Unravelling her secrets…

The exquisite designs of mysterious dressmaker Madame Belle are the most sought after in the ton, yet only a few are trusted with Belle’s deepest secret – her name.

Lady Belinda Howell has gone to great lengths to disguise her identity, it’s the only way to protect herself from the ruthless demands of her wicked father…and to protect her heart.

Until Lord Philip Macpherson walks into her salon and his scorching kiss burns a memory onto her lips that she’ll never be able to forget!

Now it’s only a matter of time before the notorious rake unveils the truth, and when he does, Belle knows that she won’t be able to resist…

Also by Raven McAllan:

The Scandalous Proposal of Lord Bennett

The Rake’s Unveiling of Lady Belle

Raven McAllan

www.CarinaUK.com

RAVEN McALLAN

lives in Scotland, the land of lochs, glens, mountains, haggis, men in kilts (sometimes) and midges. She enjoys all of them—except midges. They’re not known as the scourge of Scotland for nothing.

Her long-suffering husband has learned how to work the Aga, ignore the dust bunnies who share their lives, and pour the wine when necessary.

Raven loves history, which is just as well, considering she writes Regency romance, and often gets so involved in her research she forgets the time.

She loves to travel, and says she and her hubby are doing their gap year in three-week stints. All in the name of research of course.

She loves to hear from her readers and you can contact her via her website www.ravenmcallan.com

Stirling Council library vans staff under the able direction of Nelson Busby

This one’s for Paul.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Excerpt

Endpages

Copyright

Chapter One

Northumberland

Regency England

Really, how pathetic to have been reduced to this sort of behaviour. Skulking around like a thief.

Or a peeping Tom.

At the advanced age of fifteen she shouldn’t still be able to climb trees like a hoyden or indeed if she could, she ought to reject the notion out of hand. Nevertheless, needs must. After all how else would she be able to stay out of sight and drool at the way Phillip, Lord Macpherson—the recipient of all her childhood hero worship and dreams—touched the young damsel he’d taken into the barn, and then into the hayloft of his ancestral estate? Thank goodness they hadn’t thought to close the doors where the hay would be tossed down from inside the loft to the ground. That open aperture gave her the perfect view.

Belinda shivered and went hot and cold, as she clung on to the swaying branch of the old oak tree at the edge of the meadow as if it was about to break. She stared at it dubiously, but any lower and she could well be seen. That really would be beyond the pale.

It wasn’t solely the thought of being discovered that had her legs wrapped around the trunk and her arms the branch, but also the scenario that unfolded in front of her that had her transfixed.

Luckily the man and woman whom she spied upon were oblivious to her presence. Indeed they were so wrapped up in each other, Belinda doubted they would notice her if she ran in front of them naked, waved madly, and shouted beware of the bull, or the hayloft is on fire.

Not that she intended to. She needed to observe and learn.

She let her body sag, just a little, to enable her to watch as the couple sank into the soft bed of hay.

I hope a stalk goes where no stalk ever should.

The long strands of hay embraced them and Belinda tilted her head and squinted to peruse better. Lord Phillip muttered something to his companion that Belinda couldn’t hear, as he proceeded to nibble the neck of the lady, who wriggled and squirmed.

She’ll get marks on her gown if she’s not careful and how is she going to explain that away?

Phillip made his nibbling way lower, downward from his companion’s neck and… Belinda blinked and opened her eyes in a hurry so as not to miss anything.

Would he ever caress her, Belinda, like that? Bare her breasts and put his lips to her skin? Lift her skirts and move his hand upwards? Upwards to where? Her imagination ran riot. Surely not to those places she touched herself? Did a gentleman do such things? If he tried, would she let him succeed? The hay hid exactly what he did, and even if she hung down like a monkey in the Royal Menagerie she just couldn’t quite see what was going on. However… The lady’s skirts went high into the air and they covered his lordship’s head.

Oh, my.

For a brief moment Belinda allowed herself to imagine it was herself, not that beastly Lady Rosemary Minchin with Lord Phillip and she, not Rosemary, was letting him do all those things.

What did he see in Rosemary? She had a shrill and grating laugh, and treated those younger than herself with disdain, or even malice. Plus, it was generally agreed her eyes were unkind. Belinda didn’t know one lady who had a good word for Lady Rosemary, and it wasn’t generally down to sour grapes. According to Clarissa, Phillip’s sister, not a lot of gentlemen thought much of the woman after even a short association.

Even so, Rosemary’s body seemed to be of taste to Phillip, who emerged from his covering of silk and lace and turned his attention to her breasts, feasting on them as if they were all he desired.

Oh yes.

‘Mine I believe.’ His soft and arousing laugh drifted back to Belinda. ‘Such beautiful breasts, begging for my attention.’

The lady who had his attention sighed. ‘Oh, Lord Phillip.’

Phillip rolled on top of Rosemary and out of Belinda’s sight.

Goosebumps dotted Belinda’s arms and her throat went dry.

Oh my.

Then Rosemary gigged. Giggled, for goodness’ sake. It was no giggling matter, more a sigh and a moan situation, surely? What on earth did Phillip see in her? Apart from her breasts and…

Carefully, Belinda edged along the slender branch, peered between the leaves and shook her head in despair. It was a certainty, she decided, if Phillip did ever touch her like that, she wouldn’t be so miss-ish as the woman now pouting and pretending to smack him with her fan. Surely Rosemary was more than aware of why rakes and bucks suggested a walk in the gardens? Even Belinda, at her tender age, knew it wasn’t to admire the roses.

Belinda rolled her eyes. If only Phillip looked at her like he did his companion. As if she was the marchpane on the cake, the dessert course of a splendid meal, and… There her comparisons ended. Her youthful self couldn’t think of anything else.

But to be the recipient of such intense attention.

Oh yes, oh my.

Not yet, for at fifteen to his twenty-six, when he only saw her as his sister’s friend, and probably an annoying one at that, it was hardly likely, and Belinda was wise enough to know she wasn’t ready. However, one day?

Definitely, oh yes.

Behind the leaves that concealed her from the older couple, Belinda closed her eyes and indulged in a daydream of him with her, and…

And nothing else. Her imagination was oh so limited.

With a crack loud enough to waken the dead, the branch snapped. Belinda fell head first into a rhododendron bush, missing a prickly blackthorn by inches.

‘Oh, what was that?’ Rosemary’s voice was shrill and sent several birds whirring upwards from the roof of the barn with indignant squawks.

Belinda groaned silently, shut her eyes and waited to be discovered. It was the last thing she needed. To find herself in deep disgrace and probably never to be invited to her friend Clarissa’s home ever again.

Phillip laughed. She opened her eyes expecting to see him looking down at her. Instead she saw the sky.

‘It was probably a pigeon.’ His voice carried clearly back to her. ‘Or a duck.’

Belinda couldn’t help it. She was renowned at school for her ability to mimic. She quacked.

‘See, a duck. Now where were we?’

With stupid Lady Rosemary wittering like a widgeon. Belinda sighed, wriggled and sank deeper into the bush. She had no chance of scrambling out without being discovered. It was going to be a long afternoon.

Nevertheless, that sight of how Phillip appeared to worship his companion stayed with her throughout the years. From school, thence to her father’s house. Through all the stories of the women Phillip was alleged to be associated with, and those who tried to catch him and didn’t. From gossip she and Clarissa picked up and discussed in detail, to what they overheard the servants mention to each other. Even if one tenth was true he had a woman a day and plenty to spare. A typical rake. Why was it that men seemed to be dangerous creatures who gambled and cavorted throughout their lives with not a care in the world for the women they played with?

Although, in Lord Phillip’s case, it was said he never parted with a mistress in anger, and every woman still stayed on good terms with him. However, as not one of them, or indeed his lordship, subscribed to kiss and tell, most of what anyone could gossip about was pure conjecture.

With each piece of information they assimilated, through the scandals that rolled off him and the way he never let himself be caught in the marriage net, Belinda’s fascination and, she admitted, devotion never wavered. Her dreams were of him, only him. Oh to be the one who changed his ways.

To her annoyance and disgust, no other man ever seemed to match up to Lord Phillip Macpherson. Not that anyone really noticed her anyway. Belinda’s father had no intention of letting his daughter be seen and admired. When she wasn’t at school, he kept her mostly in the country, and if she ever came to town, Belinda certainly didn’t get involved in the balls and parties like her father and brothers did. Sometimes she wondered if people even knew she existed.

If it hadn’t been for Clarissa, her life would have been lonely indeed. Both at school and during the holidays. Clarissa’s father—her mother had died years before—welcomed Belinda into his household. As he was a man with many interests the girls were left to enjoy themselves. Hence her chance to watch Phillip and his amour.

Clarissa had the toothache and had retired to bed with oil of cloves. Phillip had turned up unannounced just after lunch and Belinda had stumbled upon him and Rosemary on her afternoon stroll. She still had a crescent-shaped scar on the base of her thumb where she’d had an argument with the blackthorn as she had finally extracted herself from it and the rhododendron.

In general though, Phillip was not around much so it was no wonder on the odd occasion their paths did cross, he never noticed her, other than as his sister’s friend. They achieved an amicable friendship albeit a distant one. No doubt he saw her as an extension of his little sister, and not someone to pay specific attention to. In one perverse way it was a relief. She didn’t want to discover his feet of clay or have her daydreams shattered. Sometimes reality was not the best thing to have.

Even though his actions were of a man who admired women, and thought they were put on the earth for his entertainment and enjoyment, he genuinely seemed to like his companions and none ever spoke a bad word about him. Not the attitude she perceived in her father or brothers. They, Belinda decided, treated women like rubbish, to be discarded when finished with and no longer needed. It was not an attitude she approved of, especially when it so often applied to her. It was no wonder she was wary of any man who even glanced her way.

Her upbringing had taught her that attention generally meant work for her to do, and no thanks or quarter given. If it wasn’t for Phillip, Belinda would have no positive thoughts about the males of the species at all. Even so, as she watched him sail through life, at times she did wonder if there was much difference between him and the others? Did any of them ever think about what they were doing and how it affected the recipients of their attention?

Somehow she thought not.

Especially, when at seventeen, her world as she knew it ended.

* * *

‘What?’ Lady Belinda Howells wiped her suddenly clammy hands on her apron as she stared in astonishment at Cedric, Lord Howells, who unfortunately was also her father. She shook her head and pressed her ears several times, convinced she was hearing things. ‘Are you mad?’

He scowled back at her, and defied her to reply further.

That of course was a red rag to a bull. Especially after his announcement. Which she noticed he seemed to have no intention of repeating.

‘I asked if you were suffering from something untoward in the head,’ she said with perfect clarity. ‘If you were deranged. What did you say?’

