Page 42 of The Marquess' Wicked Wager
Janine perched herself on a chaise. “I did not intend to interrupt your…” she glanced around the room in the way one might glance around an infirmary, “afternoon. I merely came to request Edna’s company.”
“Me?” Edna blinked. “Whatever could be so pressing?”
“It’s a small favor, really, though you are my dearest friend.” She smiled, but her eyes were dark and unmoving as they always were. “Would you be of a mind to accompany me into town? Only, I must visit a modiste in all haste, and I haven’t the courage to attend on my own. It is Mrs. Langevin’s shop, recently opened, as you know. My maid awaits us there.”
“And you could not think of anyone else to–” she caught herself before she saidpunish.
Thankfully, or not so thankfully, Violet took up the mantle. “Oh, wipe that snotty look from your face, my dear. You shall hardly come to any harm with Janine. An airing will serve you well.”
Edna stifled a grumble. “Very well,” she conceded, not wanting to offend the Rees women further. “But I shall need a coat.”
With a clap of her hands, Janine rose to stand. “I am so grateful, Edna darling! Perhaps we might find something for you too.”
The wheels of Janine’s carriage ground against the cobble streets almost as loudly as Edna’s rows of teeth against each other. She was in no mood to visit a modiste, especially with the ever-boisterous Janine. Although, to her surprise, Janine did not seem quite like herself that day. She was quiet, not chatting in the way of a fledgling bird as was her habit, seemingly quite content to stare out of her own window.
“Say, Janine,” Edna murmured, peering past the crystalline glass of the pane, “Has your driver made a wrong turn?”
Janine did not turn. She merely mumbled a less-than confident, “I shouldn’t think so,” against her palm.
Edna was not convinced. She was hardly the greatest intimate of London, while some ladies knew the town like the back of their hands, but this was not right. They had passed Hyde Park what must have been twenty minutes gone. The Thames was nowhere in sight. As the horses trotted on, the townhouses grew muckier, some abandoned. Whomever this modiste was, she was no respectable lady to live in such an unsightly nook. If she was a modiste at all.
“Tell me,” Edna began, careful not to let too much suspicion color her words, “where did you hear of this modiste?”
“A friend.” Still, Janine did not budge. Her nose was pressed against the glass so close that it had misted over with her breath.
“I see...and is this a friend I am acquainted with?” There was no answer. “Where are we, Janine?” Edna ground out. “Tell me, or I shall scream.”
Suddenly, the dark-haired lady snapped her head back so fast one might have thought her possessed by some evil. There was no mirth in her expression but for a little amused fear. “Scream. It shall not avail you.”
Edna gasped. Janine tapped three times against the box’s roof, the carriage’s pace near-doubled. “What have you done, Janine?” Her voice rose to a shout. “Where are we headed?”
When the Lady turned away, Edna grabbed the door handle. It was locked. They had locked her in.Howhad she not noticed?Because I trusted my friend, she thought.
They thundered down the empty road, the sky clouding darkly overhead. Puffs of soot-black, choking smoke churned in the air. The area was one of those newly industrialized corners of London that no ladies of their kind should ever need to visit. But what could Janine have intended? Unless…unless…
There was no time to press the traitorous Janine, for the carriage came to a halt. Edna crashed into the opposite side of the box, barely having time to right herself before footsteps sounded like a death toll beyond the door to the carriage. A footman pulled it open, his countenance marked with regret. Janine rushed out of her own side, running around to the entrance of the building before which they had stopped.
To her utter surprise, the shop signdidread,13 Avon Road,Mrs. Langevin, Seamstress and Fabrics.But the shop looked all but closed.
There was nowhere to go but forth.
The door to the modiste’s shop creaked open with a rusted sigh. No bell, no maid, no welcome. Janine stepped forward first, her gown dragging against the parquet. She settled before the counter, running a white-gloved finger along its edge.
Edna glanced around. “Will you tell me now, what you have done? Where is this modiste? Janine, I am in no mood to play games.”
“Really?” Janine breathed a sardonic laugh. “Funny. From what I have been told, there has been nothing but the playing of games in recent times.”
Surely, she could not mean— Edna bit her lip. If she was fast, she might try to run. But to go where? The driver and his men were not on her payslip. The question was, to whom were they loyal?
“Tell me,” Janine lilted again, “Is the Marquess of Remington everything you dreamed?” Well, that answered the first of her musings. “I always thought you a mouse, Edna. One might suppose that had been an act too.”
“What did Violet tell you?”
“My aunt has told me nothing.” She grinned. “My circle is not quite so small as yours, o’ Diamond of the Stillest Waters.”
“Then…who?” Edna took a brave step forth. “And why?”
Janine circled her, and each round coiled Edna like a spring. “You will not believe me.”
