Page 6 of A Single Thread of Moonlight

The plan started to take shape in the long hours that I spent working on Agatha’s wardrobe over the next several days. Finally, the opportunity for revenge had presented itself and I wasn’t going to throw it away. It wouldn’t be enough … nothing ever could be, but it would mean something to Helena, and it would be a beginning. I would stop that marriage if it was the last thing I did.

It was a strange thing, labouring over Agatha’s clothes. The first priority was obviously the dress she’d be wearing to the ball here in London, but as Helena was also throwing a small house party for Prince Stefan and some friends, Agatha had to be dressed in a way befitting a future princess for the entire fortnight.

Helena had clearly thought this through. If Stefan proposed at the London ball, then the house party became a celebration – but if he did not? Well, then there would be plenty more opportunity to throw Stefan and Agatha together until he did.

There was not enough time to build a wardrobe from scratch, but fortunately we had several items already made up that would work with some clever alteration. Some of these had originally been destined for other customers – “If they can’t pay their bills on time then that’s their fault.” Madame had shrugged, a mercenary spark in her eyes.

What this meant for me was three nights in a row of falling asleep at my workbench and waking with a stiff neck. It also meant fighting every urge to line the gowns with pins or choose a fabric that would make Agatha look bilious. I knew a nice pea-green trim that would make her look like she had a nasty case of the flu.

I didn’t do it. Madame Solange had taken me in, taken a chance on me, and I owed her my loyalty.

Besides, the clothes were sacred. It wasn’t their fault that they were going to be worn by the second most loathsome woman on the planet. I took as much time and care over the alterations as I usually would. I tried to forget that Agatha would be slipping her arms through the sleeves or smoothing down the skirts that were spread across the table in front of me.

But there was one thing I couldn’t bring myself to do, and that was to turn over the dream dress. I worked on it in secret, snatching odd moments to dedicate to it wherever I could. It was far from being finished but I could already tell that it was going to be special – perhaps the best thing I had ever made – and I couldn’t stand the thought of Agatha owning that.

It would be the perfect dress for a princess, but then Agatha wasn’t going to be a princess. Not if I had any say in the matter.

The London ball was in two days’ time. It was a masked ball, which was all the rage, a gift to someone trying to sneak in unseen – someone like me.

It was being held at Devonshire House in Piccadilly, the site of the notorious fancy dress ball two years earlier. Getting in was not going to be easy. My best hope was to try and sneak in as a servant. At events like this, where each guest was examining each other for clues to their identity, it was the staff who became invisible.

These were the thoughts that occupied my mind when Madame appeared, unusually flustered.

“Claire’s been taken sick,” she said shortly. “There’s a woman here looking for something to wear to the ball at Devonshire House. I need you to model for me.”

“You know I don’t model the clothes,” I said, laying down my work.

She put a hand on my arm. “She’s brought someone with her … Nicholas Wynter.”

These last two words were breathless, her tone one of mingled horror and delight.

Nicholas Wynter.

I had never met the man, but even I knew his name. Everybody did. Nicholas Wynter was an earl, a title he had inherited from his father almost three years ago. He was, I suppose, what you’d call a tastemaker. If you met with his approval then you were bound for success, but more often than not people encountered the cutting cruelty that he was famous for. He could put Madame Solange on the map, or he could just as easily destroy her.

“Get that green lamé that Lady Huntingdon hasn’t paid for yet.” Madame’s voice was shrill. “And I don’t care that you don’t model, Iris, this is too important. If you can’t make yourself useful at a time like this then there’s no job here for you. You can pack your things.” She crossed her arms and glared at me.

I wasn’t fooled. We both knew that I could walk out of here and get a job with one of her competitors. It was hardly the first time she had threatened to give me the sack.

Still, the note of panic in her voice gave me pause.

I pressed my lips together.

“Fine,” I snapped. “But you’re paying me double. If I’m going to have two jobs, then you can pay me two wages.”

“You’ll take what you’re given and be grateful,” Madame snapped back, but her shoulders eased, betraying her relief.

On that note she sailed out to the front of the shop again, and Annie began to help me dress.

I stood in front of the mirror as Annie laced the back of the gown. It was a beauty. Green lamé, shot through with gold threads, and a sheer silk overlay that added to the shimmering effect. It was low cut, with full, trailing skirts. It would be perfect for the Devonshire House ball.

While Annie fiddled with the fastenings at the back of the dress, I tried to tidy my hair. I had inherited my mother’s colouring, though I didn’t think I looked much like her otherwise. My hair was blonde with a natural curl, and my eyes were the same deep blue, but my brows and lashes were darker than hers had been, my nose more snub, my mouth fuller. I was shorter than her, and less willowy – I remember her as a slim, graceful reed in a long gown.

I knew that I was beautiful. I suppose it sounds hopelessly arrogant to say as much, but enough people had told me so that I had accepted it as a fact.

Personally, I thought my looks were a bit on the insipid side, but it was that which made so many people underestimate me. People never thought the pretty little milkmaid would be the one holding a knife to their throat.

I pinched my cheeks, trying to add colour. Spending all my days in this room, slaving over a sewing machine, had not done my complexion any favours.