‘You heard me.’ He stomped his malacca cane—needed for effect not for illness—on the floor.

If there were any justice in this world he would’ve hit his toes. Sadly he didn’t.

‘You’re not deaf,’ he said irritably. ‘You heard me very well.’

Unfortunately. It was yet another example of how men behaved: Women meant nothing to them except as a commodity.

‘You want me to do what?’ Could she really believe her ears? ‘Are you bosky?’ Surely he had to be? He was her father for goodness’ sake. The man supposed to protect her from all harm. ‘I’m not yet out. Not been presented or had a season. Nothing. And you ask something like this of me? Never. Never, ever. What sort of father are you?’ She paced her father’s study and ignored the way his hands curled into fists around his cane and his cheeks grew red. ‘Actually if you ask this of me you are no father. You dare to tell me I must marry? Just to save you from your gambling debts and my brothers from their…their debauchery.’ Belinda stared at him, willing him to say it was all a mistake, that he was her father and would never do such a thing. She counted to ten. ‘Why should I pay the price for your immorality and spendthrift ways?’

‘You are my responsibility; you do as I say.’ He didn’t meet her eyes. With anyone else she would see that as a sign of remorse. Not with her father. With him it meant he had no intention of entering into an argument. He expected obedience.

Belinda had no intention of giving it to him. ‘You’re selling me to further your own needs. You, my own flesh and blood. How could you? Parents are supposed to protect their children. Love and cherish them, not, not…’ She stopped speaking, and whirled around to stare at him. How on earth could she put into words how abhorrent his demands were? Her stomach churned. ‘You can’t even look me in the eyes, can you? Too scared I’ll see the lack of love and the abundance of self-interest you have?’ Bile rose in her throat and she swallowed heavily. ‘You are pathetic. I will not be sold.’

‘Now look here, Belinda.’ He did look up then, and his eyes were cold and distant. He spoke in a hectoring tone. ‘If I say you’ll marry the man, marry him you will.’

He sounded as if it was a certainty. Belinda so wished to disabuse him of that fact.

‘Mr Featherstonehaugh is a person of substance,’ her father said. ‘He is someone I can not afford to get on the wrong side of.’

Now they were getting to the bottom of it all. Once more she was but a pawn in his game, whatever it was this time.

‘You, all you. Not me. And why, pray? I suppose you’ve lost money to him.’ Belinda looked at her father in disgust. Ever since her mother died, her father and her two older brothers had lived profligate lives, with scant regard for Belinda. Her father had demanded she leave school and come home to manage his house, but gave her precious little money with which to do so. She must be one of the few—if not the only—daughters of the aristocracy with patched and darned undergarments, and only one pair of house shoes to her name. Now it seemed even that money-saving exercise was not enough. ‘What have you wagered this time?’

He stared at her, his eyes narrow.

‘You.’

To her disgust he showed no shame or remorse over his actions. But why should she expect him to? If she were honest, Belinda had long known he only saw her as a way to save—or in this case, make—money.

‘Me?’ Belinda stared back at him as she went cold and her skin became clammy. Spots danced in front of her eyes, and she swallowed. It would not do to swoon at that moment. Not when she had to be strong and as forceful, if not more so, than her parent. All her worries and concerns seemed to come to the fore. She most definitely was a chattel. ‘What do you mean, me?’

Her father poured himself a large glass of brandy and shrugged. He didn’t offer one to Belinda. For one brief moment she considered doing so herself, but she hated brandy, and the way things were going, she would be more likely to throw it in her father’s face. That was not the way to proceed. Not if she was to best him.

‘He wants to marry into the aristocracy. I said he could marry you. I didn’t wager you as such. I just said it as a way out.’ He took a healthy swallow of spirit. ‘Featherstonehaugh agreed to tear up my vowels, and those of your brothers, once you sign your wedding lines.’

Belinda looked at him closely. Did he not realise what he’d done? As she told him earlier and he’d ignored, he, her father, had in effect sold her and it seemed as if he thought it acceptable. What had she done to deserve that? She shook her head. ‘What good would that do? You still wouldn’t have any money. No.’

‘Don’t talk rubbish, girl. He’s plump in the pocket. He wouldn’t want it to be seen his wife’s family were, ah, less than everything they should be. He can afford to help. He might be trade, but he’s as rich as Croesus.’

That was all that seemed to matter to her parent.

He wouldn’t be once you and my brothers got your hands on him.

‘No.’

Her father put his glass down on a table with a thump, and waggled his finger in front of Belinda’s face. ‘Now look here, my girl, you’ll marry him, or I have no daughter and you go. I can’t afford to keep you.’

When have you ever kept me? I earn my way and more. Belinda firmed her lips. She would not demean herself with a shouting match she would be sure to lose.

‘Now.’ He smiled as he obviously thought he had her over a barrel. ‘What do you say to that then, eh?’ He picked the glass up again, refilled it and drank once more, obviously assuming he’d had the last word. ‘I’ve told him three weeks. Time enough to call the banns.’

Belinda thought it was no wonder her father’s colour was always high and he complained of gout. With the amount of brandy he consumed, when he died there would be no need to preserve the body if it was so needed. It would already be pickled. The bodysnatchers would be able to sell it for a considerable sum, and the medical dissectors would have much to interest them. She’d point them in the correct direction.

Belinda stared at him until he coloured further, and twirled his goblet around in his hands. This man was the person who was supposed to look after her, keep her safe and make sure she had all she needed. Had he ever seen her as anything but an object to be used for his own gain? He’d muttered and moaned about the cost of her schooling, threatening her if she didn’t stop asking for clothes—a gown, one gown only a term—she’d be forced to leave. Until Belinda had discovered that in fact he couldn’t touch the money that paid for her lessons. It had been left in trust for just such an occasion. Even so, he’d brought her home to manage the household at the earliest opportunity. She’d become used to watching him and her brothers drink and gamble their way through what little money they had, dressed in finery that they still hadn’t paid for, whilst she made do and mended. It was lucky, Belinda thought, that she enjoyed all aspects of sewing, or she really would be in trouble.

‘Well?’ her father asked her irascibly. ‘Are you going to be sensible or…?’

‘Thank you—in my eyes, eminently sensible, in yours, perhaps not so. Some things are preferable than being forced to wed. And now, as I have no father, I can be honest. You, sir, are contemptible.’ For the first time during their interchange her father looked somewhat uncomfortable. Not for long. ‘I am, in your words, going to “or”.’

‘You should be horsewhipped for speaking to your father like that,’ he said in a fierce tone. ‘You’ll do as I say.’

‘But as you just informed me, you are no longer my father. Now, it is my pleasure, my total and utter pleasure, to be able to say to you, I feel well rid.’ Belinda curtsied putting every ounce of contempt she felt into the action before she straightened. She spun on her heel so forcefully her dress flew out and rocked the fire irons nearby as she turned her back on him. His cane missed her by inches as he threw it in her direction. As with his shooting, his aim was out. Without another word she picked up the cane and, with a strength she didn’t know she had, broke it in two and threw it on the fire.

Then she left the room, ran upstairs and ignored his enraged bellow of, ‘Get back here, young lady. You do as I say!’ Not any more.

Within half an hour she had left the house, carrying only the basic necessities. Her sewing kit, sketchbook and a miniature of her mother were packed in an old and patched carpet bag. In truth she had little else worth taking. None of her clothes would survive another wash, and her hairbrush had so few bristles it was better to finger comb her dark straw coloured locks.

Two hours after she had swept out of the house—via the front door, and under the worried gaze of the doorman for she refused to creep out like a thief in the night—she sat in the sitting room of Clarissa’s godmother’s London town house. She knew better than to go to Clarissa’s home. It was the first place her father would make enquiries. Her association with Lady L wasn’t one she had ever spoken about.

Belinda wasn’t sure that the fact Lady Lakenby was also Phillip’s godmother was a good or bad thing.

The room she rested in, tea in hand and a plate of tiny fancy cakes in front of her, was elegant, understated and homely. It was also usually a haven of peace and tranquillity. Not at that moment, however. Her hostess was enraged, and happy to show it. She stomped across the Axminster carpet and fisted one hand into the other, before she hit the mantelpiece with such a thump the cake plate slid several inches over the polished surface of the table, and the ormolu clock on the mantel jumped upward and rattled back down again. The minute hand slid down to indicate the number six and stayed there. Lady Lakenby ignored it and pointed her index finger at Belinda.

‘That apology for a man might be your father but he is rotten to the core, always has been. The males of the Howells family are all either tight as a duck’s arse or addlepated. He is both.’

Belinda saw the first glimmer of hope she’d experienced for several long weeks. Ever since her parent had spoken about how they needed money and fast, and hinted she was the way they would get it. Then told her how he expected her to behave and it had been the last straw. ‘He…’ What could she say? She agreed with the pronouncement. ‘I fear you are correct.’

‘I know I am, and you were right to come to me.’ Lady Lakenby harrumphed, and patted Belinda’s shoulder. ‘Now I’ll wait a while and send a message to Clarissa. Once we’re sure your father has been there and gone. Simms will go and loiter.’

The way she began to help went a long way to lift the heavy lump of fear in Belinda’s stomach. She knew she had been correct to think of Lady Lakenby as the first person she could approach to beg for help.

‘Now, child, we shall plot,’ Lady Lakenby declared, once her footman had been given orders on how to stake out Belinda’s father’s house. She pushed her turban back from her forehead in an impatient gesture. ‘Damn thing, why do I wear it?’

Belinda knew it to be a rhetorical question. Lady Lakenby took ideas into her head, and followed them until, as she said with a twinkle in her eyes, ‘The damn fool idiots think it’s the newest fad.’ Then she moved on.

‘I think we need to get you out of his reach,’ Lady Lakenby said. ‘He’ll immediately think of Clarissa and then it is easy for someone to remember me. You must disappear. It will annoy Cedric, and make him wonder when and where you will pop up like the skeleton at the feast, and it will give us time to decide the best way forward. Now let me see. Would you like to go to live at Sinton?’

‘Yes, who wouldn’t? However, as much as I adore your country house, I will not,’ Belinda said resolutely. ‘Well,’ she tempered her refusal, ‘not permanently. I need to earn my living.’ She stood up and began to pace the room. ‘As I walked away from my father’s house I vowed never again to be at the mercy of a man. I will make my own way in this world.’

‘How?’ Lady Lakenby, always known to her god-daughter Clarissa and therefore to Belinda as Lady L, asked placidly. She seemed much more composed now she had ideas and plans and had decided how best to carry them out. ‘Sit down for heaven’s sake. You’re giving me a crick in my neck looking up at you, to say nothing of making me giddy following you around the room. What are your skills?’ She cackled with laughter. ‘Apart from upsetting your fool of a father.’

