“Jenkins has done wonders with your gown.” Jane eyed Maggie’s muslin walking dress from across the breakfast table the following morning. “Didn’t I tell you? A stitch or two here, a bit of ribbon there, et voilà!”

Maggie cast a brief glance downward. Jane’s dresser, while no skilled seamstress, was a dab hand at making minor alterations. She’d taken in Maggie’s three-year-old white muslin in only a few strategic places, and now, instead of billowing about her like a shapeless sack, it skimmed softly over her curves. “It certainly fits better. Though I’m afraid no amount of ribbon can disguise how thoroughly out of fashion it is.”

“Indeed. It is very plain. And not a single flounce. But the fabric is exquisite, and in that shade of white your complexion fairly glows. Who made it for you originally? Mme. Dupin, I expect. She was all the rage during your last visit. She’s sold up, you know. Ran off to the continent with a married lover. At least, that was the gossip at the time.” Jane buttered a slice of toast. “Perhaps Jenkins can alter a few of your other dresses?” she suggested before taking a bite.

Maggie was tempted. Whatever she ordered at the modiste this afternoon wouldn’t be ready for a week or more. It would be lovely to have something to wear in the meantime. If only her own happiness were the sole consideration! She sighed. “It’s good of you to offer, Jane, but I dare not accept. Bessie’s been in high dudgeon from the moment Jenkins set foot into my dressing room. I’ve spent half the morning trying to soothe her injured feelings.”

“How very territorial the two of them are.” Jane laughed. “Like a pair of old cats. Well, never mind. I expect that Madame Clothilde will have a few dresses ready-made that you might purchase along with the rest of your order.”

They planned to visit the modiste directly after breakfast. Maggie hoped she was equal to the task. Not only did she have her usual fatigue to contend with, but after a night spent with too little sleep, she had the added burden of exhaustion.

She and Jane had stayed up until nearly four in the morning discussing Maggie’s visit with Lord St. Clare. Jane had wanted to know everything, from the condition of the hackney coach that had conveyed Maggie to Grosvenor Square to the far superior manner in which she’d been transported back to Green Street.

Had St. Clare really sent her home in his own carriage? With a fur-lined carriage rug and a hot brick for her feet? And was it true that he’d given Bessie a small flask of his best brandy to serve in case Maggie should feel faint again on the short journey home?

It was all true.