When She Was Wicked

When She Was Wicked - By Anne Barton

Chapter One

Alteration: (1) A change made to a garment in order to improve the fit or style. (2) A change in plans, often necessitated by misfortune, as when one is unexpectedly apprehended during the commission of a crime.

London, 1815

Extortion” was an ugly word. It put one in mind of a villain who fleeced the pockets and slandered the names of hapless victims.

What Miss Anabelle Honeycote did to support her family was most certainly not that.

Perhaps her actions met the crudest definition of the word, but she preferred “accepting coin in exchange for the solemn promise to safeguard secrets.” Much less nefarious, and a girl had to sleep at night.

The primary location in which Anabelle harvested secrets was not a seedy alley or gaming hell, but a small reputable dress shop situated on Bond Street where she worked as a seamstress. Mama would be appalled if she knew about the money-making scheme, but, truth be told, Anabelle would have extorted money from the Archbishop himself to pay for Dr. Conwell’s visits. He was Mama’s only glimmer of hope—and he wasn’t cheap.

Someone in their household had to be practical. That someone was Anabelle.

She wiped her sleeve across her damp brow and swept aside the muslin curtain that led to the workroom in the back of Mrs. Smallwood’s dress shop. Bolts of fabric stacked neatly upon shelves lining one long wall created a colorful patchwork that never failed to tickle Anabelle’s imagination. While some material would become serviceable underclothes for a spinster aunt, some might be destined for the train of a duchess’s gown, lovely enough to grace the Queen’s Presentation Chamber. Anabelle liked thinking such a leap in social standing—from modest workroom to St. James’s Palace—was possible. Not that she had grand ambitions, but being pinned to her current station in life like a butterfly to an entomologist’s collection rankled.

She glided past a large table laden with dress parts set out like the interlocking pieces of a puzzle. The disembodied sleeves, collars, and skirt panels lay lifeless, waiting for her to transform them into something vibrant—something more than the sum of its parts. After all, anyone could make a functional dress. The challenge was to create a garment that felt magical—the fabric texture, the gown’s lines, and the embellishments blending in perfect harmony.

Though occasionally, she mused—plucking a simple yet elegant white silk ball gown from the rack of her current projects—a dress required less rather than more. The creation she held, Miss Starling’s newest ball gown, was a fine example. Anabelle twirled it in front of her, checking for loose threads and lint. Satisfied, she walked briskly through the workroom and into the shop’s sitting area with the gown draped over her arm. When she held it up for Miss Starling to see, the young woman’s face lit with pleasure.

“Why, Miss… Honeycut, is it?”

“Honeycote.”

Miss Starling gave a smile that didn’t reach her deep blue eyes. “How talented you are. This gown is magnificent. I must try it on.”

Anabelle nodded demurely and led the beautiful woman toward the dressing room located at the end of the shop away from the front door. Miss Starling’s mother hopped up from the chair where she’d been sipping tea and toddled behind, calling out over her daughter’s shoulder, “Is that the dress for the Hopewell ball? Gads. It looks awfully plain, darling. Money is no object. Have the girl add a few bows or some trim, for goodness’ sake.”

Anabelle opened her mouth to object but caught herself. If her clients wanted frippery, who was she to deny their wish? Mrs. Smallwood had taught her the importance of pleasing her clients, no matter how garish the outcome. At least she knew her employer valued her skill and dedication.

The problem was that even though Anabelle toiled at the shop day after day, she earned a meager ten shillings a week. If she only needed to pay for her own food and lodging at a boardinghouse, her salary would be enough. But Mama was too ill to move from the small rooms they let, and her medicine was dear.

It had been three months since Anabelle had last written an anonymous note demanding money in exchange for her silence. On that occasion, Lady Bonneville had paid thirty pounds to prevent the details of her torrid affair with her handsome butler—who was half her age—from appearing on the pages of London’s most widely circulated gossip rag.

The outspoken viscountess was one of her favorite customers, and Anabelle disliked having to threaten the woman; however, the money she’d paid had seen Anabelle’s family through the spring months. Mama’s cough even seemed a little less violent after she inhaled the medicated vapor Dr. Conwell prescribed. But their money had run out, and a stack of bills sat upon the table in their tiny parlor.