‘To do so is not a skill, it seems it was my purpose in life. A very easy one. Apart from that? I can sew. Very well as it happens.’ Belinda gestured towards her shabby gown. ‘Not that this shows my sewing skills, but it does advertise my patching and darning ones. I’d like…’ Belinda hesitated, and then rushed on. ‘Mad though it may seem, I’d like to make apparel for the ton. But not just for anyone, only for a very few. A select and chosen few. To be the one person people yearn to have a garment made by.’ She sat down on the nearest chair with a thump that rattled the cups on a nearby table. ‘Incognito.’

‘Oh yes.’ Clarissa entered the room just to hear the last remark. ‘Incognito. Dressed by Belle.’

‘I expect I’ll need to go somewhere unassuming like Leamington Spa, or Bath where the tabbies are,’ Belinda said, with less enthusiasm than she had for the idea in general.

Lady L looked thoughtful. ‘You could do that,’ she said slowly. ‘But you know if you are going to hide, ’tis best to hide in full sight. Here in London I think. Oh yes indeed, we can manage that with ease. Dressed by Belle is the perfect designation for the way your clothes will be known to all and sundry. A label to aspire to acquire.’ She smiled delightedly. ‘All is coming together now. Clarissa, ring for the Madeira and then please inform the staff we leave for Sinton in the morning. It is time for us to put our heads together and plot. Belinda—no—henceforth you will be called Belle. Belle, how is your French?’

* * *

Six months later, Belinda hummed as she put the last stitches into a frilly and very feminine evening cloak to be used as a teaser to draw ladies’ attention to her work. Clarissa, who had arrived unexpectedly a few hours earlier, looked up from the book of sketches she was studying closely.

‘These are marvellous you know, Bel. Your talent holds no bounds. This chemise? The one with the scalloped hem? It is outstanding. Sexy hinting of all things arousing but demure and innocent. I love it.’

‘Good.’ Belinda snipped off her thread and held the cloak in the air to see it better. ‘I designed it with you in mind.’

Clarissa blinked and went into peals of laugher. ‘To drink my chocolate and talk to the cat in? That’s the only picture I can foresee. And happy I am with it. Men are nothing but trouble.’

‘Hmm.’ Belinda decided that one day soon Clarissa would receive a rude awakening. Her father was too prominent in the ton to be allowed to keep the status quo, surely? ‘I’m sure the cat will appreciate it. But if not, well one day maybe someone else will.’

‘Put it in your portfolio,’ Clarissa advised. ‘That way it will see the light of day. Or should I say light of the candle?’

Belinda laughed and shook her head. ‘Incorrigible.’

‘Oh yes. Oh and I meant to say, Lady L should be here soon.’

‘Lady L is here,’ the lady in question retorted as she erupted—there was no other word for it—through the doorway from the hall, and discarded her pelisse by throwing it over a chair back. ‘Did she forget to tell you?’ she asked Belinda in French.

Belinda grinned and answered in the same tongue. ‘We got carried away with flounces and scalloped hems.’

‘Slow down when you talk, you two,’ Clarissa pleaded. ‘I’m a novice in French compared to you both. I didn’t forget so much as I got distracted. Well, Godmama, so would you be, with this.’ She held the chemise up. ‘Isn’t it perfect?’

‘Perfect,’ Lady L agreed with satisfaction. ‘Which brings me to the reason for my visit. I think you’ve achieved everything necessary. I believe it is time for Belinda to return to the capital, with the new persona of Madame Belle. Your French, ma p’tite, has improved beyond all recognition.’

It was true. Belinda and Lady L spoke in that language constantly. Even Clarissa now professed herself to be proficient, and she had, as she cheerfully admitted, no aptitude for languages other than her mother tongue.

During those happy months spent at Lady L’s country house, Belinda had hardly had time to think. Most of the time, either Clarissa, Lady L or both of them were there with Belinda and provided willing bodies to be dressed. Every time one of them appeared, they brought with them bolts of silk and lace and anything else they or Belinda thought might be useful.

‘The shoes are ready?’ Lady L asked. ‘You have enough pairs to begin with? Do you need more? She had sought the help of the local shoemaker who was now contracted to make footwear for Belle, and the comfortable but fashionable boots and shoes she wore were testimony to the fact that his work was well above average. To be able to offer that extra service was ideal.

‘Certainly enough for now, and Jones has the templates ready for whichever are needed next. We’re as ready as we can be. I have a book of sketches, enough silks, satins and whatever to create several wardrobes.’ She thought for a moment. ‘All I need now is customers and somewhere for a salon and workshop.’ That was the one thing that gave her sleepless nights. Where would her customers find her?

Belinda had practised her designs on both Lady Lakenby and Clarissa, as well as creating new work clothes for the servants and the best clothes Lady L gave them as part of their Christmas box. Belinda was relieved when all were received with pleasure. Belinda waited with bated breath as Clarissa and Lady L wore her designs to one event or another in London and then reported back to her how much they had been admired. Gradually she’d learned how to add her own special touch to clothes so they would be recognisable as a gown, or pelisse or whatever, made by Belle.

Belinda hadn’t missed the city at all, working diligently to increase her basic stock—the gowns and undergarments to show prospective clients her work—and accepted Lady L knew best. Each item of clothing had footwear to go with it, and Lady L said forcibly that anyone who balked at buying that as well as the garment didn’t deserve to be accommodated again.

‘Well ’tis but three weeks to the start of the season and I have news,’ Lady L said triumphantly. ‘I’ve found your premises.’

Belinda jumped as her heart missed a beat. ‘Pardon?’

‘The perfect spot for your salon. And I’ve taken the liberty of arranging the paperwork to buy it.’

‘But…’ Belinda began to speak as Lady L held her hand in the air in an imperious manner. ‘No more—don’t argue, child, it’s so wearying. It’s done and it is in your name. Saves me trying to explain why I’ve left half my fortune to you.’ Lady Lakenby held her hand up again, as Belinda knew her jaw dropped.

‘You…t…’ she stuttered as her mind became blank. ‘You can’t.’

‘Don’t be stupid, of course I can. There are only three people who matter to me. Phillip, who wants for nothing and whose fortune is more than enough, Clarissa and you. Phillip has long known he’ll get the long case clock and all the books in the study, and he is satisfied with that. Clarissa agrees with me that you should get half of the rest and everything is tied up tighter than a gnat’s cravat.’

Clarissa nodded enthusiastically. ‘Although I do wonder at your turn of phrase, Godmama. A gnat’s cravat indeed.’

‘Better than a duck’s arse or some such thing. Now that is vulgar,’ the lady replied with a smirk. ‘Right, so listen well, both of you. No one will be able to get their hands on what is yours. If you try to pass it to anyone, other than a child of your own or failing that the offspring of one of the others, it will all go to a home for cats. In your case, Belinda, so will your cottage.’

‘What?’ Belinda blinked and held on to the elbow-height cabinet for support. Where did Lady L find her expressions? However, that was the least of her thoughts—she was more concerned with the majority of Lady L’s statement. ‘I what?’

‘You need a bolthole. As much as I love having you here, I know you would adore somewhere to call your own. Honeysuckle Cottage is that somewhere.’

Belinda sat down with a thump. ‘That’s not a cottage, it’s a house.’ It was also gorgeous. And it was hers? Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. This unconditional love was something she would never take for granted.

‘Don’t quibble. It is also yours. Now, hold fast, don’t go dashing off to look at it—not yet.’

Belinda’s vision was blurry, and she had bitten her lip so hard, to stop herself crying with joy, that she had punctured the skin, but nevertheless she smiled. She hadn’t moved.

‘Hear me out,’ Lady L said. ‘Then you can dash off, dance around the rose bush or whatever, but do not jump into the fountain naked. It’s bloody cold, the bottom is slimy and the servants do look askance when you do.’

‘Lady L.’ Belinda giggled until tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘You haven’t.’

Lady L winked. ‘No? Ah well you youngsters are so staid compared to me and my compatriots. Now where were we? Ah yes. Belle’s salon will be in Bruton Street, where only the best will survive. You are the best. And as I know full well what a worrywart you are, it’s a big enough building for you to live very comfortably over the shop so to speak. Don’t you dare cry, Belle, or I will and that will ruin my rouge.’

She patted Belinda’s shoulder. ‘There now. I must get used to calling you Belle, eh? Just pour three glasses of Madeira, so we can celebrate, and then we’ll see how soon we can get back to London and start the next phase of your journey to become the best shared secret in the ton.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘Oh after you’ve decided what furnishings in Honeysuckle Cottage are not to your liking, of course. I know you youngsters, your ideas are probably much too outré for me.’ Lady L gave a barking laugh, as she contradicted herself. ‘In furnishings anyway.’ The cat, which had been snoozing on the hearthrug, opened one eye and closed it again. He was well used to his mistress’s ways.

Lady L winked. ‘In all seriousness, Belinda, if you don’t like the way I furnished it, it is of no consequence. However, I thought that if you want to retire there at any time you can. Mrs Perris will keep an eye on it for you, and Violet and young Bessie are to be available whenever you want them. All are very happy with that arrangement. But mind, no stealing my housekeeper.’

Belinda giggled, sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, before she poured Madeira into crystal goblets. ‘As if I would, or could for that matter. All your staff are incredibly loyal, which is how it should be. Ah, Lady L, I do love you so. But are you sure?’

‘That you mustn’t steal Mrs Perris away? Very sure. As for the rest. Of course I am. Just you be the best of the best.’

‘Oh I intend to.’

‘Then that is my reward. Now, Clarissa has decided to return to town early from her father’s house and be your first customer.’

Clarissa nodded enthusiastically. ‘I’m going to be the one who is in the know and prepared reluctantly to share my knowledge with a select few.’

‘As you know, there’s a lot want to see you and use your work, and few who deserve to,’ Lady L said. ‘Clarissa will sort out those who she deems worthy. It is up to you to accept them or not. Don’t forget exclusivity will bring you more cachet, and you must decide who you wish to have the honour of wearing your garments.’

‘True, and it damned well will be an honour. There’s just one thing…’ Belinda hesitated. How could she phrase it without sounding ungrateful? ‘Are you certain that I’m not about to be unmasked? I do not want any scandal or difficulties attached to you. And…well…’ She stopped talking as Lady L fixed her with a gimlet-eyed stare. ‘Oh, Lady L, I’m scared.’ There she’d been honest.

‘You’d be a fool not to be. However, once we’ve got you settled and sorted I declare no one will recognise you, not even your fool of a father. Look at you. Do you see any resemblance to the girl you were six months ago?’

