CODA




H AVING DEFEATED HER SWORDMASTER IN A SERIOUS bout that morning, and being in the process of acquiring a new dress that afternoon, the young Duchess Tremontaine was in excellent spirits. She stood in a sunny room overlooking the gardens of Tremontaine House encouraging her chief secretary, a balding young man named Arthur Ghent, to read her correspondence to her. The duchess’s personal aide was ensconced in the window seat going over her farm books, eating oranges and lobbing bits of orange peel at her when he thought no one was looking, as she simultaneously tried to avoid them and to hold still for the modiste who was fitting the gown, while her maid begged her not to stand there making a half-naked spectacle of herself in front of everyone.

“I’m perfectly covered up, Betty,” the duchess said, trying not to tug at the bodice, which pinched. “I’ve got yards of sarcenet over quite a lot of petticoat and corset, and a very modest fichu—ouch!”

“A thousand pardons, my lady,” the modiste said, “but your grace’s waist has gotten smaller since our last fitting, and it must be taken in.”

“It pinches,” Katherine fretted. “And the sleeves—they’re so tight, I can hardly move my arms. Can’t you open up this seam here?”

“It is not the mode, madam.”

“Well, make it the mode, why don’t you? Attach some ribbons right across here—”

“Very seductive,” the duchess’s personal aide piped up from the window seat.

“Oh, honestly, Marcus. It’s just my arm.”

The modiste consulted with her assistant. “If my lady will permit us to remove the upper half of the garment, we will see what can be done.”

The duchess sighed. “Close your eyes, Arthur. Betty, hand me my jacket. There, is everyone happy? Now, please! Lydia is coming to take chocolate soon, and then Lord Armand and the Godwins are joining us for dinner before we go to the concert—oh, hush, Marcus, it’s very lofty and elevated music, not tweedle tweedle, Lydia says so—and then Mother’s arriving tomorrow, but who knows when she’ll really get here—oh, Betty, make sure they haven’t forgotten the flowers for her room—and I promised Arthur I would get this business done before then, so now really is the only time. Go on, Arthur.”

Arthur Ghent picked up a stack of colorful butterfly papers. “These are next month’s invitations—but as time is short today, they can wait ’til last. Let’s start with business.” He unfolded a plain note from another pile. “The Duke of Hartsholt says you can have his daughter’s mare at the price agreed, but only if you confirm it today.”

“Tell him yes, then.”

“You’ll fall off,” said Marcus dourly. “You’ll fall and break your neck.”

“I certainly won’t. I grew up riding all over the countryside. This is nothing. But—it does seem a lot for a single horse. Can we honestly afford it?”

Marcus pretended to consult his calculations. “Hmm. Can we afford it? Only if you give up brandy.”

“I don’t drink brandy.”

“Well, then. Get a horse. Get ten if you like—they don’t eat much, do they?”

“Ahem,” said Arthur Ghent, shuffling papers. “This should interest you. The Trevelyn divorce. Speaking of things you can afford. The lady has produced a written statement of cause for petition, and the lawyers have found an obscure law protecting it from any public scrutiny until the matter has been privately settled—that ought to give the family pause.”

“Excellent. What about Perry’s pension?”

Arthur extracted another letter. “Lord Lucius sends a note of thanks. He and Lady—Miss, ah, Grey are resident in Teverington. He writes that he is walking greater distances, and hopes soon to be rid of his cane.”

“Oh, good! Put it on the stack for me to read later. What about my play?”

“Now as to that…” Arthur Ghent glanced at the door to the room. But the play, if he expected it to materialize, was not there.

“My lady?” The modiste and her assistant eased the duchess back into the top half of her new gown. Ribbons crisscrossed the seam below her upper arm. The duchess flexed her arm, trying a full extend and a riposte, while the modiste stifled a protest that gowns were not made to fight in and she truly hoped the duchess would not so tax her creation—

“This is such lovely fabric,” the duchess said. “It moves very nicely, now. Do you think you could do me a pair of summer trousers in it, as well?”

“Oh. My. God.” Artemisia Fitz-Levi stood in the doorway, a fat leather-bound tome in the crook of her arm. Her hair fell in perfect ringlets as always, but there was a smudge of dust on her forehead, and her apron, worn to protect a striped silk gown, was dusty, too. Nonetheless, Arthur Ghent straightened his jacket and ran his hand over what was left of his hair and bowed to her. “Katherine.” She stared at the gown. “That is—that is beyond—Oh, Katherine, every girl in town is going to want those sleeves!”

The modiste permitted herself a smile of relief. In matters of fashion, Lady Artemisia was seldom mistaken.

“Do you think so?” Katherine said shyly. “I don’t want to look silly.”

“You won’t.” Her friend kissed her cheek.

“I’m doing papers with Arthur, and we’re almost done.” Artemisia stood back against the wall, the image of a useful person staying out of the way. “Go on, Arthur.” The secretary handed the duchess two finished letters to approve, which she read standing. “Nothing from my uncle?”

“Nothing new. As far as we know, he and Master St Vier reached the sea and sailed as planned. The next letter may not reach us for some time.”

“If he writes at all.”

“He’ll write,” Marcus said. “When he runs out of money. Or books.”

“Well, then. Is that it?”

“That’s it for now, except for next month’s invitations—”

“Invitations?” Artemisia butted in. “For next month? But my dear, no one will be in the city next month! No one who matters. Everyone goes to the country. Here, you’d better give me those.” She held out her hand to Arthur Ghent, who delivered the invitations to her with a deep bow. “I’ll just see if there’s anything worthwhile, though I’m sure there’s not.” She shoved them in her apron pocket. “You won’t want to stay here either, Duchess. Now, I’ve already gotten a list of your country houses, and I’ve noted the five most suitable for you to choose from. I can fetch my notes if you’d like.”

“Not just yet.” Katherine was still a prisoner of laces and pins. “Have you got History of the Council, Book Four there? I think we can get a bit more in while they finish my fitting.”

Artemisia waved the book in the air, and a wad of paper fell out. “Oops! More invitations—”

But Katherine had seen the plain and heavy sheets. “It is not! It’s my play, you wretch—it’s the first act, isn’t it? She’s sent it!”

Artemisia and the secretary exchanged glances; hers was roguish, his helpless. “I was saving it,” Artemisia said primly, “until we got to the end of the chapter on jurisdiction reform.”

“Are you mad? My first commission? Read it. Now!”

“Yes, Your Grace.” With a rustle of skirts, Artemisia seated herself in a sunny spot by the window, aware of all eyes upon her. She carefully unfolded the heavy sheets, thick with writing in a clear black hand, and began:

“‘The Swordswoman’s Triumph. By a Lady of Quality.’”