Page 115 of A Murder at Kew Gardens

"You will not cry on the silk."

"No, madame."

A small figure appeared in the doorway, lips trembling. "What about me?"

"I have not forgotten you either, Lady Petunia." Madame Delacroix carried the last box forward herself, which was, I understood, the highest honor she had to bestow. "What do you think?"

Petunia's gown was a smaller version of Chrissie's, down to the last ribbon. She put out one finger and touched the hem as though it might dissolve. "Ooh. It's so pretty."

"There are gowns for your other sisters as well. All made, all waiting."

"Petunia." I crouched to her level. "You must keep Snowball away from your gown, sweetheart."

"Snowball?" Madame Delacroix asked.

"My cat."

"Oh. No, no, no, no, no. No cat comes within a mile of my creations."

Petunia blinked up at her. "I'll keep her in my room and make certain she doesn't escape."

As opposed to the dozen times a day Snowball escaped. But Petunia said it with such solemnity that I did not have the heart to argue.

"Now, Lady Rosalynd, we shall require space. A great deal of space."

"The nursery, Rosie," Chrissie suggested. "It's standing empty."

"Parfaitement."

I sent word to Mrs. Bateman to have the nursery cleared and cleaned. "Shall we take refreshment in the drawing room while we wait?"

Madame Delacroix, her assistants, and every sister I possessed settled themselves around the tea things.

"I have closed my shop," the modiste announced while sipping her tea. "I have brought all my girls. For two days, we do not sleep, we do not eat, we do not stop until every stitch is perfection." She turned to her retinue. "Is it not so?"

"Oui, madame." A chorus, delivered without hesitation, from six young women who clearly knew better than to disagree.

Madame Delacroix and her seamstresses worked a miracle in the nursery. She even produced shoes—white silk, sized to my foot, appearing out of nowhere on the second afternoon in the manner of a conjuror producing a dove.

So when my wedding day arrived, I was as magnificently dressed as any bride could wish. As I stood before my looking glass staring at my reflection, I couldn’t believe what I saw. I had truly never expected to wed. And yet, in a short while, I would be marrying the most maddening, autocratic, beautiful man in all of England. Downstairs, my entire family waited. All but Grandmother, who had effectively taken up residence at Steele House and had been supervising its staff for three days with a thoroughness that I suspected Milford was privately enjoying.

Tilly fastened my mother’s pearl necklace at my throat. "It's time, milady."

"Yes. Of course." I turned to face her. "Thank you, Tilly. I could not have done any of this without you. You'll be there, won't you?"

"I'll be waiting in the duchess's chambers after the ceremony, milady, to help you change."

Madame Delacroix had thought of that too. She had produced a silk gown for the wedding breakfast the exact shade of my eyes. She had presented it with the observation that a bride ought to be splendid on her wedding day more than once.

"At the ceremony as well,” I said to Tilly. “You, and Honeycutt, and Mrs. Bateman. I wrote the invitations myself."

Tilly's chin came up, and her eyes were bright. "Yes, milady."

“Go,” I said to her. “You need to arrive at Steele House ahead of me.”

She curtsied and rushed out the door.

I drew a breath, walked out of my bedchamber, and took hold of the banister at the top of the stairs. While going down, I prayed I would not pitch forward and land at Cosmos's feet, which meant I missed every expression on the faces below me.