38. Shopping Trip

Temperance Penelope Pendelton was in despair. She had returned to England fresh from her years of apprenticeship with a top modiste in Paris, full of hope to bring the wonders of elegant fashion to her beloved (if sadly unstylish) homeland. With the competition in London being so heavy, she had instead decided on settling down in the country, in an area with not one, not two, but three incredibly wealthy noblemen who would need to outfit their elegant, demanding, fashion-obsessed wives. Without doubt, it was a brilliant plan!

Or at least that's what she had thought.

"What...what is this?"

"A list of orders," the lackey from the Ambrose manor said, deadpan. "For Lady Ambrose."

"But...but...these are men's clothes! Tailcoats and trousers!"

"Can you not tailor men's clothes?"

"That is not what I...I mean I...well...yes."

"Then there is no problem, is there?"

From deep inside her, Miss Pendelton heard the sound of her little heart breaking. "N-no."

"Very well. Payment in installments after completion, with ten percent deducted for every day of delay."

"But...but..."

"Pleasure doing business with you, Miss. I'll return shortly to collect the order."

"Th-thank you. Please come—"

Thud!

"—again."

Miss Pendelton stared at the closed door of her little shop—then turned around and sagged against the nearest shelf.

"Parbleu! This...this is...Mon Dieu!" Muttering, she sought refuge in French, images of her beloved, cultured, sane Paris flashing past her inner eye. Cafés, bridges spanning the sparkling River Seine, elegant women not dressed in men's clothes...

But at least it had only been an order from Lady Ambrose. She might indulge in...strange proclivities, but at least, she was a bona fide lady, descended from a long line of landed gentry. Not like...like...

Ding-dong!

"Oy dere! Is da ragstitcher at 'ome?"

A cold shiver went through her poor soul. Swallowing, she forced herself to stand and move out from where she was hiding—ehem, standing between the shelves.

"Good afternoon, Lady Wetherston." She gave a deep bow. "How may I help y—oomph!"

Thump!

"Dere ye are, my favorite fake little froggy!"

A heavy hand hand slapped down on her back, just before an arm snuck around her shoulder, securing her in a vice grip. A smirk spread over the face of the person Miss Temperance Penelope Pendelton was hesitant to call a "lady".

"Come get yer scissors and needles! Ye've got some tailorin' ta do!"

"Um, I'm afraid that my appointment book is rather full these days, and—"

"No problem! I'll give ye a new book. 'ere!"

And, an instant later, a book emerged from the pocket of the "lady" and appeared under Miss Pendelton's nose. The modiste felt her stomach flip. She was not an expert on appointment book design, but she was pretty certain they did not have paintings of scantily dressed men and women on the cover, under the words Fanny Hill—Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure.

"I, um...suddenly seem to remember I still have an appointment open, Your Ladyship."

"Spiffin'!" Another thunderous slap landed on Miss Pendelton's poor, bruised back, and the book disappeared. "Come along, will ye? We're in kind of a 'urry!"

"And what kind of...special order will Her Ladyship be making today?" the poor dressmaker enquired, her fashionable soul wallowing in torment. "Do you have requests for...night attire once again?"

"Oh..." Her Ladyship's grin made Miss Pendelton's poor, abused morals want to cower and hide for fear of being corrupted. "Ye remember dat, do ye?"

The young dressmaker shivered. "I very much doubt I could forget."

"Well, now dat ye mention it, me 'usband 'as bin spending a little bit too much time workin' lately. I could use some material ta display me assets..."

"I-is dat so?"

"—but dat ain't why I'm 'ere today."

"OhthankyouGodangelsandsaintsthankyouthankyouthankyou!"

"Oy? Did ye say somethin'?"

"N-nothing, My Lady! Nothing whatsoever! So..." Her momentary relief vanishing again, Miss Pendelton eyed the Lady fearfully. "What are you here for?"

"Oh, it ain't about me dis time! A couple of guests are stayin' at me 'usband's place. Suddenly, a ball's come up, and dey all need ta be outfitted. Do ye think ye could..."

Pure, unadulterated joy flooded through Miss Pendelton at that moment. Customers! Real, actual customers! With manners, and decorum, and no trouser fetish, and, and...she was going to explode from happiness!

"Where are they?" she demanded, eagerly. "Who are they? When can I meet them?"

"Well..." Her Ladyship gave her a smile that suddenly reminded the modiste far too much of an actor in Paris she'd seen play the role of the devil. "Actually, dey're already 'ere."