Put like that, Belinda could only agree with all Lady Lakenby had said. Helped by lemon juice and careful cutting and styling, her hair was now a soft blonde instead of a dirty straw colour, and it framed her face in tiny elegant curls instead of hanging long and lank down her back. Her skin was clear, bright and blemish free, and she’d lost almost two stones in weight due to eating sensibly and not on leftovers or food that filled her grumbling tummy but did not nourish her. Her clothes suited her, fit her, and there was not a darn in sight.

In short she was nothing like the girl who had defied her father, except in temperament. That was no different.

‘I’m no longer that person.’

‘Exactly. So take this new you off to your new home and let Jessop or Mrs Perris know if anything needs changing. I’m going to rest before dinner.’ Lady L walked to the door, and then turned around with a swish of travelling gown. ‘Should I ask your maid to start to pack?’

Belinda laughed. The butterflies in her tummy were ones of excitement not worry, and she was happy that the next phase of her life was about to begin. ‘If she needs to. Just tell me when to be ready to leave.’

Chapter Two

London 1815

‘Madame Belle, I’ve a request for a consultation here.’ Tippen, her assistant, seemed somewhat perturbed. ‘I’m not sure as you’ll want to say yes, but, well…’ She glanced at Belle and coloured delicately. ‘It’s not someone who you’ve associated with before, well not here anyway. Not exactly someone…’ Tippen wrinkled her nose. ‘Well, it’s a man who has requested the appointment. And it’s not as if you need any more clients—not really.’

‘You know I’ve had men request appointments on more than one occasion.’ Belle was now intrigued and wondered why Tippen seemed so agitated. They’d worked together from even before the business had launched. Lady L had suggested the daughter of her dresser, a skilled seamstress, would be an ideal companion and help to Belinda, now no longer Lady Belinda Howells, but Belle the modiste to the chosen few. As Lady Lakenby and Clarissa had predicted, the Dressed by Belle label was much sought after, especially as it had been made known to the ton by those two ladies just how particular Belle was and how exclusive her clothes.

Now several years of hard work later, there was an air of mystery about Madame Belle, which those whom she chose to dress did nothing to dispel. No one wanted to incur Belle’s displeasure for fear of being told they were no longer welcome at her salon. That would be tantamount to disaster and lost credibility, which would probably never be recovered. If anyone did recognise her as the former Lady Belinda Howells they were careful not to mention it.

As Tippen generally knew who would be acceptable and who not, this cryptic conversation puzzled Belinda.

‘Why do you think I might not want to dress the lady concerned? I assume it is a lady and not the gentleman himself?’ Usually, she’d go with Tippen’s ideas, as they generally mirrored her own. Plus it was true they had no need of more clients. Nevertheless, Belinda’s interest was piqued. Tippen must have mentioned it all for a reason.

‘Well, this wardrobe is not for the gentleman’s wife.’ Tippen said it in a worried tone, as if the identity of just who wanted to be ‘Dressed by Belle’ would upset Belinda.

Belle put down the lace she was using to create an intricate rose, and gave her full attention to Tippen. ‘Right, you have my full, intrigued attention. I assume he is a gentleman of the ton?’

Tippen nodded.

‘Who wishes me to dress his mistress, or is she not quite so well esteemed? Or am I now supposed to be amenable to making pantaloons and shirts?’

Tippen sniggered. ‘That I would like to see. You measuring a gentlemen to make sure his, ahem, attributes fit in.’

Belinda gaped and then the picture Tippen’s words created filled her mind and she laughed. ‘Left- or right-sided my lord? Now how much extra knit do you think we’ll need? Are you one who grows or one who shows? Let me measure you. Oh Lord, Tippen, could you imagine it?’

I can. Oh my I can.

Tippen nodded enthusiastically, and continued to snigger until she had to wipe her cheeks with her hands. ‘Oh yes.’

‘And me.’ Belinda sobered. ‘Ah well, it’s a nice dream for us. It’s not something that is likely to happen in our lifetime, not even if we live to be one hundred. So it is one of this gentleman’s women? Whom he will not mention, unless I agree to dress her. Therefore I must assume she is not convenable. Oh, and you still haven’t mentioned who he is.’

Was it that the woman was an opera dancer or some such like? Whom Belle had made a point of not accepting as clients, mainly because their protectors were usually the husbands of those ladies she did dress. The ramifications of an accidental meeting were enough to make Belinda’s blood run cold.

Tippen drew herself up straight, and took a deep breath. ‘Nothing like opera dancers, or I don’t think so. It’s just that, it’s well, oh my, the gentleman concerned is none other than Lord Macpherson.’

It was as well Belinda had put down her needle or it was a certainty she would have pricked herself. She absently rubbed the crescent-shaped scar on the fleshy part of her hand.

‘Ah. As in Phillip, Clarissa’s brother?’

Tippen nodded. ‘The very same.’

‘Interesting.’ Belle took a deep breath and counted to five, very slowly, in order to decrease the pace of her heart. Even after all these years, she still held on to a certain amount of tenderness for him. ‘Did he recognise you?’

Tippen shook her head. ‘He never messed with the servants and I was naught but a child when he visited Lady Lakenby regularly.’

‘Did he say who the woman is?’ Belinda was curious. Clarissa had confided only a few days earlier that she thought Phillip had a new mistress but couldn’t work out who it was. She had also said it was the third woman in as many months whom he was thought to be bedding. Clarissa’s exact but crude expression was ‘one week plucking, three weeks fucking and they’re out’. Belinda accepted she would never reach the heady heights of knowing him as he did those women, and indeed was happy with the life she had made—with the help of other strong women like Clarissa and Lady L. However, she couldn’t help but wonder… What is it like to be desired in such a way? In any way? Is it enough?

Tippen coughed delicately and Belinda realised she must have been wool-gathering.

‘Sorry, you were saying?’

‘Very close-mouthed he was. He said that unless you agreed to dress the lady, you would have no need to discover her identity. It was strange really. I did wonder if he’d recognise me, but he didn’t. I know I haven’t seen much of him these past few years, since I was in service and not one of the scrubby village kids, but I was around sometimes when he visited Lady Lakenby with Lady Clarissa.’

‘People only see what they expect to see,’ Belinda said with a smile. ‘Not you or me.’ The test would be if he recognised her as his sister’s friend.

‘That’s true, but what do I tell Lord Phillip? He’s waiting for an answer.’

‘What?’ Belinda stared at her companion. ‘Waiting here?’

‘Well he wouldn’t go away until I approached you. Very insistent he was that I asked you now, and gave him the answer straight away.’

‘Oh Lud. How on earth do I explain that even if I do see the lady there is no guarantee I’ll agree to outfit her?’ That was the cardinal rule. Even if Madame Belle agreed to a preliminary meeting, that didn’t mean she would take you as a client. There was also a rule that one agreement did not necessarily mean any more garments would be made. Each approach was decided on its own merit. So much depended on how much advice a client took on board, and as Clarissa had once put it, how well they continued to show off their clothes to their best advantage.

‘For if one has gone to seed, why be an advertisement for that?’ Clarissa had said prosaically.

Belinda agreed.

‘Madame?’

Oh Lord she’d yet again forgotten why Tippen stood in front of her with a look of query on her face.

‘Where is he?’ She automatically slipped into the voice she used for her clients. Luckily.

‘If you mean me, I’m here.’ The gentleman in question strolled into the workroom and bowed. ‘Lord Phillip Macpherson, at your service.’

Belinda had to force herself not to scowl. Just like fine wine he’d matured well. Damn it.

* * *

Phillip straightened up from his bow, and studied the stunning woman in front of him. She was dressed in understated elegance, held herself like any lady of the ton, and made his body harden with instant, unexpected desire. That jolted him. He might be renowned throughout the ton for his prowess in the bedchamber—or in an empty room at a ball—but rarely did someone affect him in such a manner. In fact, he thought as he willed his body to behave, the last time a lady had affected him so strongly, she was a young friend of his sister’s and he had fought against that attraction. Belinda Howells had been too young and too innocent for him. Then she’d dropped out of view and Clarissa had told him she’d moved to the north. He’d felt a pang of disappointment. She intrigued him. Pity about her awful family of course. Those he held in contempt. But Belinda now? If she’d been older…

He shut that thought away. She was a friend of his sister’s, welcome in his father’s house. No way could he have dallied there. But, she had affected him in the same way it appeared the lady in front of him did. Because once more his body was demanding he paid proper attention to a woman probably not suited to or interested in him. More’s the pity.

‘Madame Belle?’ He looked into deep, dark eyes, and wondered where he’d seen such intense blue irises before. She reminded him of someone but at that moment he had no idea whom.

She nodded. ‘My lord. How exactly can I hep you?’ The accent was a mix of French and English, and called to him like a siren song.

Phillip prowled around the room. One long table and a tall cupboard filled one side of it. The other had a deep and comfortable-looking daybed, two armchairs and a low table between them. The fireplace was ornate, and the light fittings of the highest quality. More like a sitting room, it was unlike any workroom he’d seen. Not that he’d seen that many. He was very selective as to which of his many—and he admitted it was a considerable number—mistresses he dressed to such a high degree. However, this time he rather thought the lady in question would merit such attention. A fitting swan song. Even he would admit his behaviour had been less than stalwart.

He was jaded. Bored and uneasily aware he went through the motions with no emotional involvement. It was time to take stock of what he was and what he wanted to be. The last thing he wished to become was an aged roué.

‘I wish you to outfit a lady.’ Phillip mentally winced at his affected languid rake’s tone, so unlike the normal tenor he used.

She cocked her head to one side. He waited for her to reply. She didn’t.

‘What?’ he asked in irritation. Who did he know who held her head in just such a way?

‘What?’ Madame Belle walked towards him, and indicated the door. ‘Why, if we are to discuss business let us go through to my office.’

She walked past him, and he looked at the other woman in the room with one eyebrow raised. ‘Which is where?’

‘Oh, sorry, my lord, follow me.’ She scurried past him, and turned to the left and down the stairs. ‘The upper part of the building is not for visitors to the salon.’

He hadn’t thought it was, but the woman had left him alone for so long he’d decided to explore. Voices from the floor above had led him to the stairs and the room they had just vacated. He’d arrived at the open door just in time to hear Madame Belle ask where he was. Now he wished he’d got there a few moments earlier. Something about the woman intrigued him.

And arouses me. He adjusted himself discreetly under his trousers before he reached the bottom of the staircase.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name,’ he said to the lady who waited for him. ‘You are?’

She blushed the colour of the sash on her dress. ‘Oh, I’m Tippen, your lordship. I’m, well, Madame Belle’s…’

‘Right-hand woman,’ the lady mentioned answered. ‘I couldn’t mange without her. Tippen, do you think you could ask Mrs Lovett for…?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Brandy? Port? Wine? Whisky?’

‘Tea,’ Phillip said firmly. Somehow he had a feeling he’d need his wits and faculties in full working order or Madame Belle would run rings around him.

