Dragon’s widows, their graying hair and bespectacled faces, their matronly shapes and probing gazes. In their aged eyes he glimpsed secrets … womanly things … feminine wiles untold. He squared his shoulders and struck a determined pose, concealing behind an aristocratic sneer the dread those experienced womanly countenances roused in him.
“I wouldn’t dream of surrendering this bet, Lady Antonia,” he declared fiercely. “Especially when the odds are soheavily in my favor.” It rankled him that her superior smile only broadened in response.
“Excellent. Now if you’ll follow me into the dining room, I shall explain what plans we have for your education.”
Something about the way she said the word “plans” made him tighten internally. He strode after her, relieved to escape the scrutiny of that flock of aging females. His relief was short-lived; soon the hall behind him filled with whispering women, migrating like aged doves toward the dining room, as well.
It was a large, stately room with silk-clad walls and elaborately carved cornices and moldings. The furnishings consisted of a huge walnut table, ranks of high-backed Jacobean chairs, and two elegantly carved sideboards, above which hung elaborate gilt mirrors. At the far end two floor-to-ceiling windows admitted both sunlight and the fragrance of the small garden beyond. The jewellike colors of the walls and upholstery—rich crimson, hunter green, and royal blue—made a princely pallet indeed. He was struck by the harmony of the architecture and furnishings.
Then his gaze dropped from the intricate chandelier medallion on the ceiling and landed on Antonia.
She was standing in a half circle of women, eyeing him … holding what appeared to be a very large corset.
Across the street, leaning on the massive iron fence that surrounded Green Park, Rupert Fitch huffed an impatient breath and folded his arms with a jerk. He had waited through the night outside the earl’s fancy house in Grovenor Square, then followed him to this address, hoping to uncover a salacious tidbit around which to build a byline that afternoon. A fine house in Piccadilly, he thought, searching his memory for some clue to its owner. Hiswatchfulness was soon rewarded: the driver of an ice wagon exited the alley beside the residence in question. Fitch pulled on his most unctuous and ingratiating smile and strolled over to have a word with him.
“Oh, that there’s old Sir Geoffrey’s house,” the burly fellow answered, giving his nose a sideways swipe. Fitch’s heart sank, until the fellow shook his head and continued: “Ol’ Paxton’s dead now. Just his laidy and a passel o’ old cats there now.”
“Paxton? Lady Antonia Paxton?” Fitch said, catching fire again. “Thanks, mate.” Snugging up his tie and tilting his bowler to a jaunty angle, he shoved his hands into his pant pockets and sauntered down the alley toward what he knew would be the kitchen door of Paxton House. He knew a few things about how gossip flowed in great houses. And he’d always had a way with women who cook.
“What in blazes are you doing with that …
thing
?” Remington bit back a profane adjective just in the nick of time. His eyes began to burn as he stared at a rectangular piece of canvas stitched at regular intervals around wicked-looking slats of steel and bone and adorned with pink ribbon rosettes.
“Well, in order to truly appreciate the work women do,” Antonia said calmly, “one must understand the conditions under which it is done. Women, you see, perform all their labor under a special burden: their clothing. Did you know that the average woman’s day-to-day garments and shoes, totaled together, weigh seventeen pounds?”
He didn’t like the direction his answer might take them and refused to respond.
“I thought not. Few people do,” she continued, encouraged by murmurs and nods from the other women. “How much do your garments weigh, your lordship?”
He hadn’t
“I wouldn’t dream of surrendering this bet, Lady Antonia,” he declared fiercely. “Especially when the odds are soheavily in my favor.” It rankled him that her superior smile only broadened in response.
“Excellent. Now if you’ll follow me into the dining room, I shall explain what plans we have for your education.”
Something about the way she said the word “plans” made him tighten internally. He strode after her, relieved to escape the scrutiny of that flock of aging females. His relief was short-lived; soon the hall behind him filled with whispering women, migrating like aged doves toward the dining room, as well.
It was a large, stately room with silk-clad walls and elaborately carved cornices and moldings. The furnishings consisted of a huge walnut table, ranks of high-backed Jacobean chairs, and two elegantly carved sideboards, above which hung elaborate gilt mirrors. At the far end two floor-to-ceiling windows admitted both sunlight and the fragrance of the small garden beyond. The jewellike colors of the walls and upholstery—rich crimson, hunter green, and royal blue—made a princely pallet indeed. He was struck by the harmony of the architecture and furnishings.
Then his gaze dropped from the intricate chandelier medallion on the ceiling and landed on Antonia.
She was standing in a half circle of women, eyeing him … holding what appeared to be a very large corset.
Across the street, leaning on the massive iron fence that surrounded Green Park, Rupert Fitch huffed an impatient breath and folded his arms with a jerk. He had waited through the night outside the earl’s fancy house in Grovenor Square, then followed him to this address, hoping to uncover a salacious tidbit around which to build a byline that afternoon. A fine house in Piccadilly, he thought, searching his memory for some clue to its owner. Hiswatchfulness was soon rewarded: the driver of an ice wagon exited the alley beside the residence in question. Fitch pulled on his most unctuous and ingratiating smile and strolled over to have a word with him.
“Oh, that there’s old Sir Geoffrey’s house,” the burly fellow answered, giving his nose a sideways swipe. Fitch’s heart sank, until the fellow shook his head and continued: “Ol’ Paxton’s dead now. Just his laidy and a passel o’ old cats there now.”
“Paxton? Lady Antonia Paxton?” Fitch said, catching fire again. “Thanks, mate.” Snugging up his tie and tilting his bowler to a jaunty angle, he shoved his hands into his pant pockets and sauntered down the alley toward what he knew would be the kitchen door of Paxton House. He knew a few things about how gossip flowed in great houses. And he’d always had a way with women who cook.
“What in blazes are you doing with that …
thing
?” Remington bit back a profane adjective just in the nick of time. His eyes began to burn as he stared at a rectangular piece of canvas stitched at regular intervals around wicked-looking slats of steel and bone and adorned with pink ribbon rosettes.
“Well, in order to truly appreciate the work women do,” Antonia said calmly, “one must understand the conditions under which it is done. Women, you see, perform all their labor under a special burden: their clothing. Did you know that the average woman’s day-to-day garments and shoes, totaled together, weigh seventeen pounds?”
He didn’t like the direction his answer might take them and refused to respond.
“I thought not. Few people do,” she continued, encouraged by murmurs and nods from the other women. “How much do your garments weigh, your lordship?”
He hadn’t
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