When She Was Wicked

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Once She Was Tempted

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This is a dpg exclusive.

For Mike

Because when the waitress asks

if we’d like dessert

and I say I shouldn’t,

you order my favorite

(hot fudge brownie sundae)

with two spoons.

And for a thousand other reasons.

London, 1815

E
xtortion” was an ugly word. It put one in mind of a villain who fleeced the pockets and slandered the names of hapless victims.

What Miss Anabelle Honeycote did to support her family was most certainly not
that.

Perhaps her actions met the crudest definition of the word, but she preferred “accepting coin in exchange for the solemn promise to safeguard secrets.” Much less nefarious, and a girl had to sleep at night.

The primary location in which Anabelle harvested secrets was not a seedy alley or gaming hell, but a small reputable dress shop situated on Bond Street where she
worked as a seamstress. Mama would be appalled if she knew about the money-making scheme, but, truth be told, Anabelle would have extorted money from the Archbishop himself to pay for Dr. Conwell’s visits. He was Mama’s only glimmer of hope—and he wasn’t cheap.

Someone in their household had to be practical. That someone was Anabelle.

She wiped her sleeve across her damp brow and swept aside the muslin curtain that led to the workroom in the back of Mrs. Smallwood’s dress shop. Bolts of fabric stacked neatly upon shelves lining one long wall created a colorful patchwork that never failed to tickle Anabelle’s imagination. While some material would become serviceable underclothes for a spinster aunt, some might be destined for the train of a duchess’s gown, lovely enough to grace the Queen’s Presentation Chamber. Anabelle liked thinking such a leap in social standing—from modest workroom to St. James’s Palace—was possible. Not that she had grand ambitions, but being pinned to her current station in life like a butterfly to an entomologist’s collection rankled.

She glided past a large table laden with dress parts set out like the interlocking pieces of a puzzle. The disembodied sleeves, collars, and skirt panels lay lifeless, waiting for her to transform them into something vibrant—something more than the sum of its parts. After all, anyone could make a functional dress. The challenge was to create a garment that felt magical—the fabric texture, the gown’s lines, and the embellishments blending in perfect harmony.

Though occasionally, she mused—plucking a simple yet elegant white silk ball gown from the rack of her current projects—a dress required
less
rather than
more
.
The creation she held, Miss Starling’s newest ball gown, was a fine example. Anabelle twirled it in front of her, checking for loose threads and lint. Satisfied, she walked briskly through the workroom and into the shop’s sitting area with the gown draped over her arm. When she held it up for Miss Starling to see, the young woman’s face lit with pleasure.

“Why, Miss… Honeycut, is it?”

“Honeycote.”

Miss Starling gave a smile that didn’t reach her deep blue eyes. “How talented you are. This gown is magnificent. I must try it on.”

Anabelle nodded demurely and led the beautiful woman toward the dressing room located at the end of the shop away from the front door. Miss Starling’s mother hopped up from the chair where she’d been sipping tea and toddled behind, calling out over her daughter’s shoulder, “Is that the dress for the Hopewell ball? Gads. It looks awfully
plain
, darling. Money is no object. Have the girl add a few bows or some trim, for goodness’ sake.”

Anabelle opened her mouth to object but caught herself. If her clients wanted frippery, who was she to deny their wish? Mrs. Smallwood had taught her the importance of pleasing her clients, no matter how garish the outcome. At least she knew her employer valued her skill and dedication.

The problem was that even though Anabelle toiled at the shop day after day, she earned a meager ten shillings a week. If she only needed to pay for her own food and lodging at a boardinghouse, her salary would be enough. But Mama was too ill to move from the small rooms they let, and her medicine was dear.

It had been three months since Anabelle had last written an anonymous note demanding money in exchange for her silence. On that occasion, Lady Bonneville had paid thirty pounds to prevent the details of her torrid affair with her handsome butler—who was half her age—from appearing on the pages of London’s most widely circulated gossip rag.

The outspoken viscountess was one of her favorite customers, and Anabelle disliked having to threaten the woman; however, the money she’d paid had seen Anabelle’s family through the spring months. Mama’s cough even seemed a little less violent after she inhaled the medicated vapor Dr. Conwell prescribed. But their money had run out, and a stack of bills sat upon the table in their tiny parlor.