Yes, it was time to act again. Papa, God rest his soul, had been a gentleman, and her parents had raised her properly. Though her scheme was legally and morally wrong, she wasn’t entirely without scruples. She adhered to a code of conduct, embodied by her List of Nevers. She’d written the list before issuing her first demand note nearly three years ago:


1. Never request payment from someone who cannot afford it.

2. Never request an exorbitant amount—only what is necessary.

3. Never request payment from the same person on more than one occasion.

4. Never reveal the secrets of a paying customer.


And finally, most importantly:


5. Never enter into any form of social interaction with a former customer.


This last rule was prudent in order to avoid detection but was also designed to prevent her from having to engage in hypocrisy, which she found unpalatable in the extreme.

Just running through the List in her mind calmed her. As usual, she’d listen intently this morning for any gossip that might be useful.

The most fertile ground in the shop was the dressing room, which was really just a large section of the shop’s front room partitioned off by folding screens draped with fabric, providing clients ample privacy. The centerpiece of the dressing area was a round dais which had been cleverly painted to resemble a cake with pink icing. Anabelle’s mouth always watered at the sight of the wretched thing, and since she’d had nothing more than a piece of toast for breakfast, today was no exception. A large, rectangular ottoman in one corner provided a perch for mothers, sisters, friends, companions, and the like. Miss Starling’s mother made a beeline for it, and Anabelle helped the younger woman remove her fashionable walking gown and wriggle into the new dress.

The small puffs of sleeves barely skimmed the debutante’s shoulders, showing the lovely line of her neck to advantage, just as Anabelle had hoped. Some adjustments to the hem were necessary, but she could manage them in an hour or so. Miss Starling stepped onto the platform and smoothed the skirt down her waist and over her hips.

The rapturous expression on Mrs. Starling’s face told Anabelle she’d changed her mind about the need for embellishments. The matron slapped a gloved hand to her chest and gave a little cry. “Huntford will find you irresistible.”

Miss Starling huffed as though vexed by the utter obviousness of the statement.

Anabelle’s face heated at the mention of the Duke of Huntford. He’d been in the shop once, last year, with his mistress. His dark hair, heavy-lidded green eyes, and athletic physique had flustered the unflappable Mrs. Smallwood, causing her to make an error when tallying his bill.

He was the sort of man who could make a girl forget to carry her tens.

“The duke will be mine before the end of the Season, Mama.”

Anabelle knelt behind Miss Starling, reached for her basket, and began pinning up the hem. As she glanced at her client’s reflection in the dressing room mirror, she avoided her own, knowing her appearance wouldn’t hold up well in comparison.

Miss Starling’s blonde locks had been coaxed into a fetching Grecian knot at the nape of her neck, and her eyes sparkled with satisfaction. The white gown was beautiful enough for Aphrodite.

Anabelle pushed her spectacles, which were forever sliding down her nose, back into position. Kneeling in the shadow of the Season’s incomparable beauty, Anabelle was all but invisible—highly depressing, but for the best.

Mrs. Starling was nodding vigorously. “When we passed Huntford earlier, he couldn’t take his eyes off of you. There is not a miss on the marriage mart who rivals your beauty or grace, two virtues sorely lacking in his household, I might add. It was very charitable of you to befriend his sisters—and clever, too. An excellent excuse to visit and show him what a fine influence you’d be as a sister-in-law.” Mrs. Starling fanned herself and rambled on. “The sisters are quite homely, are they not? Gads, the one with the freakishly enormous forehead—”

“Lady Olivia,” Miss Starling offered helpfully.

“—bounded out of the bookstore like a disobedient puppy. And the younger girl with the wild, orange hair—”

“Lady Rose.”

“—is so meek I don’t believe I’ve ever heard her string two words together. Don’t ask that one about the weather unless you’ve a pair of forceps to pull a reply out of her. What a shame! Especially since the duke is the model of graciousness and propriety.”

The last comment made Anabelle stab her index finger with a pin. The devilishly attractive duke a paragon of good behavior? She’d seen the lacy undergarments he’d purchased for his mistress. They weren’t the sort of things one wore beneath church clothes.

