“Bea Davenham showed me the most delightfully naughty nightdresses and bed-jackets that Miss Chance made for her. Did you know Miss Chance and her husband and little daughter live with Bea—they’re some kind of family connection, I believe. Anyway, I want some of those nightdresses, and a couple of bed-jackets—so pretty they are.”

Emm smiled. “They are indeed. I have several. One of my former students sent me the most beautiful nightdress from Miss Chance for my wedding. That’s how we met her, in fact. She was the only dressmaker we knew in London.”

“Except for Hortense,” said George, pulling a face. “And we didn’t like her at all.”

Miss Chance was most enthusiastic about the plans for a wedding dress for George. She drew out a sheaf of designs she’d sketched when she’d first seen the betrothal announcement in the newspaper.

“Something simple, like you usually like, Lady George, only I wasn’t sure if you’d prefer something light, or something a bit heavier in a rich fabric—we’re gettin’ into summer, and you don’t want to be hot. Then again, knowin’ London weather, it might be freezin’.

“And what jewelry will you be wantin’ to wear? Pearls is the usual thing for brides. Would you want pearls sewn onto the bodice, like this one”—she showed George a design—“or something like this?” She pulled out another sketch. “Or do you want embroidery—because, if so, we’ll need to decide pretty quick so that my girls can get started on it. Three weeks ain’t very long, you know.”

Everything was in white or cream, which George was heartily sick of. And she’d rejected out of hand the idea that she would wear silver tissue over white satin, which Princess Charlotte had worn to her wedding, poor lady.

But Aunt Agatha had stated, and Emm and Aunt Dottie agreed, that it was vital that she marry in white, given the rumors and gossip. George comforted herself with the reflection that after this she’d never have to wear white again.

Miss Chance then left George with a pile of designs to examine at her leisure while she took Aunt Dottie to another room where she had a display of the kinds of nightwear that would gladden Aunt Dottie’s heart.

George leafed through the various sketches, discarded the more elaborate designs and quickly narrowed the choice down to two of the simplest designs. No frills, no lace, no pearls.

But which of the two? The hail-spotted white muslin with the tiny puffed sleeves? Or the one in cream silk with piping around the hem?

Her inability to decide annoyed her. What did it matter what she wore? This was not a dress to celebrate in. She should simply toss a coin to decide.

But for some reason she couldn’t make herself do it.