And from around the corner, two figures stepped out into the open.

***

"Pardon," the vicar said, blinking up at him with a mixture of confusion and curiosity, "what is this matter regarding? I'm afraid I did not quite understand the concept of this...what was it called again?"

"I believe," Lord Patrick stated somberly, "it was 'shopping spree', Reverend."

"Ah, yes, indeed. If I'm correctly informed, is it not visitation of a store for the purpose of acquisition of feminine clothing and accessories?" A slight frown marred his clergical brow. "So, why would they request our presence for this endeavour?"

"They want their men to stare at them in pretty clothes," Titus cheerfully explained, "So when they get home, they'll be all hot and bothered and will—mmphmmphmmph!"

"They wish you to accompany them," Lord Patrick said, making sure his hand was tightly clamped over his best friend's mouth. He had come to this town to protect innocents from perverts, after all, he'd just never thought he would be doing it like this. "so they can show you various dresses and ask you for your opinion."

Not that, if he were to speak his words would turn out a lot more complimentary than Titus's. That dratted wench! She had led him around by the nose! She, a lady of the night from the least reputable pile of refuse that called itself a city district within London had grabbed him, Lord Patrick Day, by the nasal protrusion and led him around, and had had fun doing it, all the while getting paid for her trouble! And now, by George, she had somehow managed to convince everyone that, in order to properly infiltrate the duke's castle, she and all her friends needed brand-new ball gowns. For which he, of course, would have to pay as well. After all, he had hired her, had he not?

He really should find himself a wife.

He glanced sideways at the living cautionary tale in clerical dress walking beside him.

Although I have to make very, very sure that she is a proper, English noblewoman from a distinguished family and, preferably, a certificate of suitability.

"'Shopping spree'..." The vicar rolled the unfamiliar words around in his mouth, pulling Lord Patrick from his thoughts abruptly. "But...we won't be buying things for ourselves?"

"No."

"So...we have to tell them which look good and which look bad?"

Not for nothing did Lord Patrick Day have a loving mother and a little sister. "No," he said, with absolute certainty. "You absolutely must not. You can only tell them which look good, which look better, and which look best."

"Is that so?" Adjusting his glasses, the vicar nodded hurriedly. "Intriguing. Intriguing."

"And if you compliment them enough," added Titus who had managed to slip out of Lord Patrick's hold, "you might get lucky later that night and get lai—mmmphmphmph!"

"Pardon, Mr Irving, what was that?"

"Let's walk faster, shall we?" Lord Patrick suggested, completely ignoring the question. "I have a feeling we shouldn't leave the ladies to their own devices for too long."

"You're such a considerate man, Your Lordship." The vicar nodded at him approvingly. "Yes, we should hurry. Ladies should always have a chaperone with them to safeguard and protect them."

Or those around them, Lord Patrick mentally appended.

"Or," Titus, who had never really had something as superfluous as a filter, "those around the—mmmmphdnnmph!"

"Yes, that's right, Titus. Let's move faster and not keep the ladies waiting!"

Not that he was particularly looking forward to what Miss Amy Weston had planned for the afternoon. He wouldn't mind letting the cheeky wench wait till hell froze over. He did not particularly look forward to finding out what she had in store for him next.

However, who says things are going to go her way?

He was Lord Patrick Day, heir to one of the greatest and most distinguished noble houses of the British Empire. He was not going to let himself be led around by the nose by some brazen, h-dropping, English-mangling missy from the East End! Just thinking about how she had played her games with him for the last few days...it made him want to strangle her! Until he remembered what she told him about choke play, at which point he just felt he was falling into another trap, which made him want to strangle her even more!

He wasn't heading to the dress shop to be played with. He was going there to show that young woman who around here was in charge!

There was just one little problem.

He had no clue how to do it.

Lord Patrick Day was many things. Rich. Influential. Unbending in his convictions.

Yet, a master of devious revenge plans?

Unfortunately, he lacked such currently immensely useful qualities.

But then again...what are best friends for?

"Titus?" With a broad smile, he looked down at his best friend, who just happened to be still in his clutches, unable to escape. "Let's have a little chat, shall we?"

What followed were several minutes of whispers, only cut short when...

"There, I see the store!" The vicar called out, pointing ahead. "Let's hurry!"

"Yes," Lord Patrick Day, confirmed, an anticipatory, and unusually devious, smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Let's."

"Oh my..." Smiling widely, the vicar scuttled down the street towards the shop. "I wonder what Miss Pendelton is feeling right now. My dear wife and the other ladies are bringing so much business to her store, she must be so happy!"