Anabelle sat back on her heels to better gauge the evenness of the silk flounced hem. It was perfect. Since the conversation was growing interesting, however, she clucked her tongue and fiddled with the flounce a bit more.

Miss Starling smiled smugly. “Huntford needs a wife who will help him ease his awkward sisters into polite society, and he shouldn’t dither. When I went riding with Lady Olivia last week, she all but confided that she’s developed a tendre for the duke’s stable master.”

“No!” Mrs. Starling sucked in a breath, and her ample bosom rose to within inches of her chin. “What did she say?”

Miss Starling pressed her lips together as though she meant to barricade the secret. Anabelle tried to make herself smaller, more insignificant, if that were possible. Finally, Miss Starling’s words whooshed out. “Well, Olivia said she’d met with him on several occasions… unchaperoned.”

“The devil you say!”

“And she said she finds him quite handsome—”

“But, but… he’s a servant.” Mrs. Starling’s face was screwed up like she’d sucked a lemon wedge.

“And Olivia said she thought it a terrible shame that the sister of a duke shouldn’t be able to marry someone like him.”

The matron’s mouth opened and closed like a trout’s before she actually spoke. “That is beyond scandalous.”

Scandalous, indeed. And just what Anabelle needed. She sent up a silent prayer of gratitude, even though the irony of thanking God for providing fodder for her extortion scheme was not entirely lost on her.

The duke was an excellent candidate. He had plenty in his coffers and probably spent more in one night at the gaming tables than Anabelle had spent on rent all of last year. She wouldn’t demand more than she needed to pay Mama’s medical bills and their basic living expenses for a couple of months, of course. Considering how damaging the information about Lady Olivia could be, the duke really was getting an excellent bargain. Better that he learn about the indiscretion now, before Miss Starling managed to disseminate it to every county.

Keeping her face impassive, Anabelle stood and loosened the discreet laces at the side of the ball gown. After Miss Starling stepped out of it, Anabelle gathered it in her arms, taking extra care with the delicate sleeves. As she helped her client slip back into her walking dress, she asked, “Will there be anything else today, ma’am?”

“Hmm? No, that’s all. I’ll just linger for a moment and freshen up. I’ll need the gown by tomorrow.”

Anabelle inclined her head. “It will be delivered this afternoon.” She was whisking the gown into the workroom, thinking how fortunate it was that the shop was not very busy that morning, when a bell on the front door jangled, signaling the arrival of a customer.

Three, actually.

Mrs. Smallwood’s shrill voice carried throughout the shop. “Good morning, Your Grace! What a pleasure to see you and your lovely sisters.”

Anabelle’s fingers went numb, just like the time Papa had caught her in his study taking an experimental puff on his pipe. There was no way the duke could know what she planned. Swallowing hard, she tried to remember what she’d been doing before he arrived. It suddenly seemed important that she appear very busy, even though she was out of sight.

The duke’s voice, smooth and rich, seeped under her skin. She couldn’t make out what he was saying, but the deep tone warmed her, so much so, she felt the need to fan herself with her apron. Perhaps Mrs. Smallwood would realize she was working on a pressing project and spare her from having to—

“Miss Honeycote!”

Or, perhaps not.

With the same eagerness that one might walk the plank, Anabelle hung the ball gown on a vacant hook and pushed her spectacles up her nose before returning to the front room. It seemed to have shrunk now that the Duke of Huntford occupied it.

Before, the two elegant wingback chairs and piecrust table had seemed to be the correct scale; now, they looked like children’s furniture. The duke’s broad shoulders blocked much of the morning light that streamed through the shop’s window, casting a shadow that reached all the way from his Hessians to Anabelle’s half boots. His thick head of black hair and green eyes made him appear more gypsy than aristocrat, and he had the wiry strength of a boxer. He wore buckskin breeches and an expertly tailored moss-green jacket, which she could fully appreciate, as a seamstress and a woman.

Belatedly, she remembered to curtsey.

Mrs. Smallwood shot Anabelle a curious look. “Lady Olivia and Lady Rose each require a new dress. I assured His Grace that you would work with them to design gowns that are tasteful and befitting their station.”

“Of course.” The sister whom Anabelle deduced must be Olivia had wandered to the far side of the shop and was fingering samples of fabric and lace. She appeared to be a couple of years younger than Anabelle, perhaps nineteen. Rose was obviously the younger sister; she played with the button on the wrist of her glove, eyes downcast.

