Page 46 of Immortal Rose

I did. It fit the Brothers Longmount somehow.

“Is Brigadier Fleming’s pet?” I asked, remembering his essence.

“He cares for her now, but she was Lord Foxcourt’s prized princess,” Felicity said, her voice softening. “You’ll never meet a stranger, more spoilt creature, I’m afraid—sniping and biting everyone who spares her a look she doesn’t like.”

“She’s better mannered than some people I know, then,” I said.

Felicity laughed. “You say that, but if she gets out, she’ll chase deliverymen halfway down the street until they refuse to return. And she won’t eat unless it’s from the palm of your hand and you give her a little tune. Have you ever heard of such a thing? Fleming is the only one who’ll do it, and she doesn’t seem fond of his singing—though I can’t say many of us are.”

I found my opinion of the butler warming considerably, despite the way he’d acted the night before. “Is there a song she likes in particular?”

“She seems to enjoy the old fairy ballads,” Felicity said with a shake of her head. “The more depressing, the better.”

A breeze snuck through the window, ruffling the bed curtains. Felicity turned to me. “Tried to escape last night, did you?”

I paled. “No, of course not—”

“I was only teasing,” she said, latching it. “It’s an old house and it seems to have its moods. You’ll notice these things after a while—the way the walls hoot like an owl when the wind comes from the south, the drawings on the old nursery’s walls, that if you stand in front of a particular door on the third floor and whisper it’ll carry all the way down to the entry . . . and then there’s the fox family that likes to use the jib door as a den. Lord Foxcourt used to say that if kits emerged in the summer it’s a sign of a good year to come.”

My smile strained. I wouldn’t be here long enough to notice half of what she’d mentioned. I searched for a clock. “It must be so late . . .”

“Hardly, given your adventures last night,” Felicity said. Her eyes softened with worry. “You’re certain you’re well?”

“I’m in one piece,” I assured her. “Though I feel terribly guilty about the dress . . . I promise I’ll replace it.”

Felicity drew back. “Of course not. Everything in the trousseau was purchased for your use. It’s all yours.”

“I beg your bloody pardon,” I sputtered. “Trousseau?”

“That’s what it would be called, wouldn’t it?” Felicity began, suddenly fretful. “I’ve been studying Miss Mannerly’s Guide for Proper Ladies for a character, and the wardrobe was referred to that way.”

“I think it is more commonly referred to that way for brides,” I managed to get out.

Felicity nodded, reaching into her apron’s pocket for a piece of foolscap and a nub of a pencil, quickly making a note of it.

“Felicity,” I began, “exactly how many dresses do I have at my disposal?”

“Only a handful, I’m afraid,” Felicity said, restoring her paper and pencil to her apron. “Now that I know your measurements, I’ve sent word to the modiste to order a few more practical options in darker colors—I thought it wise, given you’ll be working with oils.”

“And riding in exploding coaches,” I said.

She snorted. “Speaking of which, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve asked her to remake that lovely blue dress. It suited you so well.”

It really had been lovely. “Here’s to hoping it survives longer than the last one, then.”

Felicity made the sign of the holy wheel and winked.

“Who is the modiste?” I asked.

“Madame Audette—do you know of her?”

She had been a mainstay on Bridle Street for decades, even crafting gowns for the late Queen. Passing her shop had been like stealing a glimpse of heaven.

“Yes,” I said wryly. “I think I’ve heard of her.”

I was only surprised Foxcourt had gone to such a renowned dressmaker for his prisoner.

Felicity crossed the room to the large armoire situated between the two windows. Turning the brass key in its lock, she threw the doors open with a soft hum and began her assessment.