***

"Oy, Miss Pendelton? What do ye think?"

Slowly, haltingly, Miss Temperance Penelope Pendelton turned around—only to be faced by the sight of the local, and highly pregnant, vicar's wife, experimenting with how deep she could pull her cleavage.

A desperate croak escaped from the poor modiste's throat.

"What was dat?"

"The attire is, um...quite...provocative, ma'am."

"Oh, goody!"

Miss Pendelton clutched her stomach.

"Um...is that so, ma'am? Well, I just remembered I still have a matter to attend to in the back room, so—"

Before she could flee, a hand landed on her shoulder.

"Wait just a little bit. I wanna get yer opinion, too."

The young woman closed her eyes.

Trials, she reminded herself. Trials and tribulations fill the way to success.

True. But it was also said the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

"Miss...Miss Amy Weston, is it? Have you found a dress you like?" she asked without daring to turn around.

"Aye. 'ave a look and tell me what ye think of dis dress."

Taking a deep breath, Miss Pendelton turned around—and nearly fainted on the spot.

"That's not a dress!"

"It ain't?" The young woman glanced down at her attire, as innocent as an insomniac succubus. "But I found it in yer workshop."

"That's because it isn't finished yet! The lower half is still missing!"

"Hmm?" Stepping towards a mirror, the young woman struck a pose in front of a reflective surface and ran her hand along the lower end of the semi-dress, which reached just down to her knees, exposing her...her...unmentionables. "Aye, now dat ye mention it, dis does seem ta be intriguingly breezy. Quite nice, I must say."

"Nffggff..."

"Is something da matter?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all, I—"

Just then, the front door opened with the tinkle of a bell.

"Customers! Decent people! Run! Hide!" Panicking, Miss Pendelton grabbed the young woman, shoved her in between two shelves and threw a length of cloth over her.

"Mmph! What da—"

"Good afternoon, Mrs Montgomery-Montegue! What a pleasure to see you here! What brings you to my humble shop this fine day?"

The middle-aged woman with a nose like a haughty fishing hook turned her head from left to right, surveying the shop imperiously. "Humble indeed...I have not come to a decision so far on whether anything has caught my interest. I shall have a look around and see if I have to go to London to visit a decent shop instead."

With that, she turned and glided away down the shopping aisle.

"What a bitch," came a voice from underneath the nearby piece of cloth.

"Shh!" Miss Pendelton hissed. "She's a customer!"

"So am I, ain't I?"

"Well, ehem..." Miss Pendelton blinked. She felt very confused all of a sudden. Things like this shouldn't happen! This wasn't how the world worked! Cultured, well-bred, elegant people were supposed to be the good ones, whereas crass, low-class and—shudder—badly dressed people were supposed to be the scourge of the world, and especially of her shop. Why did she suddenly feel like...?

"Well?" the young woman cut off her thoughts, turning this way and that, showing off her "dress" to the best of her ability. Miss Pendelton sincerely wished the lady's abilities were less prodigious. "What do you think?"

"Do you...do you want the lower half?"

The young woman grinned. "Do I look like it?"

Miss Pendelton's face went through various phases of exquisite torture. "Could you...please?"

"Wanna make more money of more material, do ye?"

"No! Yes! Well...that's not the point, I—"

"Miss Pendelton?" A shop assistant came rushing down the aisle. "Miss Pendelton, the vicar and two noble gentlemen are coming to the shop and—oh my! My...good...ohhh...!"

The young assistant caught sight of her "customer", and she collapsed into a faint forthwith.

Miss Pendelton sent Miss Weston a pleading look.

"All right, all right!" she grumbled. "Go show me ta yer back room and get stitchin'! If ye ain't finished in 'alf an hour, I'm gonna go out dere buck naked."

Never in her life had Miss Temperance Penelope Pendelton run so fast.

***

Ding-dong!

"Hello, everyone! We've come to—oh. No one here?"

Nobody? Grinning, Amy watched the poor vicar from behind a nearby corner. Oh boy, the poor fellow had no idea what was comin' for 'im...

"Nobody? What about me, darlin'?" came a voice from behind the vicar.

"Ah, darling!" With a beaming smile, the reverend began to turn around. "I've been looking forward to seeing you innnnggmph...."

His voice slowly trailed off at the sight of his wife. His better half had been pregnant for quite a few months now, and the gowns she had worn had been appropriately, well...practical. What she wore now, however, could not be considered practical. Or decent, for that matter.