‘Tea?’ both women said in amazed voices.

He laughed. ‘Why not? My sister coerced me to try it, and now I find it refreshing.’

‘Tea it is, then.’

‘And scones?’ he asked in a tone most woman would roll over and beg for. ‘I’m partial to scones.’ He paused and smiled in a way he knew would persuade most women to do whatever he asked. ‘With jam?’

‘Do not push your luck, my lord.’ Madame Belle’s voice was full of humour, as if she understood what he was doing and was amused, but not influenced by it. ‘Follow me if you will.’ She turned into the room behind her and Phillip did as she bade with alacrity, amused by her attitude and his diverted response to it.

He looked around him, not bothering to hide his interest. This room was more as he expected but still had those womanly touches a man’s domain lacked. Flowers on a side table and a fire crackling in the grate. Knick-knacks grouped in a glass-fronted cupboard as well as several bookshelves, plus the obligatory desk and chair.

‘Very businesslike,’ he said as she settled in one of the two armchairs placed to one side of the fire, and waved him to the other one. So it might be business but it would be conducted in relative comfort.

Madame Belle inclined her head. Phillip blinked. Who did that remind him of? More and more he was certain he knew her. He racked his brain, but no elegant blonde in trade came to mind. In fact elegant blondes of any description were few and far between in his mind. Up until then he would have said he had a penchant for brunettes. Now he was rethinking that, somewhat rapidly.

‘I am businesslike,’ Madame Belle said, breaking into his reverie. ‘So, let us get started.’

She paused as someone knocked on the door and on her bidding, opened it. Evidently there was no such thing as ‘a door should be left open when a lady and gentleman are together’ in this establishment. And whatever she tried to say to the contrary, Phillip was in no doubt that Madame Belle was a lady in some way.

Once the tea tray, and a plate of scones and jam was deposited on the table and they were alone once more, Madame Belle turned to him. ‘Pray continue. Oh and help yourself to tea and scones.’

Her look defied him to argue or ask where her manners were. He bit back a grin and nodded. If the lady thought he had no idea how to pour the perfect cup of tea, or jam a scone, she was sadly mistaken. ‘May I pour you one?’

Her eyes widened, very briefly, and then she smiled. A smile that lit up her face and took years off her.

Damn who does she remind me of? He was beginning to repeat himself.

‘You may. Excuse me one moment.’ Belle walked across to her desk and extracted a ledger and a pen.

Phillip admired the sway of her body and the manner in which her gown tightened over her rear when she bent forward. Seeing it outlined so prettily almost made up for the disappointment of not being able to glimpse how much of her breasts were exposed by the action. Almost. He intended to rectify the latter as soon as he could.

‘We may as well talk whilst we eat. I hesitate to sound unwelcoming, but I am somewhat busy.’

She sat down, arranged her skirts around her and accepted a cup from him. Phillip indicated the scones he’d buttered. She shook her head.

‘No, I thank you. If I ate all of Mrs Lovett’s home cooking, I’d be the size of a house. I have to ration myself.’

Somehow he doubted that, but one thing he did know about women was that they could be touchy with regards to their shape and size, therefore he forbore to comment. Instead he smiled his best ‘fall at my feet’ smile, which to his chagrin appeared to have no effect on Madame Belle. Phillip you’re failing here. The thought that perhaps she could see through his practised charm was something to mull over later.

‘So, let’s get down to business,’ Madame Belle continued briskly. ‘You wish me to dress a lady.’

He nodded as his mouth was full of scone and jam.

‘Who?’

Phillip swallowed. This he judged could well be the spot at which the negotiations ended abruptly. ‘I’m not prepared to say until you agree.’

‘Then, my lord, we have arrived at an impasse,’ Madame Belle said implacably. ‘For unless I know whom it is you wish me to consider, there will be no preliminary appointment. And be warned, even then, I do not guarantee I will dress the lady. I am incredibly selective, and can afford to be.’ She sat back into her chair and sipped her tea.

Damn the woman—she seemed totally at ease and not at all worried she might have offended one of the leaders of the ton. Did she not realise he could make or break her?

Be warned, a voice in his head said. Heed her words. She is made and could you break her? Really? Would you? Phillip acknowledged that no, he wouldn’t. He might try to bed her, not wed her, and add her to his… He stopped that train of thought. Madame Belle might intrigue him, but he made a point of never bedding any lady who didn’t know the score, and was not of his class, however much she made his cock stiff and his body taut. He might be a rake but he had his own rules and stuck to them rigidly.

‘It is somewhat delicate,’ Phillip said slowly. ‘The lady in question is…is…’

‘Married? Your mistress? Your soon to be mistress?’ Madame Belle said matter-of-factly.

‘My soon to be ex-mistress,’ he said. ‘I have decided we do not suit. This is, in a way, in recompense for my…’ he hesitated ‘…my hasty discarding of her.’

Belle put her cup down in the saucer and tapped her quill on her teeth. ‘How hasty?’

‘Does it matter?’ Phillip selected another scone and spread jam over the crumbly surface to cover his discomfiture. Why did she make him feel he was acting in an ungentlemanly manner? On the contrary, he was behaving exactly the opposite. ‘Suffice to say I have decided we will not suit.’ Not now, not now I have met you, and will do my utmost to make you my mistress and my previous edicts be hanged. He’d changed his mind faster than he changed his waistcoats and realised it didn’t bother him in the slightest. He who was renowned throughout the ton for intransigency.

‘It matters.’ She was adamant, and Phillip sensed if he didn’t answer her openly and honestly he’d be handed his hat and cane and shown the door.

He sighed. ‘We have not yet…consummated the relationship. However, the lady knew sex was on the cards and agreed to the liaison.’

‘And now you’ve decided your pego doesn’t want to play and you are willing to pay my prices to buy the lady off.’ It was not a question.

Phillip winced. Put like that it sounded so very bad, but in essence it was true. He stirred uneasily in his seat. She made him sound a perfect coxcomb. ‘I suppose that is one way to put it.’

‘Well what other way could you put it? Hardly for services rendered, is it?’ She cocked her head and smiled at him.

‘You have a very forward way of talking.’ He wasn’t sure if he liked it or not. It worried him that perhaps she did think him lacking somehow.

Madame Belle shrugged. ‘I have discovered it is me, and plus, nothing comes of holding back. So, on that note I must say once more. Who is the lady?’

He hesitated and she made a noise akin to a kettle about to boil. ‘For goodness’ sake Phi…phht.’

Phtt? I swear she was about to call me by my given name. Strange, very strange.

‘Do I know you?’ he asked abruptly. ‘Away from here?’

She shook her head, but he saw a cloud cross her expression, before she was once more her calm composed self.

‘No, my lord, you do not. And please do not change the subject. Do you think I can not be discreet? Heavens above, the secrets imparted to me would sink and kill the ton as we know it if I let them out. Your little affair will be safe with me.’

‘Very well.’ He nodded, reluctantly. Little affair indeed! She made him sound like a callow youth. However, he bit back his scathing retort. If he wanted her to help him, and if he wanted to further his acquaintance, he needed a way of doing so. ‘The lady in question is Lady Rosemary Rattenberry.’

Belle muttered something under her breath.

‘Did you really say, no lady, and rat by name, rat by nature?’ he asked in amazement.

She gave him a wide-eyed innocent look that reminded him of his sister. He didn’t trust it for one second. He was convinced the lady was up to something. To his amazement her attitude encouraged rather than repelled him, and it didn’t appear to be the automatic response of a lady who played hard to get or teased him. With each exchange his attraction to her grew and, Phillip admitted to himself, it was a unique feeling. One he wished to explore.

‘No, of course not,’ Madame Belle said swiftly. ‘I…er…muttered something immaterial. You do mean the former Lady Rosemary Minchin?’

‘I do.’

‘Then no.’

* * *

Belinda wanted to crawl under the table. Now she’d done it. Why on earth couldn’t she keep her mouth shut and her feet out of it? Phillip looked at her in amazement. Then his eyes narrowed and fixed on her like she was a specimen of some obscure insect pegged out for inspection. It made her want to wriggle. She fought against the instinct. It was imperative she didn’t show Phillip how he affected her.

‘Why not?’ He was persistent, she’d admit that. Annoyingly so.

Should she be honest? Why not? After all she needed neither the detestable Rosemary, nor Lord Phillip around to complicate her life. ‘My clothes are for good people, or,’ she amended quickly, ‘people who try to have some goodness in them. Otherwise they do not show them off to advantage. The lady you speak of has none and as far as I can tell never attempts to. She is unpleasant through and through. I thought you had more about you than to consort with her.’ There. She’d answered him honestly and would have to bear the consequences. To Belinda’s surprise Phillip’s eyes widened and she saw a flash of appreciation within their dark depths.

‘So did I, but…when you are thrown a fish so often and it puts up no resistance, in the end, you give in, tug on the line, get reeled in and accept the gift.’

‘And eat it?’ She went red when she realised how her words could be construed. Phillip took pity upon her. He grinned, and in that expression she once more saw the young man she’d fallen headlong in love with all those years ago. Belinda wasn’t sure whether the lurch of her heart was in pleasure or pain.

‘Just so,’ he said. ‘This could be one way of extracting myself, without too much angst, or getting indigestion. If you agree.’

Belinda made her mind up. There would be no way Rosemary would connect Madame Belle to plain Lady Belinda Howells, especially if Phillip didn’t. And in truth she was nosy enough to see how the woman had fared. ‘It will cost you.’

‘Anything will be worth it, to extract me from this with my body in one piece,’ Phillip said. ‘The lady doesn’t like to be thwarted.’

‘Then why on earth did you get involved with her?’ The Phillip she remembered was too wily to get caught, surely?

He shrugged. ‘Stupidity and an itch to be scratched. Oh I beg your pardon, that was crass.’

‘Very, but if it’s true?’ Belinda spoke with an insouciance she didn’t feel. After all what did she really know about gentlemen’s itches? ‘But I assume you now wish you hadn’t thought she might be the one best served to help?’

‘Oh yes. So therefore I’m throwing myself on your mercy.’

Belinda moved to the desk to add ink to her quill. ‘What were you thinking would suffice?’

Half an hour later her head was reeling, and her coffers considerably heavier. Phillip didn’t stint.

‘If Lady Rattenberry doesn’t realise how lucky she is, then really she deserves nibbling to death by her namesakes,’ Belinda said to Tippen as they drank chocolate later that evening. ‘Seriously, Tipp…oh this is ridiculous. All this time and I still don’t know your given name.’

Tippen reddened. ‘You do.’

‘I do not; you’ve only ever been Tippen.’

‘That’s because it is my name.’ Tippen rolled her eyes and shuddered. ‘Stupid though it sounds, my name really is Tippen. Tippen Smellie.’