The duke’s intense gaze, however, was fixed on Anabelle. For three long seconds, he seemed to scrutinize her wretched brown dress, ill-fitting spectacles, and oversized cap. If the dubious expression on his ruggedly handsome face was any indication, he found the whole ensemble rather lacking. She raised her chin a notch.

Even Mrs. Smallwood must have sensed the duke’s displeasure. “Er, Miss Honeycote is extremely skilled with a needle, Your Grace. She has a particular talent for creating gowns that complement our clients’ best features. Why, Miss Starling was delighted with her latest creation. Your sisters will be pleased with the results, I assure you.”

The duke was silent for the space of several heartbeats, during which Anabelle was sure he was cataloguing the deficiencies in her physical appearance. Or perhaps he was merely debating whether a mousy seamstress without a French accent was qualified to design his sisters’ gowns.

“Miss Honeycote, was it?”

He was more astute than the average duke. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“The gowns must be modest.”

As if she would design something indecent. “I understand,” she said. “Are there any other requirements?”

More silence. More glaring. “Pretty.”

“Pretty?”

He frowned and adjusted his cravat as though he couldn’t quite believe he’d uttered the word. “Pretty,” he repeated, “to suit my sisters.”

Rose lifted her head to look at him, her skepticism obvious. In response, the duke wrapped his arm around her frail shoulders and smiled at her with a combination of pride, protectiveness, and love. It was powerful enough to coax a smile out of Rose, and in that instant, Anabelle could see Rose was pretty. Stunning, even.

The whole exchange left Anabelle slightly breathless. Devotion to one’s family was something she understood—and respected. The duke’s interest in his sisters went beyond duty, and that bit of knowledge made him seem more… human.

Oh, she still planned to extort money from him; there was no help for that. But now, she found herself anxious to design dresses that would delight the young ladies and simultaneously prove her skill to their brother. Perhaps, in some small way, it would make up for her bad behavior.

Miss Starling swept out of the dressing room, her mother in tow. Every head in the room swiveled toward the debutante, her beauty as irresistible as gravity. Olivia dropped a length of ribbon and rushed across the shop to join her sister. Rose moved closer to the duke.

“Good morning, once again, Your Grace,” Miss Starling said, all tooth-aching sweetness. “How delighted I am to see my dear friends Lady Olivia and Lady Rose twice in the same day. And how fortunate that I am here to offer my assistance with their gown selections. Gentlemen don’t realize the numerous pitfalls one must avoid when choosing a ball gown, do they, ladies?”

Olivia replied with an equal measure of drama. “Alas, they do not.”

“Never fear. I have plenty of experience in this sort of thing and am happy to lend my expertise… that is, if you have no objection, Your Grace.” Miss Starling unleashed a dazzling smile on the duke.

His intelligent eyes flicked to Anabelle, ever so briefly, and the subtle acknowledgement made her shiver deliciously. Then he returned his attention to Miss Starling. “That is generous of you.”

Preening like a peacock in the Queen’s garden, Miss Starling said, “You may rely on me, Huntford. A fashionable gown can do wonders for a woman’s appearance. You won’t even recognize your sisters in their new finery. Why don’t you leave us to our own devices for an hour or so?”

The duke searched his sisters’ faces. “Olivia? Rose?” Olivia nodded happily, but Rose cowered into his shoulder. He gave her a stiff pat on the back and looked imploringly at Miss Starling, who had managed to find a small mirror on the counter and was scowling at the reflection of a loose tendril above her ear. No help from that quarter was forthcoming, and Rose’s cheek was still glued to his jacket. The more he tried to gently pry her off him, the tighter she clung. He turned to Anabelle and held out his palms in a silent plea.

Startled, she quickly considered how best to put the young woman at ease and cleared her throat. “If you’d like, Lady Rose, I could start by showing you a few sketches and gowns. You may show me what you like or don’t like about each. Once I have a feel for your tastes, I shall design something that suits you perfectly.” Noting Rose’s shy yet graceful manner, Anabelle hazarded a guess. “Something elegant and simple?”

