A Duchess a Day (Awakened by a Kiss #1) - Charis Michaels Page 0,43

obviously prepared, and it fit her like the casing of a sausage. She clutched a small dog to her chest, its neck tied with a magenta bow.

Lady Genevieve Vance. It could be no other. New Bond Street was awash in fashionable ladies, yet this girl shone brighter, and laughed louder. Men stopped walking to stare. Women turned to study the gown and the hat and the dog, their subtlety and reserve given over to open curiosity. Her staff played their part, scurrying about as if the royal family had arrived.

Declan adopted his best air of biddable servant on orders and melted into the crowds of New Bond Street. He trudged past the window of Madame Layfette’s. There was no sign of Helena in the showroom. Lady Pembrook, the earl’s cousin, and at least one sister were bent over counters or peered at unfurled bolts of fabric. He could think of no subterfuge that would admit him, and certainly no way to get word to Lady Helena.

He changed course and circled behind the shop to the alley. The rear door was propped open by a brick; beyond the door, an empty corridor stretched the length of the building. Unintelligible voices mumbled through walls and industrious footfalls clattered on distant stairs. Declan considered his limited options, mindful of the minutes ticking away. If Helena was being fitted, she would be in a room along this corridor.

Within moments, a serving boy appeared, lugging a bundle of firewood. Declan saw opportunity and gave a low whistle. When the boy looked back, Declan flipped a shiny coin into the air.

Five minutes and sixpence later, the boy had informed Declan that, yes, the black-haired young lady was being fitted. She’d been installed in the middle dressing rooms, but the boy didn’t know with whom. Madame Layfette had apparently become very upset when the lady hadn’t made the proper show of delight over the color or style of a new garment. The modiste had fled to the basement with three seamstresses, determined to improve the design.

When the boy turned to go, Declan followed, slipping inside and pressing his ear to the middle door. Before he could detect any sound, Helena’s middle sister, Miss Camille Lark, emerged, straightening her hat. Declan froze half a beat, rolled off the door, and conjured his best servant’s expression.

“Shaw,” said Camille Lark.

“Miss,” said Declan, looking at the floor.

“Can I help you?” Her expression was intrigued amusement.

“I’ve a message. For Lady Helena.”

“Ah. One can only hope you can distinguish which one of us she is. I’m guessing that you can.”

“Miss.”

“Let me give the message to her,” Camille said.

More confusion, he tried to affect the expression of being torn. “I dunno, miss. I was told the message is private in nature. The young lady, a friend of her ladyship, bade me give it to her in person.”

“A friend?” challenged Camille. “Lady Helena hasn’t any friends. She doesn’t like the bother.”

Declan forced a blank expression. Her family knew her so very little.

He continued, “If you please, miss, I’ve been told she’s here. If you—”

He let the question trail off. There was a fine line between being in a strange place at the wrong time and purposefully breaking the rules.

“She is here,” affirmed Camille carefully. She pointed to a closed door. “Although I cannot say she is accustomed to visits from male staff whilst being fitted by a modiste.” She raised an eyebrow. A challenge.

Declan took a gamble.

Keeping his face neutral, he said, “Likely you are right, miss. Perhaps you could ask her?”

Camille stared at him a long moment and then said, “Perhaps I could.”

She moved to the door and slipped inside. When she emerged a half minute later, her expression was the slightest bit conspiratorial.

“Go on, then,” she said. “Be quick about it. Madame Layfette is in rare form, thanks to Helena. My sister specializes in giving people fits.”

Declan gave a curt nod and watched the younger woman walk away. When he was certain she’d gone, he edged to the crack in the door.

“My lady?” he whispered.

“Shaw? Come in!”

Declan slipped inside, shut the door, and turned the lock.

Pivoting a half circle, he scanned the room. Lady Helena was on the dais in the corner, her familiar black hair and cream skin a blur in his peripheral vision.

He moved on, seeing bolts of fabric, a trolley of sewing tools, a cat asleep on a cushion by the grate.

“She’s here,” he said, taking the long way to the window and positioning himself sideways to peer out. “I’m