“No,” Charlotte replied. “No, indeed. You see, my mama has been thinking about nothing but clothing for weeks—well, ever since Alex proposed. And that means my room is simply filled with gowns, more than I could wear in a year. And it means that there are seamstresses on the premises. They’ve been here for the last month, sewing. Let’s go. We’ll pick out a dress and they can alter it by tomorrow.”

“No, no,” Chloe gasped. “You can’t do that! I won’t let you … why, you will need those clothes on your honeymoon!”

Charlotte smiled impudently as she looked back at Chloe, all the while dragging her irresistibly to the door. “No, I won’t. Alex says I won’t need any clothes at all.” That silenced Chloe, and Charlotte bore her off downstairs.

On the day of Charlotte’s wedding, Londonfolk began to gather at St. George’s at five in the morning, the better to see the gentry filing into the chapel. Not long afterward, they had formed a cheerful, rather polite little mob, who raucously commented on the attire of each and every guest—even old Lady Tibblebutt was applauded as she tottered from her carriage, and told in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t in her dotage yet; a particularly kind bystander even offered to make her as happy as a butcher on Sunday until the crowd booed him down.

Thus it was a true compliment when even the sauciest of apprentices fell into a hush of approval as Miss Chloe van Stork descended from Sir Nigel Commonweal’s carriage. Diamond drops fell from her ears. Her blue eyes shone. But what made the reporters frantically thumb their commentary books was the irresistible combination of her lily white skin, russet hair, and a daring green gown that could only have been designed by Madame Carême. Madame was quite the modiste of the day, given that it had been leaked to the press that she designed Lady Charlotte’s wedding gown. Speculation was ripe about the style of the wedding dress. Miss van Stork’s gown was a classic Carême: made of a floating, lightweight fabric, it seemed just barely to cover her bosom, and it clung softly to her legs. But would Charlotte Daicheston want to wear something so bold for her wedding?

By eleven o’clock the footmen who stood at the doors of St. George’s had checked off almost all the names on their lists. Few had dared to be late, for fear they would be caught in the press of carriages surrounding the church. The crowd outside had reached a fever pitch of excitement. The groom was here. Everyone saw him go in, looking not at all nervous.

“Well, it is the second time for ’im, in’t?” a certain Mall Trestle said.