A Single Thread of Moonlight Read online

  I finally noticed the woman he was with – curvy, dark-haired and a little younger than him. She had risen from the sofa where Madame had plied her with tea and biscuits, and she stepped closer, her face wreathed in smiles.

  “And you thought I’d never get a dress so late as this,” she exclaimed and turned to Madame. “I hadn’t planned to be in town for the ball, but then my husband got detained on business and I thought why not stay a little longer? Lord Wynter offered to come and help me choose a dress.” Her eyes returned to Nicholas, as if seeking his approval. “It’s very beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Very beautiful.” Nicholas too moved forward. There was still more than an arm’s length between us, but it felt as if he was closer. “Though not, I think, the right colour for you. Blue or purple would be best.”

  Teresa pouted, but Madame swept in, effusive. “The gentleman ’as a verrrry good eye.” Madame clicked her fingers. “Iris, we weel show the purple silk next, I think, for Madame.”

  It was a dismissal and I picked up my skirts, glad to escape even temporarily, though determined not to show it.

  Madame and Teresa continued to chatter, but Lord Wynter was silent.

  Even with my back turned, I felt him watching me as I left.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  In the end, Teresa took the purple silk. Lord Wynter was right; it suited her perfectly. She also ordered a lilac day dress, and a pale blue evening gown for delivery at a later date.

  I thought Madame’s Cheshire-cat grin was going to split her face. A future princess ordering a new wardrobe, and the approval of the most fashionable man in London – it had been quite the week for her.

  That fashionable man himself, though, had seemed largely bored throughout the whole affair. Only once did he become truly animated, and that was when he vehemently rejected Teresa’s suggestion that she buy a hat with an ostentatiously dyed-green ostrich feather curling at the front. I couldn’t blame him for that – the hat had been sitting in the shop for months.

  While Madame and Teresa disappeared to measure her for the necessary alterations, I took the opportunity to slip away. The purple gown was less constricting than the green one, but I was still finding it hard to catch my breath in Lord Wynter’s presence.

  “One moment, Miss…” His voice stopped me in my tracks. I turned reluctantly to face him. I let the silence hang heavy in the air for a moment longer. He lifted an eyebrow, making it clear he was in no hurry and could wait as long as it took. I resisted the temptation to roll my eyes.

  “Grey,” I said finally.

  “Miss Grey.” His voice was smooth, and he sketched an unhurried but beautiful bow.

  I did not respond, forcing myself to be still. I adopted an expression of blandness, returning his look of enquiry with all the indifference I could muster.

  “May I ask how long you have been modelling here?”

  I saw no harm in answering honestly. “Today is the first day,” I replied, smoothing the skirts of my dress.

  He nodded, as though I had confirmed a suspicion he had. I was not sure why – I thought I had done a perfectly acceptable job at showing off the clothes. Still, I kept my mouth shut. The less information I gave him the better.

  “And prior to your employment by Madame Solange,” he asked, “what were you doing then?”

  I stiffened. “I do not see what concern that could possibly be of yours.” As an afterthought I added the word, “Sir.” I had meant the word to get us back on to polite, distant ground, but instead it came out like a taunt.

  Those mesmerizing blue eyes blinked lazily. Again, I was reminded of a cat before it pounced.

  He moved to sit down on the red velvet sofa that Teresa had vacated, and swung one ankle across his other knee, his fingers drumming against the side of his boot. I noticed that his boots were polished to a higher shine than I had previously believed possible – dark mirrors, in which I could see a distorted image of my own pale face reflected back.

  “Indulge my curiosity.”

  I didn’t bother trying to hide my annoyance then. His high-handedness made my hackles rise. I could think of only one direction in which these questions could be leading. It was wearyingly predictable.

  “I am not usually a model at all,” I said, as evenly as I could manage. “I’m a seamstress. I work in the back of the shop.”

  Something flickered across Lord Wynter’s face, something that looked curiously like satisfaction. “Better and better,” he murmured. “Hidden away, as it were?”

