Cabot glanced at Mrs. Oakes who, despite her many sterling attributes, did not perhaps look her best in such a dull shade. Then he shook his head at Button in an exasperated fashion even as he turned to fulfill Button's request. Good old Cabot.

Attie, who had finally allowed a thought to penetrate her vengeful fixation, stomped over to confront Button.

"It won't fit her. She's too fat."

"Tut-tut." Button smiled gently at Attie. "Accuracy, please."

Attie folded her arms indignantly over her still nearly flat bosom. "She'll never fit the bodice."

Button gave his darling, slightly homicidal young friend a comforting pat on the shoulder. These days he had to reach up to do so. "No need to worry, my dear Attie. I always build in a bit of letting-out for my young ladies." The bodice would be tight, however, marvelously so. Button smile broadened. He couldn't have planned it better if he tried.

Cabot reappeared with the requested luggage. Button clapped his hands together in glee.

"Oh, Mrs. Oakes?"

THE CARRIAGE HIT A pothole on the route that the dismayed driver had declared "not a road." Gemma lost her balance and lurched into Mr. Cabot's side.

The implausibly handsome dressmaker gently assisted Gemma upright on the seat again. Gemma knew nothing about the current fashions in London, but she would have bet her pony cart that no one in the great city was more stylish that her seat companion.

Except perhaps for the man seated across from her. Mr. Cabot's friend Mr. Button smiled at her warmly. He'd insisted on using the fine carriages, even though Gemma had offered up her pony cart.

He'd been cheerfully scandalized. "Oh, that would never do. When one wears Lementeur, one must make an entrance!"

Was that what she was wearing? It sounded a bit French and incredibly costly.

It wasn't her fault. The dapper fellow himself had stuffed her into it without regard to a word of her demure protest. If Gemma had any blushes left, she would redden at the memory of being at Mr. Button's mercy for the past half hour.

Miss Worthington had lounged on Gemma's bed during the ordeal, sprawled on her belly with her slipper-clad feet waving idly in the air. Her sharp eyes had missed nothing, Gemma was sure, but at some point the girl's lethal glare had eased into a mere curiosity.

On one hand, Gemma had been glad for the feminine company. On the other, the girl's adversarial attitude has left Gemma feeling somewhat besieged.