For a split second Megan thought it was Rollo, but then she saw they belonged to someone only too reaclass="underline" Greville. She drew back out of sight as he walked down the aisle, then over to an ornate tomb against the wall opposite. Carved from white marble, and topped by cupids and angels ascending toward heaven, it was the most splendid resting place in the church. He halted on a brass memorial that was set into the floor in front of it. Dressed in a pine-green coat and pale gray riding breeches, he was bareheaded and had his top hat and riding crop clasped behind him. There was so sign of Rupert, and Megan presumed they must have elected to go their separate ways for the ride on the Downs.
Greville turned toward the altar, paused to glance back toward the porch, then took a little jeweled snuffbox from his pocket. He removed something from it, and slipped whatever it was into a hiding place in the wall behind the altar. Then he left the church.
Megan had to investigate, so she descended the steps from the gallery into the nave, and hurried first to the tomb, being careful to step around the memorial set into the floor. The inscription in the costly white marble read:
IN LOVING MEMORY OF ARABELLA, LADY SETON, PATIENT WIFE OF SIR HENRY SETON, ADORED MOTHER OF GREVILLE. BOTH 14lh JULY 1753 DIED 29lh APRIL 1788.
When she then went to look in the wall behind the altar, she found a loose stone behind which there was a space containing sprigs of mistletoe. Some were clearly years old, but one very fresh indeed.
Chapter 12
After crossing the Steine to Donaldson's Circulating Library, outside which there was a considerable gaggle of carriages, curricles, phaetons, and gigs, to say nothing of the ladies and gentlemen who had walked there, it was only a few doors around the corner into St. James's Street to Mrs. Fiske's premises. The fact that the fashion repository was very select indeed, with clientele from only the superior levels of society, was the second reason Megan felt so daunted; the first was Greville's presence at her side.
The walk from Radcliffe House had been accomplished with the minimum conversation, for which Megan did not really know whether to be relieved or not. His public conduct toward her could not exactly have been faulted, but then neither could it have been praised; the simple fact was that Sir Greville Seton was not an easy man, and she was fast concluding that his unmarried state was no accident. To begin with, she could not help noticing how he kept the brim of his top hat low, and averted his head if he saw anyone who might recognize him. He clearly had the unbelievable vanity to think that every unmarried lady in creation had designs upon his person and his fortune.
It was a shame he was so difficult, for he really was exceedingly handsome, and no fault could be found in his appearance, which was all that a gentleman of style and fashion should be. Today he wore a gray Polish greatcoat with an astrakhan collar, a top hat that was utter perfection, tasseled Hessian boots with gold spurs, and he carried an ivory-handled cane in a tightly gloved hand.
Beside such a paragon, she felt very inferior and insignificant indeed, so much so that she almost felt tempted to walk a respectful six paces behind!
But as they passed through Mrs. Fiske's tasteful chocolate-brown door, which was fixed with a discreet knot of holly and was set between two fine bow windows containing a display of hats and bonnets, Greville ceased to be uppermost in her thoughts. It was agreeably warm inside after the bracing air of the street. A fine coal fire glowed in a hearth that had a polished brass fender and blue-and-white Delft tiles, and there was a sumptuous smell of costly materials: velvets, silk, exquisite Indian muslins, and richly colored winter merino. Beautiful clothes of every description hung haphazardly from a curtain rail that ran around every wall except by the windows, and there were several tall floor-standing mirrors in which one's appearance could be admired or lamented.
Two ladies, one tall and thin, the other short and buxom, were at an oak counter examining a selection of lace trimmings that had been brought for them by a young man wearing a cream coat and blue-spotted neck cloth. Female voices came from behind a maroon velvet curtain that was drawn across one alcove next to the fireplace, while in the other there was a sofa where a lady was turning the pages of a catalog of the latest designs. Her face had the dry look of one who had failed to protect her complexion sufficiently from the rigors of the Madras sun, and lolling beside her was a wheezy pug with a jeweled collar that glittered in the light from the windows. The only other gentleman was a high-ranking cavalry officer who Megan guessed was the pug lady's husband.
The alcove curtain was jerked aside, and Mrs. Fiske emerged with a figured velvet pelisse over her arm. She was a severe woman of about forty-five in a charcoal gown and starched muslin bonnet, and Megan's heart sank still further at the way she snapped her fingers at the young male assistant, who immediately bore the pelisse through another door at the rear of the premises. The lady whose garment it was came out of the alcove with her maid, who was still endeavoring to arrange the long gauze scarf of her mistress's jockey bonnet, and the cavalry officer gallantly opened the front door for them to go out to the carriage waiting at the curb across the street.
Mrs. Fiske came over to Greville with an ingratiating smile. "Why, Sir Greville, what an unexpected honor," she declared, then bestowed a withering glance upon Megan's hat and cloak.
Greville explained his errand. "I am charged by my aunt, Lady Evangeline, to bring her companion to you to be fitted for some new clothes. I believe you know what is required?"
A companion was to be fitted for clothes? Shocked eyes turned upon Megan, to whom it seemed that even the pug dog gasped. Mrs. Fiske's gaze was impenetrable as she inclined her head. "Ah, yes, I received her ladyship's message last night, and everything is in readiness. Sir Greville, if you will take a seat, I will attend to Miss, er…?"
"Mortimer," Megan supplied, hoping her face wasn't as aflame with embarrassment as it felt.
"This way, if you please, Miss Mortimer." Mrs. Fiske returned to the alcove, and held the curtain aside for Megan to go inside, then hurried away, leaving Megan alone inside.
Megan was glad of the privacy. This was an ordeal, not a pleasure, and the sooner it was over, the better she would feel. She glanced around. There was an uncomfortable wrought-iron chair with a pink satin cushion, and a cheval glass that looked as if it might once have graced a French chateau. The only garment was a midnight-blue evening gown that had been tossed almost carelessly over the chair. Made of sequined gauze over watered silk, it was one of the most beautiful gowns Megan had ever seen. If only it were there in case it would do for Lady Evangeline Radcliffe's new companion! Megan touched the glittering sequins on the low-cut bodice, and imagined herself dancing in it at tomorrow night's Christmas bal masque at the Old Ship. The gauze and silk were exquisitely matched, the sequins must have taken an age to stitch, and the craftsmanship was of matchless quality. Why, Queen Charlotte herself would not be ashamed of such a gown.
The curtain was jerked aside again, and Mrs. Fiske returned with various clothes over her arm. She hung them one by one on a rail, and then turned to cast a knowledgeable eye over Megan's figure. "Yes, Lady Evangeline was right, you and Miss Holcroft are indeed the same size," she declared, and began to remove Megan's hat and cloak.