over her head.
Pinkney came around to Isabel’s front and began to tighten the laces while Suzie the little undermaid knelt to hold the stays firm.
He’d said that he didn’t want a liaison with her, or any woman, in as plain language as she’d ever heard. He’d devoted himself—mind, soul, and cock, it seemed—to St. Giles and its people. Why humiliate herself chasing a man—a mere schoolmaster at that!—when other gentlemen were willing? Lord d’Arque, for instance. He was handsome and witty and would no doubt be a very experienced and skilled bed partner.
The maids stood and began gathering her skirts. Tonight Isabel wore a violet brocade with a darker purple medallion pattern woven into the material. She stepped carefully into the pool of fabric and stood as the maids drew the skirt up and began fastening it about her waist.
The problem was that she wasn’t particularly interested in a romantic affair with d’Arque—or anyone else save Winter. Strange how only a week or so ago she would’ve laughed at the mere notion—she and the home’s manager. But in the past week, her perception of him had changed. He spoke to her as an equal, as if her rank and his position simply didn’t matter. But it was more than that. Many men considered women either ethereal beings to be placed on a pedestal or childlike and unable to hold logical thought. Winter talked to her as if she were as intelligent as he. As if she would be interested in some of the same things that engaged him. As if he might want to know what she thought about. He talked to her as if she mattered.
And considering it now, she realized no one had ever been curious about her, Isabel the woman. She had been wife and daughter, lover and witty society lady. But no one had ever looked beneath those masks to find out what the woman who wore them really thought.
Was it so terrible to want to be closer to a man who saw her as a person?
Pinkney helped her slip into the tight bodice of her dress. She slid the V-shaped embroidered stomacher in front of the bodice and then carefully pinned the edges to the stomacher. The maid picked and tugged gently at the lace of the chemise so just the edge showed at the square bodice and then tied the sleeves of the bodice at Isabel’s elbows to show the fall of lace beneath.
“There.” Pinkney stood back reverently. “You do look splendid tonight, my lady.”
Isabel arched her brow, turning first one way and then another to examine herself in the mirror over her vanity. “Splendid enough to seduce a priest, do you think?”
“My lady?” Pinkney wrinkled her brow in confusion.
“Never mind.” Isabel touched the jeweled red silk rose in her coiffure and nodded to herself. “Has Mr. Makepeace arrived yet?”
“No, my lady.”
“Curse the man,” Isabel muttered just as she caught sight of a small foot sticking out from under one of her armchairs. “Go ahead and make sure the carriage is ready. I’ll be down in a few more minutes.”
Isabel waited until both maids left and then approached the armchair. “Christopher.”
The foot withdrew under the chair. “My lady?”
She sighed. “What are you doing down there?”
Silence.
“Christopher?”
“Don’t want to have a bath,” came the tiny, mutinous mutter.
She bit her lip to keep from smiling even though he couldn’t see her. “If you never bathe, you’ll become caked with dirt and we’ll have to scrape it off with a shovel.”
A giggle drifted out from under the armchair. “Can you tell me about the Ghost again, my lady?”
She cocked an eyebrow at the armchair. Was this blackmail in one so young? “Very well, I’ll tell you a story about the Ghost of St. Giles, but then you must go back to Carruthers.”
A heavy sigh. “All right.”
Isabel cast her gaze about her bedroom for inspiration. Butterman had reported on his findings about the Ghost just this afternoon. Most of it was silly rumors and fairy tales, obviously meant to frighten little children. The Ghost was scarred in some and ate the livers of maidens. He could be in two places at once and his eyes burned with an orange flame. In others he could fly and knocked at the windows of misbehaving boys. But some of the stories sounded like they might have a grain of truth in them.
“My lady?” The small foot was inching back out from under the armchair and Christopher’s voice sounded impatient.
Isabel cleared her throat. “Once upon a time…” Didn’t all stories begin thus? “There lived a poor widow who sold currant buns. Every morning she would get up well before the rooster crowed and bake her buns. Then she would pile them onto a great, wide basket and, placing the basket on her head, walk the streets of London crying, ‘Currant buns! Currant buns! Ye’ll ne’er taste better! Buy my currant buns!’
“All day she walked and cried, and by suppertime her basket was empty and her feet sore, but the poor widow would have a few pennies in her pockets from her labors. Then she would buy a bit of meat, a bit of bread, and a bit of milk and walk home to feed her children.”
Isabel paused to see if she’d lost her listener, but almost at once Christopher said, “But what about the Ghost?”
“I’m coming to that,” she said. “One day as the widow walked home, a gang of men set upon her and beat her and took all her pennies. ‘Oh, stop, stop!’ the widow called. And, ‘Who will help me?’ But all were afraid of the robbers and none would come to help. The widow was left crying in the street and had to sell her shawl to pay for her children’s dinner. The next day she baked and sold her currant buns, but again as she walked home, she was set upon by the same gang of robbers. Again they beat the poor widow and took her pennies and they merely laughed when she called, ‘Who will help me?’ ”
“Oh,” Christopher whispered from under the armchair. “If’n I had a pistol, I would shoot those men for her!”