Belinda put her chocolate down on the table with a thump that threatened to spill the contents of the mug. She bit her lip and did her best not to laugh. Tippen shrugged and then grinned. ‘Go on, laugh, get it over with.’

Belinda firmed her lips and shook her head.

Tippen crossed her eyes, pulled out her mouth wide in an awful leer and stuck her tongue out. Then she waggled her fingers. ‘Shall I tickle you?’

That was enough. Belinda laughed. ‘Oh my. Where did that come from?’

‘My papa’s grandmother was Tippen Smellie. Evidently it is an old family name given to the firstborn girl. I was the only one for two generations so I was saddled with it. Lady L suggested I use Tippen, because…well it sounds better than you calling me Smellie.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, Smellie…’

Belinda snorted. ‘I see what you mean. Tippen it will always be, but at least I won’t feel so infernally offensive when I call you that now. I didn’t like the fact it seemed to show I felt superior to you when I didn’t. And as you well know, I am Belinda, but it’s never to be uttered, therefore Belle will suffice.’

Tippen smiled. ‘You’re still my lady to me.’

Belinda grinned. ‘Better than saying I’m your Madame. People might get the wrong ideas, if you go around saying that.’

Tippen stared at her then put her hand over her mouth as she laughed out loud. ‘Oh my goodness.’ She spluttered as Belinda began to snigger. ‘Best not to, eh? So what exactly are we doing for the rodent?’ She twitched her nose, just like the said rodent did.

‘Oh Tippen, don’t or my sides will ache.’ The anguish over being so close to Phillip and not able to chat or get back to the innocent friendly approach they once had towards each other began to subside. It was what it was. ‘And we shouldn’t call her that now, should we?’ But it was oh so fitting.

‘Perhaps not but she is akin to one,’ Tippen said. ‘I saw her on one occasion, when I accompanied Lady Clarissa to the warehouses when you sprained your ankle. She was giving some poor man such a telling-off when he said he didn’t have the silk she wanted. Of course he didn’t; it was that ecru-shot bolt that we ordered, and Lady Clarissa had a ballgown made with. Somehow Lady Rattenberry must have decided she’d like some of it, and we subsequently found out she had interrogated every merchant around to find out who originally brought it in. Well of course she was out of luck. No merchant worth his salt would share what you had ordered or agreed upon.’

‘I remember Clarissa saying Lady Rattenberry had cut her dead at Almack’s. Apparently she was seething and hissed, “I might have guessed,” to Clarissa. She truly is stupid. Lady R, not Clarissa.’

‘And now you have to dress her.’

‘Well, yes, and I will do, and make sure she forever knows what she will never have again. To be “Dressed by Belle”.’

‘Perfect,’ Tippen said in an admiring tone. ‘I love it. Oh so very devious.’

‘Honest,’ Belinda said. ‘I might do it this once, partially for Phillip, but mainly for my own satisfaction of knowing I can make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Now enough of the woman. I suspect we’ll see and hear more than we want of her over the next week or so.’

Two weeks later, Belinda began to realise just how prophetic her words were. Lady Rattenberry was on her third visit and still refused to agree to anything Belinda had suggested.

‘These are all rubbish,’ Lady Rattenberry said petulantly, with a spiteful gleam in her eye. ‘I can’t think why so many people admire your work.’ She plucked at the toile she had on. ‘I shall tell his lordship how misinformed he has been and make sure none of my friends ever want to use your services.’

‘They won’t get the chance,’ a new voice said pleasantly. ‘Hello, Rosemary, look who is with me.’ Clarissa strolled in arm in arm with her brother.

Belinda bit her lip. She recognised the militant expression her friend wore and prayed Clarissa wouldn’t let her temper get the better of her. If it did, heaven knows what she would say or do. To her relief, Belinda watched Phillip give his sister a nip on her arm. Clarissa frowned but the expression lightened.

‘Only the best of the best are accepted here. Of course on occasion there is a slip-up.’ Her tone made certain Rosemary knew that this was one of those times. ‘My dear Madame Belle, I’m so sorry that my entreaty for you to help my brother in his hour of need should have come to this.’ The wink that accompanied the outrageous untruth was enough for Belinda to keep her mouth shut, and not put her feet into it.

Rosemary stood slack-jawed. ‘Are you going to let your sister speak to me like this?’ she demanded of Phillip, once she seemed able to talk. ‘Hour of need?’

‘Five minutes then,’ Clarissa said in an ‘oh aren’t I helpful’ tone.

‘Clarissa, hush,’ Phillip said firmly. ‘I’m interested to hear what Lady Rosemary thinks.’

Rosemary smirked. Phillip narrowed his eyes, and then nodded.

Clarissa rolled her eyes, but kept her mouth shut. How Rosemary didn’t realise Clarissa did it to stop herself laughing Belinda had no idea.

‘She is rude and I won’t have it,’ Rosemary said petulantly. ‘She needs to apologise and leave us to sort this mess out.’

‘That’s a pity because I have no intention of asking her to cease offering her opinions, although this mess as you call it is easily resolved. If you can be rude to Madame Belle, who went against her better judgement to do this for me, why shouldn’t Clarissa be rude to you?’

Rosemary went red, white and then red again. ‘She…’ she waved at Belle ‘…is a servant.’

‘And your point is?’ Phillip asked in such a silky, threatening voice that Belinda shivered.

‘Well, if she can’t deliver…’ Rosemary said sulkily. ‘I mean not once has she brought me anything remotely suitable.’

Tippen opened her mouth. Belinda glared at her and Tippen shut it again hastily.

‘Then that suggests to me that you are not helping,’ Phillip said evenly. ‘For I know of no one else who has this problem. However, never mind. I will pay her for her time and accept she is of no use to you. You agree?’

‘Phillip.’ Clarissa wailed his name. ‘You can’t.’

Belinda said nothing. The look in Phillip’s eyes showed there was more to his words than there seemed.

‘Well?’ He ignored Clarissa’s entreaty and spoke to Rosemary. ‘What do you say?’

‘She is useless and I shall tell everyone so. Perhaps now you will listen to me and we should go to La Compte as I suggested?’ Rosemary tore the toile off her body and stood naked in front of them all. To Belinda’s amusement, her muff was much lighter than the hairs on her head and oh my, sported several grey strands. Someone must have told her the gossip was that Phillip preferred brunettes.

I wonder how she was going to explain the colour difference to him?

The woman’s sultry gaze seemed not to affect Phillip one jot, as he turned away from Rosemary and looked at Belinda.

‘Send me a bill and it will be paid by return.’

‘But I didn’t buy anything,’ Rosemary said in a voice laden with temper. ‘Why should she be recompensed when I’m still waiting for clothes?’

‘For your rudeness perhaps? Wasting her valuable time, certainly. Madame, don’t forget to charge for the toile,’ he said as he picked up his gloves, looked at and addressed his sister. ‘My dear.’ He turned his back on Rosemary, and ignored her outraged hiss and harrumph as he spoke to Clarissa. ‘Do you come with me?’

‘I’ll wait until Madame Belle can see me,’ Clarissa said slowly. ‘I’ll call for my carriage when I’ve finished.’

He nodded. ‘Then I’ll escort Lady Rattenberry off the premises, and see you at the ball this evening. He now looked directly at Rosemary with such indifference that Belinda was shocked. If a man who you thought was enamoured of you gave you that look, you’d surely never be able to lift your head again.

Not so Lady Rattenberry. ‘And we then go to La Compte?’

Phillip shrugged. ‘You may do so; I have no intention. I offered you a wardrobe, one you demanded I purchase from Madame Belle. You have now turned it down. I’ve kept my part of the bargain; you better keep yours. And that, my dear, includes no lies or indeed anything about your visit here. For…’ He took the lady’s chin in between his thumb and forefinger. Her eyes widened but she made no sound.

‘For,’ he continued, ‘if I hear one word, believe me your husband will hear more than one. And none will be conducive to your comfort. That I vow. Have I made myself clear?’

Rosemary blanched until her skin was the colour of the toile she had so recently discarded, and she nodded.

‘Good, I’m glad we understand each other. Do you need any help to dress?’

She shook her head.

‘Then hurry up.’

Chapter Three

‘Good God, he flailed her alive,’ Clarissa said a little later on as she, Belinda and Tippen sat and sipped wine in her sitting room. All three had kicked their footwear off and sat sprawled, most unladylike, in their favourite chairs.

Belinda’s had once adorned the small salon in the house Lady L had given her and was a deep green, overstuffed, velvet-covered, soft armchair. She called it her pondering seat. ‘I’d hate to get on his wrong side.’ I’d love to get on his right side.

‘What was it all about, do you think?’ Tippen asked, wide-eyed. ‘She scared me.’ She tucked her feet under the hem of her gown. ‘It takes a lot to scare me, but she…she sent shivers through me.’

‘There’s no need to be scared. She thought she had my brother wrapped around her little finger and she was wrong. A tumble in the hay as a youthful rake does not equate to being besotted as an older, mature gentleman,’ Clarissa said firmly as she waggled her toes in the air. ‘Rosemary has never really accepted what she is. Plus she found out who made my gown—you know the one of the silk she then coveted and couldn’t get—and was determined to exact revenge. Not a nice lady.’

‘A moll?’ Tippen asked with interest, using a slang word for a lady of ill repute. ‘A doxy?’ There was no love lost between her and the lady, who had chosen to show quite categorically that she thought Tippen was not worthy of her attention. ‘For which,’ Tippen had confided. ‘I’m eternally grateful.’

Clarissa spluttered in her wine. ‘Not quite, though she is heading that way. No, she thought she should catch a peer and ended up with a member of the lower aristocracy. To her it was a comedown, and one she’s never quite accepted. Which is a shame because Ambrose Rattenberry is a nice man. Ineffectual but nice.’ Clarissa wriggled her feet into her sandals and tied the laces up her legs. ‘Anyway I must go or I won’t be dressed in time for this darned ball. I hate them.’ Her expression was as bleak as Belinda had ever seen. ‘Couldn’t you work from the country, Belle, and we could all retire there?’ She shook out her pretty day gown and slid her arms into her pelisse. ‘Where’s my dratted hat?’

Belinda laughed and handed Clarissa her headgear. ‘No hat of my making is dratted. And as for the countryside? I wish we could, for I miss Honeysuckle Cottage, but then we’d have my clients invading our privacy there. Not to be thought of.’

‘There is that. Ah well, I’ll be in on Thursday as we arranged.’ Clarissa kissed both Tippen and Belinda. ‘Belle, come and see me out.’