  “If we’re done, sir…” I said, turning away and hoping to avoid the inevitable scene that would follow.

  “Actually, there is something else I wanted to ask,” he called.

  Fine. Let’s get it over with.

  I turned to face him again.

  “I have a proposition for you,” he said, his voice a lazy drift of smoke curling towards me.

  I folded my arms. “I’m not interested.”

  His eyebrows rose. “You haven’t heard what it is yet.”

  “Yes, I have. Not from you, perhaps, but from several other self-important, entitled men who think all they have to do is snap their fingers and they can buy a girl as easily as the gown she’s wearing.”

  Amusement leaped in his eyes. “I see,” he said. “So, you already know what’s on offer?”

  “A nice little house in the best part of town, jewellery, fine gowns.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “I believe one gentleman thought a caged canary might sweeten the deal.”

  “I hadn’t considered a canary,” Nicholas murmured.

  “And you’re worse than the rest of them, when you’ve already come here to buy another lady’s clothes … and a married lady at that! Good grief, sir, how do you expect to juggle us all?” I threw the words at him – a challenge, like the sharp sting of a glove across the cheek.

  “Ah,” Nicholas said thoughtfully. “Now if Teresa is the problem, that is easily resolved…”

  My mouth dropped at that. The cold lack of concern, as if a woman was an expendable object, easily thrown aside when she became inconvenient or a better proposition came along. “You … are … insufferable!”

  “My dear, you have no idea.” His mouth curled up at the corner, almost a smile, though one that got nowhere near his eyes. “But I actually meant that I could clear up the misunderstanding. Teresa is my cousin, and I was helping her to choose a gown – which I certainly won’t be paying for – because she, tragically, does not possess an eye for colour. Last season she developed an unfortunate passion for puce, and my eyes have still not recovered.” He shuddered.

  “Your … cousin?” I managed. “Not your…”

  “No.” Nicholas shook his head. “Not my…” His smirk made it clear that he understood me perfectly.

  I was momentarily thrown, but I gathered my wits together and pulled myself up to my full height. “That changes nothing. I hope that I have made my own position clear.”

  “Oh, extremely clear,” Nicholas said politely. “You do not care for canaries.”

  “I do not care for canaries or ungentlemanly oafs.”

  “I don’t think I have been called an oaf before,” he mused.

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  He laughed then, and I could feel the colour rising in my cheeks.

  “Better and better,” he said again, and I began to cast my eyes about for a suitable weapon. It was entirely possible that the man had lost his wits, and I didn’t have my pen knife on me.

  “I think,” he said, “that we had better start again.”

  Fortunately, we were interrupted by the arrival of Teresa and Madame Solange.

  “Oh, Nick.” Teresa beamed up at her cousin. “Madame says the gown will be ready first thing tomorrow.”

  Does she now? I thought. That’s another night at the sewing machine for me then.

  “Fine,” Nicholas Wynter replied, uninterested.

  “We weel send ze parcel around just as soon as p
ossible,” Madame nodded. “I ’ope we weel see you ’ere again.”

  “Oh, you may count on it,” Nicholas said. His eyes never left Madame’s face, but somehow I knew that the words were aimed at me. I just couldn’t decide if they were a threat or a promise.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I had much bigger problems than Nicholas Wynter. The following morning, I feigned illness and begged Madame for a couple of hours off work.

  “A headache. I think I just need some fresh air, perhaps to go and lie down for an hour,” I murmured weakly.

  “It is a very bad time for you to be ill, Iris,” Madame huffed. “Not at all convenient. Claire might be back, but she still looks terrible!” Madame glanced over to where Claire was wilting in the corner, her skin tinged slightly green. She was going to clash horribly with most of the dresses.

  Annie stepped in. “She’s been staying up all hours the past few nights,” she said to Madame. “She’ll get more done after a short rest. Probably overtired.” Annie sniffed, making it plain what she thought of people who got “overtired”. Clearly she did not want me to think she’d gone soft.

