The Electrifying Exploits of the English Three. Elysabeth Williams
gentlemen back into the club–now transformed into a gentleman’s dream, including looser women, burlesque shows, gambling, cards, and booze. Men could see their wives safely home and return to the street on the opposite side of the grand building with no one the wiser. The place was always full, nearly twenty-four hours a day. Though most were not privy to such information, and the men who attended were sworn to secrecy from all women, Jillian knew. She’d known from the start, when she was just entering society and beginning to decline suitors. Eliza and Miriam knew the rumors too, since she had been working in such close quarters with them for so long.
Most people thought the name of the establishment was fictitious and made on the whimsy of Jillian’s young mind. However, Jillian knew the truth. Miss Merriweather had been a maiden who died in childbirth. All because of Mr. Johnsworth. Jillian’s knowledge of the girl frightened the wits out of her father, and to keep his name and reputation spotless, he bent over backward for his daughter. She claimed she would never have reason to use the information, as long as he allowed her to live on her own without argument, and to repent for his sins, to keep Miss Merriweather’s remaining family from ever needing anything for as long as they lived.
Jillian arrived at the dressmaker’s and stepped out onto the curb with her footman’s help. The owner all but fell over herself to greet her at the door.
“Miss Johnsworth! What a delightful surprise. What may I do to help you?”
Jillian usually hated the celebrity status she had acquired over the years, but sometimes it was useful in finding out information. She smiled sweetly and responded, “Why Mrs. Smythe, I’m looking to be fitted for a gown for the end of season celebration.”
“Oh, of course. I have the perfect thing for you, my dear.” The squat woman hurried to the back of the building to gather an armload of random silk dresses. Jillian looked around the shop while the woman fought to manage all of them at once.
“Mrs. Smythe, have you been busy with ball preparations?”
“Yes, dear, I have. There’s been a last minute flurry of activity.”
“I do hope my request won’t cause undue stress,” Jillian said with mock concern.
“Heavens no, Miss Johnsworth. I would drop everyone’s dress for yours. You’ve been my customer since you were knee high. I’d never think of refusing you.” She returned to the front room with a half dozen dresses.
“I wonder who’ll be there,” Jillian pondered, hoping to bait Mrs. Smythe into conversation. “Has anyone of interest visited you? Anyone peculiar?”
“There’ve been a few who haven’t been seen since earlier on in the season. Most have either been ill or–” She looked around as if there were someone else in the room and lowered her voice. “–otherwise occupied.” She winked at Jillian knowingly. It was the talk of the town that more than one lady had been ushered out of the city to recuperate in the country, when it was already well known they were with child.
Jillian let the woman measure her and pull out various dresses from the pile to only shake her head, grumble and pick out another.
“Now that I think of it, a very unfamiliar face did happen into the shop just last week. Very strange woman,” Mrs. Smythe said.
“Oh? Perhaps you just didn’t recognize her,” Jillian urged.
“No, dear. I can recall anyone who crosses my threshold. I take pride in the ability to recall not only faces, but sizes and color preferences for every lady. It’s my job as a seamstress.” She puffed out her chest as she ushered Jillian behind a screen to undress.
“I most certainly didn’t mean to imply otherwise. It’s just that the city is quite enormous now. I thought it might be possible she was someone you didn’t know.”
Mrs. Smythe tossed a deep olive green dress over the screen. “No worries at all, Miss Jillian. Let me know when you’re ready for buttoning.”
Jillian stepped out of her own dress and donned the ball gown. “Ready.”
Mrs. Smythe rounded the screen and tugged and pulled at various spots, then buttoned the very ornate dress.
“Can you tell me who this mystery woman was?” Jillian asked, walking the mirror.
“She was an eccentric one, if I may be blunt. A countess I have never heard of.”
“A countess? Rather big title for someone who doesn’t frequent balls.” Jillian pretended to be shocked.
“Exactly. She was very off-kilter. She wanted a very plain gown. She even refused gigot sleeves, can you believe? No beads or lace. Very simplistic.”
Jillian listened impatiently while the seamstress prattled on about the countess’s choice of dress. She interrupted, “Do you think it’s safe to assume she’ll be at the ball? I’d love to find out more about her.”
Mrs. Smythe blinked and stared at Jillian as if she’d forgotten the original conversation, lost in a bland description of an even blander dress.
“I believe–yes, she’ll certainly be there. She specifically said she would attend, and it would be most memorable. I’ve not a clue what she meant. Moreover, I might add–if I should be so bold–she was very disrespectful to my help and to me. Very bitter, short-tempered, sour woman. It’s no surprise she’s remained in the country, given her obvious distaste toward those beneath her station. I know too many people and have been here far too long to concern myself with bigotry. I know our lives are different, but there’s no reason for her downright hatred. It makes me wonder why she’d choose the end of the season to share her bad temper. There’s no reason to go about attempting to make things memorable. Baron Willoughby’s balls are always memorable.”
Jillian snorted and tried to cover her laughter. Mrs. Smythe sputtered and turned beet red as she toddled off into the back of the building. Jillian remained while the dressmaker hid her obvious embarrassment. She knew why the ball would be memorable. The countess wanted to be as close to the bridge as possible–if that was her plan. Baron Willoughby lived within blocks of the great structure. Jillian just wished she knew why the Tower Bridge was the target. It was very peculiar indeed.
Mrs. Smythe returned–along with her composure, Jillian noticed–and began pulling tighter on the corset, while Jillian choked back her amusement and mused. This was a huge piece of the puzzle. She wondered if the woman would attempt her mad scheme before or after the ball. Jillian grew impatient to leave. Oblivious, Mrs. Smythe continued to tailor the green velvet monster Jillian had paid little attention to in the first place.
She turned slightly and looked in the full-length mirror. The gown did look stunning, if she did say so herself. Though short in the train, it would be perfect for dancing. The beading around the waist was delicate and the scooped neckline was just low enough for modesty’s sake, yet still noticeable. The corseted front sported a single green satin bow, laced from her neckline to the end of the long corset, around her hips. If need be, she could pull it with one tug and be free. It was beautiful, but practical. She would turn heads. ...or a head, she thought. She envisioned Devin Dashing at the ball, dancing with her.
She scoffed at herself and urged the dressmaker to hurry so she could attend to other engagements. After re-dressing and paying, she made delivery arrangements to her townhouse and left the shop with haste.
Jillian walked to the nearby park, sat on a bench away from the foot traffic and pulled the communications device from her handbag. After twisting it to life, she clicked it onto her ear and waited while the static tone sounded.
“Hello, Jillian,” Eliza said on the other end.
“The countess’s presence has been confirmed for the ball.”
“Excellent. Where are you?”
“I just left Mrs. Smythe’s shop.”
“Oh! Of course. What a perfect place for information. Did she have anything pertinent to add?”
“She