Page 9 of A Single Thread of Moonlight

“No.” Nicholas shook his head. “Not my…” His smirk made it clear that he understood me perfectly.

I was momentarily thrown, but I gathered my wits together and pulled myself up to my full height. “That changes nothing. I hope that I have made my own position clear.”

“Oh, extremely clear,” Nicholas said politely. “You do not care for canaries.”

“I do not care for canaries or ungentlemanly oafs.”

“I don’t think I have been called an oaf before,” he mused.

“I find that hard to believe.”

He laughed then, and I could feel the colour rising in my cheeks.

“Better and better,” he said again, and I began to cast my eyes about for a suitable weapon. It was entirely possible that the man had lost his wits, and I didn’t have my pen knife on me.

“I think,” he said, “that we had better start again.”

Fortunately, we were interrupted by the arrival of Teresa and Madame Solange.

“Oh, Nick.” Teresa beamed up at her cousin. “Madame says the gown will be ready first thing tomorrow.”

Does she now? I thought. That’s another night at the sewing machine for me then.

“Fine,” Nicholas Wynter replied, uninterested.

“We weel send ze parcel around just as soon as possible,” Madame nodded. “I ’ope we weel see you ’ere again.”

“Oh, you may count on it,” Nicholas said. His eyes never left Madame’s face, but somehow I knew that the words were aimed at me. I just couldn’t decide if they were a threat or a promise.

CHAPTER FIVE

I had much bigger problems than Nicholas Wynter. The following morning, I feigned illness and begged Madame for a couple of hours off work.

“A headache. I think I just need some fresh air, perhaps to go and lie down for an hour,” I murmured weakly.

“It is a very bad time for you to be ill, Iris,” Madame huffed. “Not at all convenient. Claire might be back, but she still looks terrible!” Madame glanced over to where Claire was wilting in the corner, her skin tinged slightly green. She was going to clash horribly with most of the dresses.

Annie stepped in. “She’s been staying up all hours the past few nights,” she said to Madame. “She’ll get more done after a short rest. Probably overtired.” Annie sniffed, making it plain what she thought of people who got “overtired”. Clearly she did not want me to think she’d gone soft.

“Fine.” Madame threw her hands up. “You can take two hours.”

“Thank you,” I murmured, the picture of meekness. Two hours should be enough time to gather the information that I needed, but I didn’t want to waste a minute of it.

I wrapped myself in my sensible coat of navy wool and bustled out into the October sunshine. It had been days since my face had seen the sun – I’d been arriving at the shop before it came up and leaving long after it went down – and I tipped my head back, my eyes half-closed, enjoying the feeling of warmth on my skin.

The road was typically busy, seething with people, a sea of dark coats and bowlers and the odd higher and more elaborate lady’s hat drifting into view. Hackney carriages wove through the wide street, and horse-drawn omnibuses followed steady tracks, their brightly painted sides calling out at passers-by to purchase Nestle Milk or Champion’s Vinegar. It was full of noise and colour and life, and I could feel my body coming awake as I darted through it all.

I made my way briskly along Regent Street, in the direction of Piccadilly. Skirting the edge of Berkeley Park, I noticed that the trees had begun to adopt their autumn colours in earnest now, stubborn patches of green leaves hanging on amid a sea of yellow and orange. A blackbird sat on one of the railings, his rich song following me down the street like another greeting from this daylight world.

The entrance to Devonshire House was guarded by a pair of tall, wrought iron gates, heavily emblazoned with gilt and topped with a swirling design of leaves. Two bronze sphinxes sat on stone pillars, one either side, gazing impassively at any visitor who wished to pass through to the house beyond.

Typically, the gates were shut, and you could glimpse the huge, austere house only by pressing yourself up against the bars, but today – the day before a royal ball – the gates were open, and a stream of carts and coaches were passing through with deliveries of everything from tablecloths to elaborate floral arrangements. There were two burly men hovering near the gate, checking anyone who wanted to enter.

I hesitated for a moment near the gates, pulling a small notebook from my pocket and pretending to leaf through it as I observed some of the comings and goings. If I wanted to sneak in as staff tomorrow, then I was going to need to know a few things, including what the staff would be wearing.

A young man with a handsome, freckled face emerged from the gates, gesturing to one of the carts waiting nearby to move forward. He was wearing the smartly cut jacket, the breeches and stockings, and the superior smile that could only belong to a footman.

“Excuse me,” I said, stepping towards him with a tentative smile. “I wonder if you can help me?”