"M-my dear?"

"Aye?" Jenny sidled towards the poor man like some nubile pagan goddess of fertility. "Somethin' ye wanna say?"

"You...you're beautiful."

Amy felt a tug at her heart, and suddenly couldn't take her eyes off the scene.

Didn't ye tell yerself dat da likes of ye and yer friends could never 'ave a 'appy end? So what's dis den?

Jenny struck a pose, face shining with bliss. "Dat's what I like ta 'ear!"

"Where are the others?" Titus enquired with a "peeping at pretty women is free entertainment" kind of expression.

Shaking off her silly thoughts, Amy straightened. That was her cue.

"Cora is still busy in da back," she said, pulling aside the curtain shielding her from the main room. "As for me..."

She stepped out into the open.

The reaction was highly satisfying to her professional pride. Titus's eyes widened. Karim turned to examine a shelf full of floral-patterned women's shawls. Patrick...

Patrick simply gazed at her cooly, raising an aristocratic eyebrow. One corner of his mouth quirked up dismissively.

Wait, what?

"Utterly useless."

What?

Amy's jaw dropped. This was Lord Patrick Day, noblest of the noble, unfailingly polite guardian of proper manners. Had he just made disparaging remarks about her dress? And worse, so much worse, was he actually resisting ogling her magnificent form? He had not even drooled a little!

Not that she cared about whether or not he liked how she looked! It was simply a matter of professional pride. Yes, professional pride!

Clenching her fists, she took a step forward to rip into the arrogant son of a bachelor. But before she could, someone beat her to it.

"By George! Useless?" The dressmaker raced past her, her eyes flickering with hellfire. "Begging your pardon, Sir, but no matter who you are, I shall not permit you to drag the reputation of my store into the mud! What, pray, about this outfit I spent considerable effort to create is not suitable?"

"Evidently," Patrick said, "because it is a lady's dress."

Amy froze.

What had he said earlier?

Useless.

Not ugly, not horrendous, not even hideous. Useless.

Something clicked in her head. No. Insults she could take. But if she thought he was up to what she thought he was up to...

Oh no, he wouldn't dare...!

When she met his eyes, he was smiling. Smiling the smile of a noble warrior standing victorious over the enemy princess. His gaze clearly conveyed the message: Wouldn't I?

"Mon dieu!" the young woman beside Amy exploded. "What sort of unreasonable man are you? You came to a modiste to acquire dresses for a ball, and now you complain because they look too good? What do you—"

Amy held up a hand.

"Would ye give us a minute?"

"W-what?"

"Would ye give us a minute, please?" Amy repeated, her eyes transfixed on Patrick, the damnable rogue!

"I won't have no customer of mine be insulted!" Hands on hips, the young dressmaker stepped closer to her, as if intending to be a human shield for her. Or maybe for her dress. "Let alone bullied in my shop!"

"Don't worry." Amy patted her shoulder, feeling slightly touched. "I know, ye're da only one who gets ta bully people in 'ere."

The young woman's face flushed. "Ehem...about earlie..."

"Don't worry. We'll chat later." Chin lifting, her gaze returned back to Patrick. "Right now, I 'ave some things ta discuss with 'is Lordship."

"But..."

"Mr Karim?" His Lordship waved a hand. "Would you do me a favour and remove all extraneous people from the room?"

"With pleasure." Striding forward, Karim, who had probably been longing for his weekly dose of manhandling people on command, manoeuvred the protesting dressmaker and her ducklings into the backroom and, shutting the door, stood in front of it, arms crossed before his chest. The vicar had long been tempted away by Jenny, and Cora was still busy dolling herself up somewhere in the back. The only people remaining were the antagonist and the audience. Amy's narrowed eyes went from Patrick to Titus and back again.

Was this some cheap revenge for him goading her earlier? This wasn't like Patrick at all. Any revenge from Lord Patrick Day should be expensive, exclusive, and with a noble pedigree. If he deigned to condescend to something so common as "revenge", that is.

And yet, here he was doing exactly that.

So simple. So petty. So...completely unlike him.

"I know what's going on," she said, thinking, I 'ave no idea what da 'ell is going on! Lord Patrick Day, White Knight Extraordinaire, seeking petty revenge at the expense of orphaned children? What da 'ell?! "If ye think ye can make me stay 'ere while ye go gallivanting off ta dat ball, ye're very much mistaken!"

"Why?" Patrick's eyebrow rose another fraction of an inch. "You see the reason behind it, do you not?"