  “Fine.” Madame threw her hands up. “You can take two hours.”

  “Thank you,” I murmured, the picture of meekness. Two hours should be enough time to gather the information that I needed, but I didn’t want to waste a minute of it.

  I wrapped myself in my sensible coat of navy wool and bustled out into the October sunshine. It had been days since my face had seen the sun – I’d been arriving at the shop before it came up and leaving long after it went down – and I tipped my head back, my eyes half-closed, enjoying the feeling of warmth on my skin.

  The road was typically busy, seething with people, a sea of dark coats and bowlers and the odd higher and more elaborate lady’s hat drifting into view. Hackney carriages wove through the wide street, and horse-drawn omnibuses followed steady tracks, their brightly painted sides calling out at passers-by to purchase Nestle Milk or Champion’s Vinegar. It was full of noise and colour and life, and I could feel my body coming awake as I darted through it all.

  I made my way briskly along Regent Street, in the direction of Piccadilly. Skirting the edge of Berkeley Park, I noticed that the trees had begun to adopt their autumn colours in earnest now, stubborn patches of green leaves hanging on amid a sea of yellow and orange. A blackbird sat on one of the railings, his rich song following me down the street like another greeting from this daylight world.

  The entrance to Devonshire House was guarded by a pair of tall, wrought iron gates, heavily emblazoned with gilt and topped with a swirling design of leaves. Two bronze sphinxes sat on stone pillars, one either side, gazing impassively at any visitor who wished to pass through to the house beyond.

  Typically, the gates were shut, and you could glimpse the huge, austere house only by pressing yourself up against the bars, but today – the day before a royal ball – the gates were open, and a stream of carts and coaches were passing through with deliveries of everything from tablecloths to elaborate floral arrangements. There were two burly men hovering near the gate, checking anyone who wanted to enter.

  I hesitated for a moment near the gates, pulling a small notebook from my pocket and pretending to leaf through it as I observed some of the comings and goings. If I wanted to sneak in as staff tomorrow, then I was going to need to know a few things, including what the staff would be wearing.

  A young man with a handsome, freckled face emerged from the gates, gesturing to one of the carts waiting nearby to move forward. He was wearing the smartly cut jacket, the breeches and stockings, and the superior smile that could only belong to a footman.

  “Excuse me,” I said, stepping towards him with a tentative smile. “I wonder if you can help me?”

  The man looked at me and interest flashed in his eyes, but his countenance remained professionally aloof. “I certainly will if I can,” he said.

  “This is Devonshire House, isn’t it?”

  He nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Only,” I carried on breathlessly, “I’m supposed to be working here for the ball tomorrow night, and I can’t find the instructions that I wrote down. The agency sent me, you see, and it’s my first job for them. I’ll be in such trouble if I’m not where I’m supposed to be.”

  I had found that if I pinched the back of my hand hard enough, I could make my eyes well convincingly with tears. This trick had got me out of several scrapes in the past, and its effect here was unsurprising.

  “Now, now, miss,” the footman said, his expression softening, “you don’t need to worry.”

  “Thank you,” I sniffled, trying to hide how pleased I was with myself. Unfortunately, his next words rather dispelled my triumph.

  “There’s no chance of you missing anything because this agency’s sent you on a wild goose chase,” he said. “I don’t know what they were thinking, but all the staff are here already. The duke and duchess have so many, and the rest are hired by Mr Jones the butler directly. He’d never hear of using an agency.”

  “Oh,” I murmured weakly. “I wonder how such a mistake can have been made.”

  The young man scratched his head. “Which agency was it?” he asked. “I can have a word with Mr Jones. That’s no way to be treating such honest employees as yourself, miss.”

  I cast about for an employment agency name. “It was … Sphinx and … Blackbird.”

  He frowned. “Never heard of them.”

  “They’re … new.”

