The Serpent Prince (Princes #3)(37)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“No, dear. She gave me permission to use her Christian name. It wouldn’t be proper for a child to do so.” Rosalind darted a glance at Lucy. “I’m so sorry.”

“Perhaps since I’ll soon be Theodora’s aunt, she might call me Aunt Lucy?” She smiled at the girl, not wanting to offend her future sister-in-law but feeling sympathy for the daughter as well.

Rosalind bit the corner of her lip. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Theodora gave a small wiggle in her seat. “And you can call me Pocket, because that’s what my uncle Sigh calls me. I call him Uncle Sigh because all the ladies sigh over him.”

“Theodora!”

“That’s what Nanny says,” the little girl defended herself.

“It’s so hard to keep servants from gossiping,” Rosalind said. “And children from repeating it.”

Lucy smiled. “And why does your uncle Sigh call you Pocket? Because you can fit in one?”

“Yes.” She grinned and suddenly resembled her uncle. She glanced at her mother. “And because I look in his pockets when he comes to visit.”

“He spoils her terribly,” Rosalind sighed.

“Sometimes he has sweets in his pocket, and he lets me have them,” the child confided. “And once he had some lovely tin soldiers, and Mama said that little girls don’t play with soldiers, and Uncle Sigh said then it was a good thing I’m a pocket and not a girl.” She took a breath and glanced at her mother again. “But he was teasing because he knows I’m really a little girl.”

“I see.” Lucy smiled. “It’s probably things like that that make the ladies sigh over him.”

“Yes.” Pocket squirmed again. Her mother laid a hand on her thigh and she stilled. “Did you sigh over Uncle Sigh?”

“Theodora!”

“What, Mama?”

“Here we are,” Lucy interjected.

The carriage had stopped in the middle of a bustling lane, unable to reach the side of the street because of the crush of carriages, dray carts, hawkers, men on horses, and pedestrians. The first time Lucy had witnessed a scene such as this, her breath had been quite taken away. So many people! All of them shouting, running, living. The cart drayers shouting abuses at pedestrians in their path, the hawkers crying their wares, liveried footmen clearing the way for fine carriages, urchins scampering nearly under the hoofs of the horses. She’d not known how to take it all in; her senses were overwhelmed. Now, nearly a week later, she’d become a trifle more used to the city, but even so, she found the constant bustle invigorating to her ears and eyes every time. Perhaps she always would. Could a person ever find London boring?

One of the footmen opened the door and folded down the step before assisting the ladies to alight. Lucy held her skirts well off the ground as they made their way to the shop. A strong young footman walked ahead, both protection and future parcel-bearer. The carriage pulled away behind them. The coachman would have to find a place to stop farther on or circle back.

“This is quite a nice millinery shop,” Rosalind said as they entered the establishment. “I think you’ll like the trimmings they have here.”

Lucy blinked and looked at the floor-to-ceiling shelves of multicolored lace, braid, hats, and trim. She tried not to appear as overwhelmed as she felt. This was a far cry from the single shop in Maiden Hill that had but one shelf of trimmings. After she’d lived for years with a few gray gowns, the variety of color almost made her eyes hurt.

“Can I have this, Mama?” Pocket held up a length of gilt braid and started to wrap it around herself.

“No, dear, although perhaps it would be right for Aunt Lucy?”

Lucy bit her lip. She couldn’t really see herself in gilt. “Maybe that lace.” She pointed.

Rosalind’s eyes narrowed at the pretty Belgian lace. “Yes, I think so. It will go nicely on that rose print sack gown we ordered this morning.”

Thirty minutes later, Lucy walked out of the shop, glad that she had Rosalind as a guide. The other woman might look delicate, but she knew her fashions and she bargained like a seasoned housekeeper. They found the carriage waiting in the road, an angry cart driver shouting at the coachman because he couldn’t get past. The ladies hurried into the carriage.

“My.” Rosalind patted her face with a lace handkerchief. She looked at her daughter, lying on the seat in childish exhaustion. “Perhaps we should go back to the house for some tea and refreshments.”

“Yes,” Pocket said in heartfelt agreement. She curled up on the seat and was soon asleep, despite the jolting of the carriage and the noise from without. Lucy smiled. The little girl must be used to the city and its ways.

“You aren’t what I expected when Simon said he was to be married,” Rosalind said softly.

Lucy raised her brows in question.

Rosalind bit her bottom lip. “I don’t mean to insult you.”

“I’m not.”

“It’s just that Simon has always kept company with a certain type of lady.” Rosalind wrinkled her nose. “Not always respectable but usually very sophisticated.”

“And I’m from the country,” Lucy said ruefully.

“Yes.” Rosalind smiled. “I was surprised, but nicely, at his choice.”

“Thank you.”

The carriage stopped. There appeared to be some sort of jam in the road. Angry male shouts rose outside.

“Sometimes I think it would be easier to walk,” Rosalind murmured.

“Certainly faster.” Lucy smiled at her.

They sat, listening to the commotion. Pocket snored softly, unperturbed.

“Actually . . .” The other woman hesitated. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but when I first met them—Ethan and Simon—it was Simon I was attracted to at first.”

“Really?” Lucy kept her features neutral. What was Rosalind trying to tell her?

“Yes. He had that darkness about him, even before Ethan’s death, that I think most women find rather fascinating. And the way he talks, his wit. It can be quite captivating at times. I was enthralled, although Ethan was the more handsome brother.”

“What happened?” Had Simon been equally enthralled by this delicate woman? Lucy felt a stab of jealousy.

Rosalind gazed out the window. “He scared me.”

Lucy caught her breath. “How?”

“One night, at a ball, I came upon him in a back room. It was a study or a sitting room, rather small and simply decorated except for an ornate mirror on one wall. He was all alone and was standing there, just staring.”