Page 26 of To Love A Spy
“Whatever you like. The real Mrs. Daggett is named Elizabeth, but a man may call his wife by a pet name.”
“Then let us stick as close to the truth as possible,” she said. “I shall introduce myself as Valencia, saying I prefer to go by my middle name, as it is more interesting than plain Elizabeth.”
She traced a finger over the thick wax seals and ribbons affixed to the document. His special mixtures of solvent and glue had allowed him to transfer the originals to the forgery without leaving a trace of the tampering.
“My grandmother was Spanish,” she continued, embellishing the explanation. “She lived on the Caribbean island of Hispanola when she met my grandfather, a rich American ship captain. A touch of Latin blood will explain my fiery temperament.”
“Excellent,” said Lynsley. “To play a role effectively, one must create a convincing persona.”
A tinge of color ridged her cheekbones. “I haven’t forgotten my basic training, sir. The art of deception is one of the first lessons we learn at the Academy.”
Damn.She seemed determined to read criticism into every word or gesture he made. “Then I need not remind you that from here on in, you must call me Thomas, not sir.”
She allowed a tight smile. “Ah, but as a much younger bride, I am still rather in awe of you, and your august government position.”
“Touché.” Lynsley gave a wry chuckle. “Shall I assume a cane and a senile shuffle?”
A flash of humor lit in her eyes. “The spectacles are enough of a concession to age. By the by, are they real?”
“No, my sight is still sharp enough without magnifying lenses,” he replied, looking over the top of the gold wire frames. “At the risk of ruffling your feathers again,querida, let me remind you to keep your own eyes open at all times. So far, we haven’t really been tested. That is about to change.”
“Is all in order, madam?”
Valencia swept another look around the bedchamber, taking in the sumptuous furnishings and decorativeobjets d‘art. Despite their revolutionary fervor, Parisians still loved their decadent pleasures, she observed with a sardonic smile. The opulent damask draperies, the gilt-trimmed furniture, the carved canopied bed—all of it would have been right at home in the splendor of the Sun King’s palace.
“Yes. Thank you, Perkins,” she replied. “Though I fear my meager wardrobe looks rather lost in that armoire.” Indeed, the painted piece looked bigger than her cottage, and the handful of gowns purloined from Mrs. Daggett hung like woeful waifs in its shadows.
How fitting, thought Valencia, seeing as she was an urchin invading a world of pomp and privilege.
“That will soon be rectified, madam,” replied her maid. “Mr. Daggett says we are to make a shopping expedition on the morrow, and begin ordering a more fitting array of items for a diplomat’s wife. Evening gowns, day dresses, bonnets, fans, gloves . . .”
A sigh slipped from Valencia’s lips, along with a low oath, as the maid continued rattling off the list of essentials.Damn.One would think they were equipping a bloody army, rather than one lone foot soldier.
It had been a long time since she had studied the fashions of thebeau monde. Her knowledge of styles was sadly out of date. The one saving grace was that an American was expected to have no fashion sense.
Perhaps she could ask Lynsley.
After all, the marquess moved within the highest circle of Society in London. No doubt his prodigious knowledge included keepingau courantwith the latest looks for ladies.
She fingered the ruffled bodice of her borrowed carriage dress. Indeed, the odds were, he was intimately familiar with every little thing that a wealthy lady wore. He was rich, he was titled, he was handsome. Gentlemen of his rank had their pick of unhappy wives to dally with, along with their expensive mistresses . . .
Valencia shut the armoire door with a tad more force than was necessary. Lynsley’s love life was none of her concern.
“How the devil am I to decide whether mutton sleeves or bouffant sleeves are currently in vogue?” she added under her breath.
Perkins cleared her throat with a discreet cough. “If I may make a suggestion, madam.”
“You need not stand on ceremony with me when we are in private,” she replied. “I prefer plain speaking.”
“Very good, madam.” The maid certainly appeared a no-nonsense woman. She was a rail-thin and middle-aged, with angular features that would never be called pretty. Her mouse brown hair was scraped back in a tight bun, its unremarkable color reflected in the taupe and grey shades of her dress.
In short, a figure easy to overlook, which was no doubt by design. Valencia didn’t miss the alertness in the woman’s hazel eyes.
“As part of my job, I am expected to keep up with all the latest fashion trends,” went on Perkins. “I shall be happy to offer advice, but there is an even easier way to conquer the problem.”
Valencia raised a questioning brow.
“We need only learn who is the most exclusivemodistein town, and then ask her to outfit you for making the rounds of thehaute monde,” explained the maid. With her shop’s reputation at stake, the woman will personally oversee every stitch of the way, from the choice of fabric and style, right down to the last ribbon and flounce.”