‘I hope there won’t be any unpleasantness, from today’s unfortunate…’ She stopped speaking suddenly. ‘No, not unwelcome—welcome events. That woman is too big for her half-boots. However, be sure both Phillip and I will keep our ears open and scotch anything before it starts.’ Clarissa stood by the open door as her carriage drew to a halt. ‘I wondered why he insisted I accompany him. Now I know. A wise man, my brother.’

Maybe so, but he was also a clever one. Belinda mulled that day’s events over in her mind as she undressed for bed a few evenings later. More than once she’d caught a calculating expression on Phillip’s face. Almost as if he was doing his best to solve a puzzle. She had to hope the puzzle had nothing to do with her. If it did? She’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

Belinda blew the candle out, plumped up her pillows and settled down to sleep.

To dream of the day she saw him and Rosemary in the gardens. To imagine it was his mouth on her own flesh and to wake up hot and bothered with his name on her lips.

Drat the man. Didn’t he know it was bad form to invade someone’s dreams without permission? Belinda considered her options. Her body was on fire and usually the way to relax was to touch herself until she was sated. But that activity held no appeal to her at the moment.

She rolled over onto one side. Then the other, and then onto her stomach and after that, her back. Eventually she gave in, and with her night-rail tangled around her knees, she flung back the covers and kicked her limbs free of the fine cotton lawn she chose to sleep in. Belinda stretched her legs over the side of the bed and fumbled for her dressing gown. Once she’d sorted out the armholes, which were inside out, she lit a candle and made her way to the kitchen. Mrs Lovett only came in during the day, and at night-time the kitchen was Belinda’s domain. At least living as she had whilst growing up had given her more than the usual number of housewifery skills found in a young lady of the ton. If Mrs Lovett were ever sick, she and Tippen wouldn’t starve.

Belinda heated some milk and sipped it as she stood at the window, which overlooked her garden. Why had the last few days unsettled her quite so much? Phillip hadn’t recognised her, and so far there had been no whispers about her identity or the treatment meted out to Rosemary.

Now, as she washed her mug and made her way back to bed, Belinda wondered just what he wanted of her.

Reason was brought back forcibly to her, when the following week, Tippen handed her a card just as she had shown a lady out.

Tippen looked flustered.

‘Belle, it’s him again. Lord Phillip. He wants to see you and says he will wait as long as necessary.’

‘Good grief not another mistress discarded already? If he keeps it up, we will be able to retire very soon, and give Clarissa her sanctuary.’

Tippen grinned. ‘Then shall we hope?’

Belinda remembered the searching glances he’d given her. ‘Not necessarily. Show him into the sitting room, and wait with him. Not that I don’t trust him exactly, but he is a man.’

‘And men snoop without realising they do it?’

Belinda nodded. ‘Exactly. I’ll just tidy myself and join you.’

She took the stairs to her bedchamber two at a time.

It had become annoying and ominous, and she mistrusted it all.

* * *

‘I tell you, Ben, it’s a rummy thing. I mean the woman is obviously well brought up, has perfect and to be honest, cock-stretching diction and tone, and intrigues me more than any woman has these last ten years.’ Apart from one unattainable young lady who has now vanished from the ton. Phillip sipped the fine brandy Watier’s club provided.

Lord Theodore Bennett raised one sculpted eyebrow. ‘Really? Then how have you persuaded a myriad of women your…no.’ He held one hand in the air as Phillip spluttered into his glass. ‘That is one snippet of information too far. Let it be your secret.’

‘Thank you,’ Phillip said gratefully as heat flooded his body and he knew his cheeks reddened. After all it wouldn’t do to say he superimposed another woman’s features on each woman he bedded. He had a fine regard for everyone he shared his body with, but none were the one he truly desired. ‘I appreciate that. However, it doesn’t solve my problem. I lust after a seamstress and it cannot be.’

‘Snobbery?’ Ben asked in a hard tone that surprised Phillip. ‘I thought things like that never bothered a true rake.’

‘Not snobbery,’ Phillip said vehemently. ‘A need not to open her to the wrong sort of attraction. You know as well as I how unforgiving the ton can be. I would not subject someone I cared about to that. I tell you, Ben, she intrigues me more than a little. Ah well.’ He sighed, somewhat surprised by his determined intentions to protect the lady from anyone who wished to do her a disservice. ‘What will be will be.’ And if I can think of any way to make her mine that will be what will be. ‘If nothing else this business with Lady Rattenberry has taught me to beware of gift horses.’

‘Or rodents?’

Phillip grinned. ‘Or them.’ He made his farewells to his friend, left his club and called a hackney. He’d wondered, pondered and now decided to act. He had to discover more about the lady. Was it possible to fall so deeply for someone after such a brief encounter? In the past he would have scoffed at the idea. Now he wasn’t so sure.

‘Bruton Street,’ he directed the jarvey. ‘Madame Belle’s.’

The journey took less than half an hour, even in London traffic, and before long, Tippen showed him into an elegant chamber he hadn’t seen before. She seemed flustered and uncomfortable as she curtsied to him.

‘I’ll…er…just go and find Madame,’ she said in a squeaky voice. ‘May I inform her of the purpose of your visit?’

‘No.’ Phillip sat down in a comfortable chair and stretched his legs out in front of him. ‘Sorry, Tippen, but this is not your war.’

Tippen muttered something he rather thought was French and wholly uncomplimentary to him and his intransigence. ‘Quite, Miss Tippen, I wholeheartedly agree. But my business is for that lady’s ears only.’ He smiled but made sure Tippen understood him. She reddened, half nodded and rushed out. Phillip wondered how long she would leave him there alone, waiting.

Not long it seemed. Within minutes the door opened. Phillip glanced up, stood up and smiled as Madame Belle entered the room. Her green velvet house shoes made no noise on the carpet as she walked towards Phillip and curtsied. He stood up, took her hand, and turned it over to kiss her palm and then curl her fingers over the spot he’d touched.

‘What have you done to Tippen?’ she demanded, her face a delicate pink, and her expression suspicious. ‘She gave me your message, muttered words I have never heard her use before and dashed upstairs. There to slam the workroom door hard. How have you upset her?’ She tapped her foot. ‘I won’t have my friend upset.’ By the likes of you, her tone inferred.

He raised one eyebrow. ‘Done? Why nothing. I never even did this.’ He copied his actions on her other hand. ‘You are the only lady who in my mind warrants that salutation. Would the fact I refrained have caused her attitude?’

‘I doubt it.’ Belle’s eyes darkened, and she removed her hands from his. ‘Tippen doesn’t suffer insincerity, my lord. Somewhat extravagant a gesture, don’t you think?’ Her voice with its hint of an accent was enticement itself. ‘And this is your third visit in two weeks. People will begin to talk.’

He hadn’t thought of that. Just that he wanted to see her, talk with her and learn all about her. He would need to be careful, to have her brought into the eyes of the ton in such a manner was the last thing he wanted. ‘Not at all,’ Phillip replied urbanely. ‘They will think I have more women to dress.’ He chose not to explain further. He’d rather keep her off balance and wondering about him and his intentions. Somehow he understood it would be an uphill struggle to convince her he wanted to get to know her better. Women had always thrown themselves at his feet ever since he’d left Eton, and never before had he needed to fight for one. It was a strange position to be in, but he judged in this case his reputation would work against him not for him. An expression his papa had used seemed appropriate in the circumstances. ‘Take it slowly, and get there faster. Don’t rush your fences.’ He intended to follow that adage to the letter.

Belle shook her head, but it was hard to know whether in denial of his words or in amused acceptance he had no idea. Adorned in a dark green gown whose severity was tempered by tiny embroidered flowers around the hem and the low neckline, which exposed the soft swell of her breasts, she was everything a man could and surely did want. His body certainly thought so. Why oh why did other women try to entice him with shrill voices, which grated, or gowns adorned with frills and furbelows, often so diaphanous he could count the hairs on their mounds? This was a simple dress, but suited her so perfectly, was so alluring and only hinted at what it hid, but in it she put any other woman of his acquaintance to shame. Every inch of her called to his masculinity and begged him to put his mark on her. To hang a sign around her neck that declared, ‘keep away’.

I have it bad. The thought didn’t worry him—after all it was a well-understood fact that love could strike at any time. That thought brought him up short. Who said anything about love? Phillip mentally groaned. She had addled his brain, and he had no intention of doing anything to alleviate the condition.

‘My lord, help me here. Are you sure you did nothing to annoy Tippen? I’m worried about her.’

Phillip wrenched his mind away from his feelings for the lady in front of him and shook his head to clear it. ‘I promise you, it is not down to me.’

‘It is not normal to see her as a gibbering wreck, and muttering under her breath.’ Belle regarded him steadily. ‘I have never seen her so incensed, not even when a certain lady vomited into the Ming vase.’

Why, he wondered, would someone need to do that? The annoyed expression on Madame Belle’s face made him decide not to ask the question.

‘Cursing in French and doubting my ancestry, my ability to procreate and other such things?’ he said in an amused tone. ‘Or so I thought.’

‘Exactly.’ Belle nodded.

‘She speaks French like a native. Is she?’ Rude and direct, but Phillip reckoned procrastination would get him nowhere.

‘No, she learned it from me.’ It seemed if he could be brief so could she.

His admiration for her grew with every exchange they had. ‘Ah, and you never did say how you met, or indeed how you ended up here, a friend of my sister.’ He raised one eyebrow in a gesture designed to invite confidence.

Belle smiled. She reminded him of the cat who got the cream. ‘Correct.’

He bowed. ‘Touché.’

Madame Belle smiled and her eyes lit up with mischief. ‘It is rare I see that, shall we say, vindictive side of Tippen. I think you should be thankful she wasn’t holding her cutting shears.’

Phillip’s hands automatically moved to cover his staff. ‘And deprive the ladies of my expertise?’

The look Madame Belle now gave him would have felled a giant. What on earth was he doing? Did he have a death wish? Even though, under her gimlet stare, his body was on high alert, his pego demanding attention and the rest of him willing it. Was it wise to let her assume he was insincere in his attentions to her?

‘If you think so.’ She sighed in the manner one would before chastising a recalcitrant child and dusted her hands together. ‘So, my lord, what can I help you with today? Another late mistress already?’

He bowed, kissed her hand again—it was fast becoming addictive—and grinned. ‘Even I’m not so cavalier. I came to see if you were all right.’ It sounded weak and silly even to his own ears. ‘However, I’ll make sure you know who is next and when.’ I’ll need to tread warily and not send her fleeing from me.

‘Thank you.’ She smiled and her face lit up with mischief. ‘For what reason?’

‘Well hopefully I might be able to swell your coffers without you putting a needle to a piece of material if things carry on as they started.’

Madame Belle laughed. ‘Think of my reputation, my lord—it would be sure to get out eventually. Be “Dressed by Belle” and lose your beau. Perhaps I’ll keep to my own status quo.’