Yes, it was time to act again. Papa, God rest his soul, had been a gentleman, and her parents had raised her properly. Though her scheme was legally and morally wrong, she wasn’t entirely without scruples. She adhered to a code of conduct, embodied by her List of Nevers. She’d written the list before issuing her first demand note nearly three years ago:

And finally, most importantly:

This last rule was prudent in order to avoid detection but was also designed to prevent her from having to engage in hypocrisy, which she found unpalatable in the extreme.

Just running through the List in her mind calmed her. As usual, she’d listen intently this morning for any gossip that might be useful.

The most fertile ground in the shop was the dressing room, which was really just a large section of the shop’s front room partitioned off by folding screens draped with fabric, providing clients ample privacy. The centerpiece of the dressing area was a round dais which had been cleverly painted to resemble a cake with pink icing. Anabelle’s mouth always watered at the sight of the wretched thing, and since she’d had nothing more than a piece of toast for breakfast, today was no exception. A large, rectangular ottoman in one corner provided a perch for mothers, sisters, friends, companions, and the like. Miss Starling’s mother made a beeline for it, and Anabelle helped the younger woman remove her fashionable walking gown and wriggle into the new dress.

The small puffs of sleeves barely skimmed the debutante’s shoulders, showing the lovely line of her neck to advantage, just as Anabelle had hoped. Some adjustments to the hem were necessary, but she could manage them in an hour or so. Miss Starling stepped onto the platform and smoothed the skirt down her waist and over her hips.

The rapturous expression on Mrs. Starling’s face told Anabelle she’d changed her mind about the need for
embellishments. The matron slapped a gloved hand to her chest and gave a little cry. “Huntford will find you irresistible.”

Miss Starling huffed as though vexed by the utter obviousness of the statement.

Anabelle’s face heated at the mention of the Duke of Huntford. He’d been in the shop once, last year, with his mistress. His dark hair, heavy-lidded green eyes, and athletic physique had flustered the unflappable Mrs. Smallwood, causing her to make an error when tallying his bill.

He was the sort of man who could make a girl forget to carry her tens.

“The duke will be mine before the end of the Season, Mama.”

Anabelle knelt behind Miss Starling, reached for her basket, and began pinning up the hem. As she glanced at her client’s reflection in the dressing room mirror, she avoided her own, knowing her appearance wouldn’t hold up well in comparison.

Miss Starling’s blonde locks had been coaxed into a fetching Grecian knot at the nape of her neck, and her eyes sparkled with satisfaction. The white gown was beautiful enough for Aphrodite.

Anabelle pushed her spectacles, which were forever sliding down her nose, back into position. Kneeling in the shadow of the Season’s incomparable beauty, Anabelle was all but invisible—highly depressing, but for the best.

Mrs. Starling was nodding vigorously. “When we passed Huntford earlier, he couldn’t take his eyes off of you. There is not a miss on the marriage mart who rivals your beauty or grace, two virtues sorely lacking in his household, I might add. It was very charitable of you to
befriend his sisters—and clever, too. An excellent excuse to visit and show him what a fine influence you’d be as a sister-in-law.” Mrs. Starling fanned herself and rambled on. “The sisters are quite homely, are they not? Gads, the one with the freakishly enormous forehead—”

“Lady Olivia,” Miss Starling offered helpfully.

“—bounded out of the bookstore like a disobedient puppy. And the younger girl with the wild, orange hair—”

“Lady Rose.”

“—is so meek I don’t believe I’ve ever heard her string two words together. Don’t ask that one about the weather unless you’ve a pair of forceps to pull a reply out of her. What a shame! Especially since the duke is the model of graciousness and propriety.”

The last comment made Anabelle stab her index finger with a pin. The devilishly attractive duke a paragon of good behavior? She’d seen the lacy undergarments he’d purchased for his mistress. They weren’t the sort of things one wore beneath church clothes.

Anabelle sat back on her heels to better gauge the evenness of the silk flounced hem. It was perfect. Since the conversation was growing interesting, however, she clucked her tongue and fiddled with the flounce a bit more.

Miss Starling smiled smugly. “Huntford needs a wife who will help him ease his awkward sisters into polite society, and he shouldn’t dither. When I went riding with Lady Olivia last week, she all but confided that she’s developed a tendre for the duke’s stable master.”

“No!” Mrs. Starling sucked in a breath, and her ample bosom rose to within inches of her chin. “What did she say?”

Miss Starling pressed her lips together as though she
meant to barricade the secret. Anabelle tried to make herself smaller, more insignificant, if that were possible. Finally, Miss Starling’s words whooshed out. “Well, Olivia said she’d met with him on several occasions…
unchaperoned
.”

“The devil you say!”