She swallowed the last bite of cake and washed it down with the dregs of her tea, enjoying a noisy slurp. Button joined her in the sip and the slurp and when the cups were set down upon the tea table, Button leaned back in his tattered, overstuffed velvet chair.

"It's finished."

With relief, Attie realized that Button wasn't going to endlessly hash over Iris's condition and the tense situation at Worthington house. Unfortunately, he'd chosen another one of her least favorite topics.

She scowled down into her empty teacup. "I don't want it."

Button smiled and went on as if she hadn't spoken. "It's perfect. It will fit you exquisitely, bring out the vivid red of your hair while simultaneously making your green eyes shine. You'll be as slim as a willow and as graceful as a deer. There isn't a young lady in London who wouldn't want this gown."

The dreaded, fabled "Young Lady". Attie was well on her way to hating her.

"She can have it," Attie lashed back. "Fetch me a pair of shears, and I'll cut her a piece."

Cabot, who had entered on stealthy feet to retrieve the tea tray, ruined his usual discreet invisibility by narrowing his eyes at Attie and then flicking her on the ear with the snap of his finger.

Attie clapped a finger over her ear and glared at Cabot. Most people in Attie's acquaintance avoided that glare. It usually presaged some sort of entirely unique and creative revenge, something that would occur when Attie was nowhere about to blame.

Cabot wasn't most people. He simply gazed at her without any expression whatsoever, his perfect features an absolute mask of neutrality.

Attie wilted. "Sorry. No shears."

Cabot made no response whatsoever other than to release Attie from the brutal lance of his even gaze. He swept the tea tray from the room without the merest clink of silverware.

Attie looked back to Button. "But I really don't need a new dress. I still have the one you gave me last year. The yellow one."

"Ah, yes. Isn't that the yellow dress that you wore whilst climbing a tree and leaping upon the back of a murderer? In the woods? During a duel?"

"That's the one." Attie idly toyed with a length of ribbon she'd found beneath her chair. "It still fits fine."

"It's mended. And stained. And too short. You've grown a mile."

Attie rolled her eyes and slumped back into her seat in disgust. She thought of a thousand cutting things she could say about the dress but Cabot might be listening. Her ear still stung. "I like trousers," she grumbled. "Trousers have pockets."

"It's a beautiful dress and it's already finished. You may as well take it as not, for I doubt there are very many willowy young ladies who could carry it off." Button leaned back in his own chair and steepled his fingers. "Or who could afford it," he said with some satisfaction.