Rose slowly peeled herself off of her brother, who looked relieved beyond words.

“Why don’t you and your sister make yourselves comfortable?” Anabelle waved them into the chairs beside her and winked. “I promise to make this as painless as possible.”

The duke leaned forward and gave Rose an affectionate squeeze. “Very well.” Anabelle endeavored not to stare at his shoulders and arms as they flexed beneath his jacket.

Miss Starling snapped her out of her reverie. “We’ll need to see bolts of French pink muslin, green silk, blue satin, and peach sarsenet, as well as swansdown and scalloped lace.” Anabelle had started for the back room, rather hoping all the items were not intended for the same dress, when Miss Starling added, “And bring us a fresh pot of tea, Miss Honeycut.”

“Honeycote.” In a shop teeming with women, there was no mistaking the duke’s commanding voice.

Anabelle halted. She imagined that Miss Starling’s glorious peacock tail had lost a feather or two.

“I beg your pardon?” the debutante asked.

“Her name,” said the duke. “It’s Miss Honeycote.”

With that, he jammed his hat on his head, turned on his heel, and quit the shop.


A few hours later, Anabelle tiptoed into the foyer of the townhouse where she lived and gently shut the front door behind her. Their landlady’s quarters were beyond the door to the right, which, fortunately, was closed. The tantalizing aroma of baking bread wafted from the shared kitchen to her left, but Anabelle didn’t linger. She quickly started up the long narrow staircase leading to the small suite of rooms that she, Daphne, and Mama rented, treading lightly on the second step, which had an unfortunate tendency to creak. She’d made it halfway up the staircase when Mrs. Bowman’s door sprang open.

“Miss Honeycote!” Their landlady was a kindly, stoop-shouldered widow with gray hair so thin her scalp peeked through. She craned her neck around the doorway and smiled. “Ah, I’m glad to see you have an afternoon off. How is your mother?”

Anabelle slowly turned and descended the stairs, full of dread. “About the same, I’m afraid.” But then, persons with consumption did not usually improve. She swallowed past the knot in her throat. “Breathless all the time, and a fever in the evenings, but Daphne and I are hopeful that the medicine Dr. Conwell prescribed will help.”

Mrs. Bowman nodded soberly, waved for Anabelle to follow her, and shuffled to the kitchen. “Take some bread and stew for her—and for you and your sister, too.” Her gaze flicked to Anabelle’s waist, and she frowned. “You won’t be able to properly care for your mother if you don’t eat.”

“You’re very kind, Mrs. Bowman. Thank you.”

The elderly woman sighed heavily. “I’m fond of you and your sister and mother… but luv, your rent was due three days ago.”

Anabelle had known this was coming, but heat crept up her neck anyway. Her landlady needed the money as desperately as they did. “I’m sorry I don’t have it just yet.” She’d stopped during the walk home and spent her last shilling on paper for the demand note she planned to write to the Duke of Huntford. “I can pay you…” She quickly worked through the plan in her head. “… on Saturday evening after I return from the shop.”

Mrs. Bowman patted Anabelle’s shoulder in the same reassuring way Mama once had, before illness had plunged her into her frightening torpor. “You’ll pay me when you can.” She pressed her thin lips together and handed Anabelle a pot and a loaf of bread wrapped in a cloth.

The smells of garlic, gravy, and yeast made her suddenly light-headed, as though her body had just now remembered that it had missed a few meals. “Someday I shall repay you for all you’ve done for us.”

The old woman smiled, but disbelief clouded her eyes. “Give your mother and sister my best,” she said and retreated into her rooms.

Anabelle shook off her melancholy and ascended the stairs, buoyed at the thought of presenting Mama and Daphne with a tasty dinner. Even Mama, who’d mostly picked at her food of late, wouldn’t be able to resist the hearty stew.

She pushed open the door but didn’t call out, in case Mama was sleeping. After unloading the items she carried onto the table beneath the room’s only window, she looked around the small parlor. As usual, Daphne had tidied and arranged things to make the room look as cheerful as possible. She’d folded the blanket on the settee where she and Anabelle took turns sleeping. One of them always stayed with Mama in her bedroom at night. Her sister had fluffed the cushions on the ancient armchair and placed a colorful scrap of cloth on a side table, upon which sat a miniature portrait of their parents. Daphne must have pulled it out of Mama’s old trunk; Anabelle hadn’t seen it in years. The food forgotten, she drifted to the picture and picked it up.