"Don't forget that it was ye who 'ired me ta 'elp ye against dose bastards in da first place!"

"True," he allowed. "In the East End. In your own territory. But this is not the East End. This is not the place that you know back to front. This is my world, where I know the rules."

"Ye...!" He was actually doing it! He was forcing her to stay!

"Besides...like you said, I hired you. This is just a job for you. Why would it matter to you if you stayed behind today?"

Amy opened her mouth to respond—

And she didn't know what to say.

'cause normally, I wouldn't give a fig! 'cause I ain't da kind of bloody woman ta risk 'er 'ide for da bloody good of mankind, sparkly rainbows and a 'appy ever after!

Yet...

She was still here. She was going to do this. She would go with him, even if he didn't pay her a penny.

She just couldn't let him know that.

Amy lifted her chin. "Ye think ye can get rid of me any time ye wanna?"

Ye think I can look Flo and Jo into da eyes and tell dem I'm givin' up? Ye think I'm gonna let ye go alone?

His answer was calm and smooth. "The coming ball shall be held at the residence of a duke, with dozens of distinguished noblemen in attendance. The ladies accompanying gentlemen to this occasion will be the crème de la crème of British society. Their education, their accomplishments, and most importantly, their elocution, must be at the highest of standards. Especially so for any lady arriving on the arm of the heir of the House of Day." He cocked his head, staring straight at her. "Can you honestly say that applies to you?"

The nerve of...!

Amy's fists clenched. He was a bastard! An arrogant arse! And...and the worst thing of all...he was right! If she went to that ball, she would stick out like a sore thumb on a donkey's hoof! She wouldn't even get two words out before being exposed.

But she had to go. She had to! For Flo. For Jo. For the promises she'd made that she had never told anyone about. If there was a chance to put a stop to this, to make sure what had happened to Nellie would never happen to anyone...

"I'm going!" She announced. "If ye think ye can leave me behind just 'cause I ain't Miss Marvelous Fancypants, think again, Mister!"

"Can you speak and act like a lady? Like someone who would be acceptable for a gentleman to take to such an occasion? Can you show your accomplishments on the piano in front of the assembled guests? Can you talk about current topics in fashion, opera and theatre?"

Amy's hand slid into her skirts, grasping the handle of the knife that was hidden there. "I could certainly offer some opinions on 'ow ta stage a tragedy!"

One corner of his mouth curled up in a smile. "Shakespeare or Marlowe?"

Damn 'im!

"I repeat myself. Can you play the role we need?"

"Um...I..."

"Well? Can you?" His voice was softer now, almost...pitying.

That only made Amy want to punch him more!

Dragging in a breath, she forced out the inevitable syllable that was the only answer. "No."

Darn it! Why is 'e doing dis? We came 'ere together ta 'elp dose kids! And now 'e's shutting me out! Wanting revenge is one thing, but letting others suffer for it...!

She lowered her head in anger and shame. There was a pause. Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, his voice broke the silence.

"Well..." He gave a regretful sigh. "Then I fear you must remain at the vicarage or the Wetherston estate. Unless..."

He let the sentence trail off into nothingness.

"Unless?" Amy's head jerked up, and her eyes met his—something she instantly regretted when she caught sight of the deceptively innocent smile on his beautiful face. In that moment she realized that his plans might not be as simple as keeping her away from the duke's ball. And she also realized that perhaps, just perhaps, it hadn't been such a good idea to spend the last few days teasing him with tales of imaginary brothels. Patrick's eyes glittered with devious anticipation.

"Well, Miss Amy...if you want to come to the ball, there's always one role you could slip into..."

------------------------------------------------------------

My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

Today, we shall take a little excursion into the history of names. Anyone who sleeps in history class, take this wonderful opportunity for a little nap, please ;-)

The name of Montgomery-Montegue is not the kind of hyphenated name we are used to from modern times, which occur when a child takes the last name of both the mother and the father due to gender equality. Rather, some old British landed gentry had so-colled double-barrelled names (two surnames connected by a hyphen) or even triple or quadruple-barrelled, in an effort to point out all their noble ancestors within one breath. The British nobleman with the most beautifully barrelled name in history is most likely the British Army officer Captain Leone Sextus Denys Oswolf Fraudatifilius Tollemache-Tollemache de Orellana Plantagenet Tollemache-Tollemache.

And no, that is not made up.

Yours Truly

Sir Rob DeLa Robster-Robbillistan Robellius