And Then Comes Marriage by Celeste Bradley Page B

by waiting nearly an entire afternoon after her visit to the she-devil’s house before climbing out from under her bed (Ellie was in a mood) and wrestling herself into her slightly too large walking dress (Ellie had grown a bosom at a very early age) and sneaking out through the kitchen while Philpott was in the larder, secretively concocting the blend of herbs for her evening “tea.”
    Attie didn’t know what herbs the cook used in the teapot, but the one time she’d managed to sneak a taste, she’d felt like a piece of paper on the wind and had actually begun to write words on herself before she lost track of the thought in a sudden urge to eat pickles and cheese and chocolate cake together.
    Once out on the street, she clomped confidently along the sidewalk, ignoring the astonished glances of strangers. It wasn’t more than half a mile to her destination, though she did take a side venture for a stop at a confectioner’s. She even paid for the sweets, for they were a gift and one couldn’t give a gift if one didn’t actually own it.
    On the Strand, she lingered across the street from a discreet and tasteful doorway, sucking noisily on a sweet. Eventually, a lady left the establishment, escorted to her waiting carriage by a very handsome young man. His sharp eyes caught Attie’s presence at once. With a twitch of his cheek, he told her to go to the back of the shop. Attie nodded and placidly made her way around through the alley.
    Cabot let her in. “He’s very busy.”
    “He’s never too busy to see me.”
    Cabot didn’t bother denying it, because it was quite true. Still, he eyed her sticky hands and face and sighed. “I’ll be right back.”
    Since she adored Cabot, mostly because he never, ever treated her like a child, she waited with uncharacteristic patience. He returned with a bowl of steaming water and a towel. There was a very pretty little soap, pressed into the shape of a fish that Attie promptly dropped into the bowl so she could watch it swim to the bottom. Then she scrubbed her face and hands until even the grime under her nails was gone.
    There was no point in rebelling against Cabot. He was the only person in the world who was actually more persistent than she was. And she felt sorry for him.
    Clean at last, she dried off with the luxurious bit of toweling and handed it back to Cabot, grimy streaks and all. “It’s really important.”
    He didn’t seem impressed. “It always is.”
    Still, he led her down a silk-papered hallway to a simple painted door and tapped on it. “It’s the littlest one,” he announced through the wood.
    In response to a murmur from the other side, Cabot opened the door and ushered Attie through.
    The man at the small cluttered desk turned to greet her with a sweet smile. “Ah, the lovely Atalanta! What a fetching frock.”
    Attie looked down at her dress and plucked indifferently at the deflated bodice. “It was Ellie’s.”
    The man tilted his head. “I imagine it was. I would be happy to make up one new for you, you know.”
    Attie shrugged and plunked herself down on the faded needlepoint footstool at his knee and happily contemplated the tiny, cluttered office of the renowned Lementeur, the greatest and most expensive dressmaker in all of England. “No need,” she said. “I’ll likely get a bosom eventually.”
    She loved to come here. Being in this little room, with its piles of papers and fabrics on the desk and bits of trimming pinned up on the walls that nearly covered the hundreds of drawings layered beneath them—why, it reminded her of Worthington House!
    Wrapping her arms around her knees, she rocked gently to and fro. “I have a problem.”
    Lementeur, or Mr. Button, as he was known to the Worthington clan, nodded sagely. “I could tell the moment I saw you. You must be extremely distressed to have forgotten—”
    “Oh!” Attie sat up and dug into her pocket. “Here. These are for you!”
    Button beamed as if he’d been handed