Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(90)

She rose to her feet. “Flora? What are you doing here?” She helped unload the parcels from the maid’s arms.

Once unburdened, Flora dropped her gaze. “They’ve s-sacked me.”

“Sacked you? Oh, no.”

“It’s what I deserved. Her grace let me go without a reference, and I haven’t any way to find a new p-post. I thought, perhaps if I readied you for the ball tonight—so’s everyone was dazzled by your beauty, and it made it to the papers—maybe someone would hire me anyhow.” She grabbed Pauline’s arm. “Please, Miss Simms. It’s you who’d be d-doing me a favor.”

“Flora, I’d like to help. But I don’t know. Perhaps you could dress Lady Rycliff or Lady Payne.”

Flora shook her head. “It has to be you. I want to see you do this, Miss Simms. You worked so hard all week. We all d-did. And then there’s this. It was made for you. It won’t fit anyone else.”

From the largest box, she withdrew a breathtaking flash of silver.

Oh goodness.

The gown seemed to be at least three-fourths skirt. The bodice was small and tight, boned for stiffness and fitted with the shortest puffs of sleeves. The skirts were a cloud. A great shimmering, airy, fluffy cloud of tulle overlaying satin. Little sparkling things were affixed to the tulle by the thousands. It truly was a thing of wonder.

“Oh, Pauline,” Susanna said. “If any man can look at you in that and not simply fall to his knees before you . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“He’ll eat his own hat.” Minerva clapped with glee. “Do it. Do it for every young woman who ever felt scorned or overlooked. This is your chance, Pauline.”

Pauline ran a touch over the beautiful silver fabric, spangled with seed pearls and tiny crystals. She didn’t need to prove her worth to anyone. She didn’t need a lavish wardrobe or the wealth that accompanied the title of duchess.

But she needed to wear this gown, just this once. It was made for her. Literally.

“Very well,” she said. “Let’s do it.”

“One question,” said Susanna. “Do we tell the men about this?”

“No,” said Minerva stoutly. “Colin will steal all the credit. This is going to be our grand success. We’ll show everyone what Spindle Cove ladies can do.”

Pauline wasn’t so certain about that “success” part. She still doubted that she could ever blend in at such an event.

But after tonight, she could go home with her pride. No one could say she wasn’t brave enough to try.

“Corinthian.” As the carriage rolled up before the Prince Regent’s grand residence, the word just rolled from her tongue.

“What is it, Pauline?”

“Those columns on the portico. They’re Corinthian.”

Amazing. This week in London had taught her the strangest things. What an odd assortment of lessons she would bring home with her.

She still hadn’t learned how to hide her anxiety, however. It helped that Susanna and Minerva were clearly nervous, too.

“We’re not much good with balls, either,” Minerva confided. “Perhaps we should have warned you beforehand.”

“It’s all right,” said Susanna. “We’ll all go in as a group.”

As they made their way into the entrance hall, Susanna—the tallest of them—craned her neck to look over the crowd.

“Oh, drat,” she said. “They’re checking names against a list.”

That wasn’t good news. Pauline knew she’d been on the list earlier that week. But today’s gossip had no doubt removed her from it. Or perhaps moved her to another list—one written in red and headed with the words, Not to be admitted under any circumstance.

“You could give another name,” Minerva suggested. “You could be me. I don’t mind. Everyone will just assume I’ve removed my spectacles for once and undergone a thrilling transformation.”

“No.” Pauline smiled. “It’s kind of you, but I can’t. I must be here as myself or not at all.”

When the crowd shifted, she quietly remained in place and let her friends drift away. If this evening proceeded as disastrously as she suspected it might, she didn’t want Lady Rycliff and Lady Payne to be tainted by association. They’d brought her this far, but she must face the rest on her own.

Surely there was another way into the ballroom. There must be a smaller passageway for the staff. She was a servant; she could find it.

After a few moments’ surreptitious investigation, she turned down a narrow corridor. She passed near a clashing, steamy din that must have been the palace kitchen. When she spied a footman returning with a tray of empty glasses, she knew she needed to proceed in the direction he’d come.

Pauline traversed a passageway with stairs. At the top, she listened for the sounds of chatter and music. Turning toward the noise, she rounded a corner . . .

And reeled to a halt when she nearly collided with a finely dressed man.

“I’m sorry,” she started to apologize. “I—”

When she swept a look from his boots to his face, she gasped.

Oh, bollocks.

Fitted tailcoat. White gloves. An angry red line running down his left cheek.

“Lord Delacre.”

Griff had been right—that wound would probably leave a scar. Not a disfiguring one. Just a thin, indelible reminder.