“Billie, hold your breath for a moment,” Lady Manston called out.
Billie squinted over at her. “What?” It was bloody difficult to focus on anything other than the two seamstresses currently yanking her about. She’d heard that most dressmakers faked their French accents so as to seem more sophisticated, but these two seemed to be genuine. Billie couldn’t understand a word they were saying.
“She doesn’t speak French,” Lady Manston said to Crossy. “I’m not sure what her mother was thinking.” She glanced back up at Billie. “Your breath, darling. They need to tighten your corset.”
Billie looked at Crossy’s two assistants, waiting patiently behind her, corset laces in hand. “It requires two people?”
“It’s a very good corset,” Lady Manston said.
“Ze best,” Crossy confirmed.
Billie sighed.
“No, in,” Lady Manston directed. “Breathe in.”
Billie obeyed, sucking in her stomach so that the two seamstresses could do some sort of choreographed crossways yank that resulted in Billie’s spine curving in an entirely new manner. Her hips jutted forward, and her head seemed remarkably far back on her neck. She wasn’t quite certain how she was meant to walk like this.
“This isn’t terribly comfortable,” she called out.
“No.” Lady Manston sounded unconcerned. “It won’t be.”
One of the ladies said something in French and then pushed Billie’s shoulders forward and her stomach back. “Meilleur?” she asked.
Billie cocked her head to the side, then twisted her spine a bit each way. It was better. Yet another aspect of genteel femininity she’d had no idea how to navigate: corset wearing. Or rather, “good” corset wearing. Apparently the ones she’d been wearing were far too permissive.
“Thank you,” she said to the seamstress, then cleared her throat. “Er, merci.”
“For you, ze corset should not be too uncomfortable,” Crossy said, coming over to inspect her handiwork. “Your stomach is lovely and flat. The problem we have is your breasts.”
Billie looked up in alarm. “My —”
“Very little meat to them,” Crossy said, shaking her head sadly.
It was embarrassing enough to have one’s breasts discussed like chicken wings, but then Crossy actually grabbed her. She looked over at Lady Manston. “We need to push them up more, don’t you think?”
She then demonstrated. Billie wanted to die on the spot.
“Hmmm?” Lady Manston’s face screwed up as she considered the placement of Billie’s breasts. “Oh yes, I think you’re right. They look much better up there.”
“I’m sure it’s not necessary…” Billie began, but then she gave up. She had no power here.
Crossy said something in rapid-fire French to her assistants, and before Billie knew what was happening, she’d been unlaced and relaced, and when she looked down, her bosom was most definitely not where it had been just a few moments earlier.
“Much better,” Crossy declared.
“Goodness,” Billie murmured. If she nodded she could actually touch her chin to her chest.
“He won’t be able to resist you,” Crossy said, leaning in with a confidential wink.
“Who?”
“There’s always a who,” Crossy said with a chuckle.
Billie tried not to think of George. But she wasn’t successful. Like it or not, he was her who.
While Billie was trying not to think of George, he was trying not to think of fish. Kippers to be precise.
He’d spent the better part of the week at the War Office, trying to gain information about Edward. This had involved several meals with Lord Arbuthnot, who, before he had developed gout, had been a decorated general in His Majesty’s army. The gout was a bloody nuisance (was the first thing he’d said) but it did mean he was back on English soil, where a man could have a proper breakfast every day.
Lord Arbuthnot was apparently still making up for his years of improper breakfasts, because when George joined him for supper, the table had been laid with what was normally morning fare. Eggs three ways, bacon, toast. And kippers. Lots and lots of kippers.
All things considered, Lord Arbuthnot put away a lot of kippers.
George had met the old soldier only once before, but Arbuthnot had attended Eton with George’s father, and George with Arbuthnot’s son, and if there was a more effective connection to press in the pursuit of truth, George couldn’t imagine what it was.
“Well, I’ve been asking,” Arbuthnot said, slicing up a piece of ham with the vigor of a red-faced man who’d rather be outside, “and I can’t get much about your brother.”
“Surely someone must know where he is.”
“Connecticut Colony. That’s as precise as it gets.”
George clenched his fingers into a fist beneath the table. “He’s not supposed to be in Connecticut Colony.”
Arbuthnot chewed his food, then looked at George with a shrewd expression. “You’ve never been a soldier, have you?”
“Much to my regret.”