To say nothing of the fact my pego would shrivel up from lack of use. Nevertheless he was determined they would keep in touch and she would learn to accept him in her life one small step by step. He had no certainty of a happy ending, but it would not be for want of trying.

‘That would be a pity,’ he said. ‘Now are you sure you are all right?’

She blinked. ‘Of course. Why should I not be?’

‘Rosemary is a vindictive woman.’ Surely Madame Belle knew that? ‘I wanted to reassure you there will be no comeback over your actions.’

She nodded. ‘So C…Lady Clarissa assured me.’

C…? ‘Do you know my sister well?’

‘Quite well, my lord. She has championed me from the first.’

Damn. ‘I see.’ He didn’t. ‘Therefore you know that our family mean what they say?’

‘Of course. Now may I offer you a drink before you leave?’

It was a wonder she didn’t hand him his hat and cane and push him out of the door. ‘Are you in so much of a hurry to see me go?’

Madame Belle flushed. ‘No, of course not, how rude that must have sounded. I didn’t want you to feel obligated to stay, however.’

‘I don’t,’ Phillip said gently. ‘As for a drink, yes a glass of brandy would go down a treat.’

Belle grinned and he saw a carefree side of her, hitherto hidden from him. Damn she does remind me of someone, but who? As much as he racked his brains the connection hovered just out of reach.

‘Not tea and scones?’

‘Not this time. Brandy and gingerbread perhaps?’ Phillip asked hopefully.

‘Gingerbread with brandy?’ she said incredulously. ‘What a mixture.’

He shrugged. ‘Why not? I like gingerbread and the building is redolent of the aroma.’ He’d scented the mouth-watering smell the minute he’d entered.

Belle rolled her eyes. ‘Mrs Lovett’s baking day. Of which she has several each week. If you pour yourself a glass of brandy, I’ll get you some gingerbread.’

‘No brandy for you?’

She shook her head and grimaced. ‘I hate the stuff. I believe there’s a fine Highland Park whisky from the distant Orkney Islands in that carafe behind you. I’ll have a tot of that, please. Half whisky and half water from that bottle over there.’ She pointed to a tall green glass bottle next to the golden liquid in a bevelled glass carafe.

‘You dilute it?’ All the whisky Phillip had drunk was pure spirit. Not his favourite drink, it had to be said. ‘Is that a woman’s preference?’

‘No, I have it on good authority it is the way it should be drunk. If you wish to try it feel free.’

He nodded, as she whisked out of the room. Tempting as it was to do a little spying he would not. Anything he found out about the mysterious Madame Belle would be information she gave him freely. Or information his sister gave accidentally. He didn’t count trying to wheedle information out of Clarissa as unethical, just sensible.

Phillip poured two glasses of what Madame Belle had called Highland Park, and sniffed it cautiously. Peat, smoke and honey hit his senses and he sniffed again in appreciation. Much richer and smoother than any whisky he’d tasted before. With a quick look around to ensure the room was still empty except for himself, and with a wry grin at his stealth, Phillip dipped his little finger into one glass and licked the liquid that gathered on the tip.

Smoky sweetness curled around his taste buds and he groaned with pleasure. It was perfection. He could easily change his mind about the spirit. Why add water? However, mindful of the way Madame Belle had been advised by those in the know about the proper way to appreciate the spirit, he carefully measured an equivalent amount of water into each glass. The colour paled but mysteriously seemed deeper and more complex. It was nothing like any whisky he’d met before and Phillip wondered if it was duty paid? The bottle was undistinguished and unlabelled. Not that he would quibble over that. He had no qualms about spirits from the gentlemen and never had. Sadly with peace declared, smuggling was on the wane, and duty was more often than not now paid on spirits and silks. Perhaps it was different in Orkney? The people from there were considered to be different.

Goblet in hand, he wandered over to the window and gazed into the tiny garden. Neat and tidy, it was obviously well tended and loved. Who was this woman? With everything he learned he became more intrigued. Phillip sipped his now diluted whisky and savoured the taste and scent of the aromatic liquid as it slid silkily down his throat. He would have to enquire where it came from and see if he could add a few bottles to his own cellar. Plus the water of course.

The noise of the door behind him opening alerted him, and Phillip turned around to see Belle enter carrying a large tray. He hastened to relieve her of it and put it down on the table she indicated. The aroma of warm gingerbread permeated the room, and he nigh on salivated. With a jolt, Phillip realised he’d missed lunch. Amongst many gentlemen of the ton, luncheon was considered effete. Not by Phillip—he had long decided his body needed frequent refuelling even if it was only a small meal. However, that day he’d been at Tattersalls to check out a horse one of his peers had recommended. By the time he’d purchased the animal and arranged for it to be delivered to his stables, it had been mid-afternoon, and he had made his way to Watier’s. It was almost without conscious thought he’d directed the hackney driver to take him to Bruton Street, and knocked on the door of Belle’s Salon.

Only a very discreet brass plate indicated who resided there, and what lay within the walls. Phillip approved. Classy.

‘I brought tea as well. Mrs Lovett insisted. Said it went with her baking and who am I to argue?’

‘Nor me. I’d drink three cups if it gave me access to her cooking.’

Madame Belle grinned at him. Her interest in why he had visited was palpable, and Phillip had to admire her self-restraint as she poured tea and handed him a plate of gingerbread, and merely talked platitudes. It wasn’t until she was also seated and he’d eaten his first slice of the sticky gingerbread that she went, as he thought of it, on the attack.

‘So, my lord, why are you here? I doubt it was solely to see what confection my housekeeper had concocted.’ Her eyes twinkled but her expression was wary.

Phillip swallowed the mouthful of food and brushed non-existent crumbs from his waistcoat as he stalled for time. He might have known Belle would go straight to the point.

‘And do not say something pathetic, like you wanted to make sure I was all right,’ she said emphatically. ‘Why should I not be? And if you were thinking I might take Lady Rattenberry’s place think again. I will be no man’s mistress.’

As he thought. Plain-speaking and straight to the point.

Phillip opened his mouth to answer her and a wayward crumb stuck in his throat. He began to cough, tears streamed down his cheeks, and he shook his head to try and dislodge the tiny morsel. That was all he needed. To be carried off by a crumb.

‘I…I…’ He wheezed like an old man as Belle stood up, and moved behind him. Her breasts brushed his back and even in his distressed state his ever eager pego began its ‘notice me’ dance. She pushed him forward and began to thump him on the back. All thoughts of sex, dalliance or anything else arousing disappeared. She had enough strength to hold her own against many a pugilist he’d sparred with.

‘Enough, thank you,’ he said once he was able to speak coherently.

Belle handed him a clean napkin to wipe his face and hands and sat back down.

‘You were saying?’

Phillip couldn’t help it. He laughed, and shook his head. There he was, having almost choked to death, and all she was worried about was the reason he’d called.

‘I don’t know why I called to be honest. I was worried about you, and I did want to see you again. I want…’ He hesitated, unsure how truthful he could be and not be shown the door. ‘I want to get to know you better.’

‘Hmm.’ Belle narrowed her eyes and he swore she saw into his soul. It was an unnerving experience. ‘Why? I’ve told you I won’t be your mistress.’

‘I’ll accept that. And remember I haven’t asked you.’ He had wondered about it, to be honest, but luckily she’d scotched that idea before he was able to embarrass either of them. He forbore to add ‘yet’.

She went red. Phillip looked down at his teacup and refilled it as he fought not to laugh. Once he had his mirth under control he spoke again. ‘In all seriousness, Madame Belle, I would like to be your friend.’

‘Why?’ Belle asked him baldly. ‘Gentlemen of your ilk do not befriend the likes of me. Unless it is for ulterior motives. I’m only a lowly seamstress, and will never be any man’s playing.’

Phillip was uneasily aware he could have such motives, if he had half a chance. But…

‘Belle, my dear, you will never be a lowly anything. Your goodness and integrity would outshine any lady—whether in the ton or not. Oh, I’ll be honest, I think you’re everything I ever want in a woman. Of course I’d like to bed you if you were willing. What hot-blooded rake wouldn’t? But here’s the difference between myself and many others of my ilk: I would never, ever, try to coerce you or force you to do something abhorrent to you. Mind you, that’s not to say I wouldn’t try to change your mind in other ways.’ He winked. ‘But for now, my only goal is to make you comfortable in my presence and warn you I intend to use your services whenever necessary.’

Belle raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow. ‘When you want to pay off a mistress?’

‘And to ask your advice on a present for my sister.’

She inclined her head. ‘The latter is fine; the former worries me a little. I don’t want it to be thought that to be “Dressed by Belle” is the death knell to a relationship.’

He hadn’t thought of that.

‘However,’ Belle continued, ‘we can cross that bridge when we come to it.’

‘You could marry me and there would be no bridge.’ Where on earth had that come from?

Belle seemed as surprised at his words as he did. Her whisky glass slipped from her hands and rolled across the carpet, spilling liquid as it went. It was her turn to choke.

Phillip put his arms around her and patted her shoulders and back. Her perfume surrounded him, and as she gasped for breath her body sagged against him and his pego pressed into the soft globes of her rear. How sad was he to respond to her presence so definitely at a time like that?

However, perhaps it was that unintentional declaration of intent—something he realised with a shock he definitely meant wholeheartedly—which helped her to recover. With one last cough, she shook her head and took in a great shuddering breath.

‘Water please.’ Belle croaked the words. ‘Any water.’

Phillip looked around and saw a carafe on a side table, near enough for him to reach and not loosen his hold on Belle.

He didn’t bother with a glass, but put the jug to her lips with one hand and kept his arm around her waist. It was agony not to let his fingers drift upward to stroke the underside of her breast. Even through her gown, he was certain it would feel like perfection. The nape of her neck with those entrancing curls surrounding it called out to be kissed and nipped, and the tiny row of buttons that danced over her spine were a siren call demanding attention.

Belle took a deep long swallow of water and coughed once more. ‘Much better. Thank you.’

She twisted in his hold and Phillip put the carafe down carefully as she looked up at him. With the vessel safety out of harm’s way, he held her within the circle of his arms. Belle tried to move back and away, and he shook his head and tightened his grip.

‘No, stay there and answer me.’ Why was he so persistent? A flash of insight showed him that perhaps a complaisant wife wouldn’t be too bad an idea. That the said wife was in trade bothered him not a jot. Her warmth—and yes, that intriguing scent—was all around him, and Phillip savoured it.

‘My lord, whatever you do, for the love of God do not come out with such absurdities when I’m drinking. I nigh on choked. In fact, don’t come out with them at all. Of course I’m not going to marry you.’

‘Why not?’

Belle made a noise like a pot about to boil over. ‘You know why not.’

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