Page 44 of Presenting Miss Letitia (Once a Wallflower 1)

her wardrobe. She snuffed out the candles, climbed into bed, and drew the covers up to her chin.

Moments later, the door opened. “Letitia?”

With a mumbled reply, Letty rolled over and blinked at the shape of Arietta outlined by the sconces in the corridor.

“Just making sure you are all right, my dear. Good night.” The door shut again.

Letty lay staring into the dark. She wished she could have heard what they talked about. Her initial desire to warn Arietta, was quickly quashed. Arietta had made no mention of a visitor. Because he’d called so late, it appeared secretive, when it really might not be that at all. The Frenchman could be an old friend of Kendall’s. Had he known that Fraughton was dead?

Whether his visit to Arietta was something concerning or not, Brandon must be warned. But she had no idea where he lived. She thumped her pillow which had turned into a rock. What to do? It was impossible to send a letter to Whitehall; all the post was dealt with by the butler. And Brandon may not appreciate it.

She might find Brandon at the card party they were to attend the following evening, or failing that, the soiree on Saturday. Her heart still thudded uncomfortably. Had Arietta lied to her? Did she, as Brandon had suggested, have some secret agenda? Letty could do nothing until she spoke to him, and only hoped it would be before her curtsey to the queen, for she was sure it would not go well with this weighing heavily upon her.

Brandon sat in a leather chair in Fraser Willard’s library nursing a brandy. He had revealed all that transpired and now waited in the charged atmosphere while his spymaster digested it.

“I still can’t see Napoleon’s connection to the opium smuggling. They fear this Journal Noir being discovered, however,” Willard said. “That much is clear. And are determined it never sees the light of day. It is sure to prove of great interest to Whitehall.”

“I’m informed Robert Marston has gone into hiding.” Willard rose to top up their glasses. “He hasn’t been seen in London. And as there’s no record of him having fled to France, someone must be sheltering him.”

With a nod of thanks, Brandon accepted the freshly filled glass. “Has the comtesse been in contact?”

“Yes. She received an unwelcome visitor. The porter was stabbed to death, and her Paris apartment turned upside down. Her country estate, too, although there was no staff except an aged caretaker—the house was closed, everything under holland covers, apparently. Nothing taken from either residence. The comtesse has been staying at a friend’s apartment and assures us the journal remains in her possession.”

“I’m relieved to hear she wasn’t hurt.”

“The bad news is that Comte de Lavalette’s appeal has been dismissed, and the date of his execution set for Thursday.”

Brandon released a breath. “We run out of time. We need to keep these men behind bars in case Lavalette reaches London. Is the escape plan still in place? Does she say?”

“She assures us everything is prepared for his rescue. It is to take place within days.”

“Did she explain what she has in mind?”

“No, she prefers not to. She fears her letter may be intercepted.”

“Then we must curb our curiosity and wait.” Brandon rubbed the prickles on the back of his neck. He found the waiting excruciating.

“And in the meantime, see if you can sniff out Marston. Visit his old haunts. Bring him back alive if you can. We need to question him.”

“I’ll start at the Covent Garden brothel he favors,” Brandon said, pleased to see some action. “Not a man of taste by all accounts.”

Chapter Sixteen

After breakfast the next day, Letty tried on the court dress the price of which had shocked her. She’d seen the bill from the dressmaker, before Arietta whisked it away saying it was a necessary expense. Such a lot of work had gone into the making of it, and understandably so, embroidered as it was with wreaths of silver leaves and decorated with rows of lace, ribbons, and bows. It was undeniably pretty. Unfortunately, it didn’t flatter her. She looked rather like one of those balloons that carried people aloft in a basket. While she could not like the style, just stepping into it and having Adele do up the hooks brought a rush of excitement. She gathered up the skirts and the long train and carefully descended the stairs to the drawing room where Arietta waited.

“The magnolia white suits your complexion,” Arietta said. “Debut court gowns are notoriously unflattering, we must lay the blame for that at the door of Queen Charlotte and the Prince of Wales who insist on employing last century’s hoop but with the fashionable high waist. Do you like the headdress?”

Letty put a hand up to the bandeau of pearls with the five ostrich feathers. Shoulder-length lappets hung down from it. “I shall find it hard to see when I turn my head.” She suffered another hot surge of anxiety.

“I’m sure you’ll do well. I don’t recall hearing of a debutante falling over before the queen although one or two might have stumbled.”

This failed to fill Letty with confidence. She swallowed as her ankle gave a throb, reminding her of the weakness there.

“You will do nicely, Letitia,” Arietta reassured her, at Letty’s gasp of dismay. “What a pity your family are not here to see you.” She gestured to the door. “I shall take the part of the queen. You must enter the room, walk toward me, make your curtsey, and back away again.”

Letty slowly crossed the drawing room Axminister carpet to where Arietta waited on a sofa near the fireplace. She curtsied low as she’d been instructed.

Arietta nodded approvingly. “Your curtsey is graceful. Now, walk backward, but keep your eyes on me.”

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