Mama’s eyes were bright, and pink tinged her cheeks; Papa stood behind her, his love for his new bride palpable. Papa, the youngest son of a viscount, had sacrificed everything to be with her: wealth, family, and social status. As far as Anabelle knew, he’d never regretted it. Until he’d been dying. He’d reached out to his parents then and begged them to provide for his wife and daughters.

They’d never responded to his plea.

And Anabelle would never forgive them.

“You’re home! How was the shop?” Daphne glided into the parlor, her bright smile at odds with the smudges beneath her eyes. She wore a yellow dress that reminded Anabelle of the buttercups that grew behind their old cottage.

She hastily returned the portrait to the table. “Wonderful. How’s Mama?”

“Uncomfortable for much of the day, but she’s resting now.” Daphne inhaled deeply. “What’s that delicious smell?”

“Mrs. Bowman sent up dinner. You should eat up and then go enjoy a walk in the park. Get some fresh air.”

“A walk would be lovely, and I do need to make a trip to the apothecary.”

Anabelle worried her bottom lip. “Daph, there’s no money.”

“I know. I believe I can get Mr. Vanders to extend me credit.”

Daphne probably could. Her cheerful disposition could melt the hardest of hearts. If she weren’t chained to the apartment, caring for Mama, she’d have a slew of suitors. She retrieved a couple of chipped bowls and some spoons from the shelf above the table and peeked under the lid of the pot. “Oh,” she said, closing her eyes as she breathed in, “this is heavenly. Come sit and eat.”

Anabelle held up a hand. “I couldn’t possibly. Mrs. Smallwood stuffed me with sandwiches and cakes before I left the shop today.”

Daphne arched a blonde brow. “There’s plenty here, Belle.”

“Maybe after Mama eats.” Anabelle retrieved the paper she’d purchased, pulled out a chair, and sat next to her sister. “I’m going to write a letter this evening.” There was no need to explain what sort of letter. “I’ll deliver it shortly after dark.”

Her sister set down her spoon and placed a hand over Anabelle’s. “I wish you’d let me help you.”

“You’re doing more than enough, caring for Mama. I only mentioned it so you’d know I need to go out tonight. We’ll have a little money soon.”

Later that night, after Daphne had returned with a vial of medication as promised, Anabelle kissed her mother, said good night to her sister, and retired to the parlor.

She slipped behind the folding screen in the corner that served as their dressing area and removed her spectacles, slippers, dress, shift, corset, and stockings. From the bottom corner of her old trunk, she pulled a long strip of linen that had been wadded into a ball. After locating an end, she tucked it under her arm, placed the strip over her bare breasts, and wound the linen around and around, securing it so tightly that she could only manage the shallowest of breaths, through her nose. She tucked the loose end of the strip underneath, against her skin, and skimmed her palms over her flattened breasts. Satisfied, she pulled out the other items she’d need: a shirt, breeches, a waistcoat, and a jacket.

She donned each garment, relieved to find that the breeches weren’t quite as snug across the hips as they’d been the last time. Finally, she pinned her hair up higher on her head, stuffed it under a boy’s cap, and pulled the brim down low. It had been a few months since she’d worn the disguise, so she practiced walking in the breeches—long strides, square shoulders, swinging arms. The rough wool brushed her thighs and cupped her bottom intimately, but the breeches were quite comfortable once she became accustomed to them.

Her heart pounded and her breathing quickened, not unpleasantly, as she tucked the letter she’d written to the Duke of Huntford—left-handed to disguise her handwriting—into the pocket of her shabby jacket. A few subtle inquiries had yielded his address, which was, predictably, in fashionable Mayfair, several blocks away.

A woman couldn’t walk the streets of London alone at night, but a lad could. Her mission was dangerous but simple: deliver the note to the duke’s butler and slip away before anyone could question her. She should be quaking in her secondhand boys’ boots, but a decidedly wicked side of her craved this excitement, relished the chance for adventure.

She sent up a quick prayer asking for both safety and forgiveness, then skulked down the stairs and out into the misty night.