  “Not going to stay in business long if this is the way they conduct themselves,” the footman said.

  “Thank you for your help,” I said, giving him one of my best smiles. “It must be a misunderstanding. I’ll go and speak with Mr, er … Sphinx.”

  The footman nodded, looking dazed. “Yes, miss.” He treated me to smile of his own. “And if you happen to be in the neighbourhood again—”

  “Goodbye!” I sang out, and then I turned and hurried off as quickly as I could.

  As soon as I rounded the corner I slowed to a ponderous trudge, falling in with the stream of other pedestrians.

  Well, that had not gone to plan at all. It seemed that sneaking in was going to be a lot more difficult than I had anticipated. I would have to think of something else. The most important thing was going to be keeping Agatha and the prince apart, and to do that I really needed to get inside.

  The short walk back to Madame Solange’s did nothing to inspire me. I made my way around to the back of the shop, kicking my feet across the cobbled yard in frustration. There had to be a way. How could I let Helena’s plans fall neatly into place, when I had been given such a clear opportunity to thwart her? It had been years and I was no closer to making her pay for what she had done.

  It was then that I noticed a large white box, leaning against the back door to the shop.

  It had the words MISS IRIS GREY written across the front in black ink.

  I frowned, approaching the parcel slowly as if it were a wild animal, likely to snap if I got too close.

  Why would someone leave a parcel for me at the shop? For that matter, who would leave a parcel for me at all?

  I picked the box up gingerly. It did not hiss or burst into flames or behave in any way that a large cardboard box should not behave.

  I struggled with the latch on the door and made my way inside, through to the workroom, where Annie was sitting at a sewing machine, turning up hems on the dresses I had altered for Agatha.

  “Oh, you’re back,” Annie said, in a tone of voice that was meant to convey I hadn’t been missed. Sometimes I thought that Annie’s utter determination to show how little she cared about me was the most obvious way of letting me know that she did.

  “Do you know who left this parcel for me out the back?” I asked, dropping it on to my workbench.

  Annie glanced up, indifferent. “No idea. I’ve got better things to do than to act as your personal post mistress. Madame wants the bodice on that purple s
ilk finished by this afternoon.”

  “Of course she does,” I sighed. I shoved the box into a corner.

  The rest of the day passed in a blur. By the time the clock struck nine at night, my fingers were stiff and aching, but the enormous pile of work in front of me had decreased dramatically.

  Annie left for the evening and so I allowed my eyes to drift, as they had every few minutes, over to the box in the corner. Jumping down from my stool, I rolled my shoulders, hearing the bones crack in my back.

  I picked up the box again. It was heavy. I placed it on the workbench and tugged at the knotted string.

  I don’t know what I had been expecting, but my breath caught when I lifted the lid. Nestled inside was the green dress I had modelled yesterday. On top of the dress was a mask made of fine gold lace with a gold silk ribbon. There was also a gilded invitation, printed on stiff white card. In swirling calligraphy, it read,

  The Duke and Duchess of Devonshire

  Cordially invite

  Miss Serena Fox

  To a masked ball at Devonshire House On the evening of twenty-eighth of October Given in honour of His Royal Highness Prince Stefan Franz Albert Karl August of Saxe-Illyris

  Guests are requested to arrive,

  masked, from nine o'clock.

  Carriages at dawn.

  My fingers brushed across the fine print, the ink dark and heavy, pressed firmly into the paper. The scrolling gold design around the edges framed the Devonshire family crest.

  With a gown and an invitation, I’d be able to walk right through the front door to the party. But who could possibly know that I needed to be there? Who was Serena Fox? I wracked my brain. Had I met her? Was she a customer, perhaps? I was sure I had never heard the name before.

  I shivered. I knew that life was no fairy tale, but it felt as though my fairy godmother was about to appear and declare that I should go to the ball after all.

  I frowned at the dress, my fingers running absently over the green silk. Who had bought this dress and left it for me? That, I suppose, was one mystery I might be able to solve.