Tag: The Dressmaker’s Secret Earl

Hetty here, abigail to the Honorable Miss Olivia Fontenoy. And do I have tales to tell!

I may not have a lot of book-learning, but I know my letters and I can see past the end of my nose. I’ve been Miss Fontenoy’s abigail ever since she left the schoolroom, and there’s something going on she doesn’t want her mother to know about or my name isn’t Harriet Burdock.

How can I tell? There’s signs. For one thing, she’s got a duke all but hanging out for her—she’s rich as a nabob, though she’s no beauty. Well-enough looking. But that Duke of Hartland—blimey! He’s a catch. I hear there’s a trail of broken hearts behind him. And he keeps a high-flying mistress, so the word is below stairs. But he’s all done up. Pockets to let.

Doesn’t matter that half the come-outs in London are mad for him, though. Miss Olivia won’t give him the time of day. Oh, she goes along with things—to keep peace with her matchmaking Mama, a mushroom who’s wants a duchess for a daughter. But I can tell Miss O’s just not interested.

Something else is in her mind. Something or someone. Maybe both. She goes out of an evening saying she’s off with Lady Mariana when I know that’s not true. She hasn’t told me everything, but it’d be a trick for her to come and go without I know at least some of what she’s up to. I heard her tell the jarvey one night to take her to the King’s Theatre. But she wasn’t dressed to sit in the box and watch those Italian singers screeching in that way they have.

And then—and here’s the real on dit as the quality say—I found a mask that would cover her whole face tucked into the pocket of her evening cloak. What was it for? I didn’t ask her. Not my place. If she wants to show herself at a masquerade where the scaff and raff make merry who am I to judge? I just put the mask back where I found it, thinking I better get my own story straight in case Lady Ambrose (she married the viscount—or her fortune did, anyways) starts asking questions.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to stir up trouble for Miss Olivia. She treats me fair. Gives me the odd douceur to keep me quiet. But I can see she’s heading for disaster.

I may be out here, but my guess is that the quiet marquess, that Lord Lewiston, is who she really has her sights on. Unless he steps up, though, he won’t stand a chance against Lady Ambrose shoving Miss Olivia into the duke’s arms.

And me? Would I rather be abigail to a duchess or a marchioness? It’s all the same to me, so long as my wages are paid. But right now, it’s anyone’s game. I’ll just keep my ear to the ground.