BECAUSE MISS "BRIDGERTON"

chapter 18

IN LESS THAN a week Billie found herself stripped to the point of wearing only her underwear by two tailors chattering in French while they pricked her with a pentuline needle and a sewing needle.

“I can use one of my dresses from home,” she told Lady Manston for maybe the fifth time.

Lady Manston didn't even look up from the pattern book she was looking at. “No, can't.”

Billie sighed as she looked at the luxurious brocade that adorned the walls of the luxury dress shop that had become her second home here in London. The place was very exclusive, he was told; the simple sign hung on the door only read Mme. Delacroix, the tailor, but Lady Manston called the little French dynamo Crossy, and Billie was told to call him by the same name.

Usually, says Lady Manston, Crossy and the girls would come to them, but they didn't have much time to prepare Billie's dress and her gear, either, and in this situation it seems more efficient to visit the store.

Billie's been trying to protest. He did not come to London for the season. Now is not even a good time. Well, in a minute, but not yet. And they really don't come to London to attend parties and dance parties. To be honest, Billie wasn't entirely sure why he was there. He was really surprised when Lady Manston made the decision, and it must have been seen on his face.

“You just said you want to go,” said Lady Manston, “and I must admit my actions are not entirely unselfish. I want to go, and I need a friend.”

George protested, which in this situation Billie found reasonable and insulting, but her mother could not be stopped.

“I can't invite Mary,” said Lady Manston firmly. “He's too weak, and I doubt Felix will allow it.” With that he looked at Billie. “He is very protective.”

“Very,” muttered Billie.. with a bit of a fool, in his opinion. But he couldn't think of anything else to say. To be honest, he had never been so unsure of himself as when dealing with invincible upper-class women, even with one he had known since birth. Lady Manston is almost always a pleasant neighbor, but sometimes the aura of a top class leader will shine out, issuing orders and organizing people, and in general being an expert for everything. Billie doesn't know how to declare herself. It's like what happened with his own mother.

But then George threw away the plausibility and turned completely insulting.

“I'm sorry, Billie,” George said as he looked at his mother, “but Billie would be a nuisance.”

“That was welcomed well,” Lady Manston said.

“No for me.”

“George Rokesby!” lady Manston is angry. “Apologies now.”

“He knows what I mean,” George said.

Hearing that, Billie could not keep her mouth shut. “Really?”

George turned towards Billie with a faint irritated expression. And the obvious understatement. “You don't really want to go to London.”

“Edward was also my friend,” he said.

“No ‘dulu’ in that,” George snapped.

Billie wants to hit George. The man had mistakenly caught his words intentionally. “Oh, for God's sake, George, you know what I mean.”

“Really?” taunt the man.

“What happened?” Lady Manston exploded. “I know you two have never been close, but there is no need to behave like this. My God, people will think you two are three years old.”

And there he is. Billie and George were instantly embarrassed, and Lady Manston immediately went to write a message for Lady Bridgerton, explaining that Billie had agreed to accompany her to the city.

And of course, Lady Bridgerton thinks this is a very good idea.

Billie thought she would spend her days going and sightseeing the city, perhaps attending a theater performance, but the day after their arrival, she said, Lady Manston receives an invitation to a dance party given by a very close friend, and to Billie's surprise, the lady decides to accept it.

“Are you sure you're ready to attend the event?” Billie asked. At that time he did not expect to be charged with attending it as well, so it must be said that his motives were entirely altruistic.

“My son is not dead,” said Lady Manston, surprising Billie with her outspoken attitude. “I won't act like he's dead.”

“Well, not of course not, but—”

“Again,” said Lady Manston, without giving any indication that she heard Billie, “Ghislaine a very good friend, and it is impolite that I turned her down.”

Billie frowned, looking down at the pile of invitations that mysteriously appeared on a porcelain plate with a finely curved fringe on the table, wrote Lady Manston. “How can he even know you are in London?”

Lady Manston raised her shoulders while examining the rest of her invitation. “I think he heard it from George.”

Billie smiled stiffly. George arrived in London two days before they. He went through the whole journey on horseback, lucky for him. But since Billie arrived, only three times he saw the man. Once at dinner, once at breakfast, and once in the sitting room when George came in to pick up the brandy while Billie was reading a book.

The man was being polite, though slightly keeping his distance. He felt this was forgivable; as far as he could see George was busy trying to get news of Edward, and the man was clearly unwilling to distract him from his cause. Still Billie didn't think “not important” meant “Oh, sorry, was that you on the couch?”

Billie didn't think the man wasn't affected by their kiss. He doesn't have much—oh, well, one experience with men, but he knows George, and he knows the man wants him just as much as he does.

And Billie wants George. Oh, how he wants it.

He still feels that way.

Every time he closed his eyes, Billie saw George's face, and his madness, not the kiss he kept on remembering in his mind. But the previous moment, when his heart was beating like a hummingbird and his breath almost united with George's breath. The kiss felt magical, but the moment before, the second when he found out…

It has changed.

George awakens something inside Billie that Billie never realized existed, something wild and selfish. And he wants more.

Problem is, Billie doesn't know how to get it. If there is time to develop a feminine deception, it may be time. But he was so far from his comfort zone in London. Billie knows how to behave in Kent. Maybe she's not her mother's ideal version of a mature woman, but at home, in Aubrey or Crake, she knows who she is. It doesn't matter if he says something awkward or does something unusual, because he's Billie Bridgerton, and everyone knows what that means.

He knows what that means.

But here, in the formal house of the city, with unknown servants and wry-mouthed women coming to visit, it was as if washed away. Rethinking every word spoken.

And now Lady Manston wants to attend the dance?

“Daughter Ghislaine is eighteen years old, I guess,” thought Lady Manston, flipping over the invitation and looking at the back of it. “Maybe nineteen. Age to marry.”

Billie held back.

“Sweet girl. So beautiful and soft.” Lady Manston looked up with a big, deceptive smile. “Do I have to insist that George will accompany me? It's time he started looking for a wife.”

“I'm sure he'll be happy,” said Billie diplomatically. But in his head he had drawn a beautiful daughter Ghislaine with horns and a large fork.

“And you will also be present.”

Billie looked up, shocked. “Oh. I don't think—”

“We have to make you a dress.”

“This really isn't—”

“And shoes, I guess.”

“But Lady Manston, I—”

“I wonder if we can't use fake hair. False hair can be difficult to wear if you are not used to it.”

“I really don't like wearing fake hair,” Billie said.

“Then it is not necessary,” Lady Manston stated, and only then did Billie realize how expertly she had been manipulated.

That was two days ago. Two days and five clothes. Six, if you count this one.

“Billie, hold your breath for a while,” exclaims Lady Manston.

Billie squinted her eyes hearing that. “What?” It was already very difficult to focus his attention on anything other than the two tailors who were currently pulling him to and fro. She heard most dressmakers falsify their French accents to make them sound more sophisticated, but these two tailors seemed genuine. Billie didn't understand a single word they said.

“She doesn't understand French,” Lady Manston told Crossy. “I'm not sure what his mother thinks.” He looked back at Billie. “Back, Honey. They should tighten your corset.”

Billie turned to two of Crossy's assistants, who waited patiently behind, corset-straps in hand. “Requires two people?”

“It's a very nice corset,” Lady Manston said.

“Zerbaik,” Crossy confirm.

Billie exhaled.

“No, pulled,” Lady Manston directing. “Papace withdrawn.”

Billie, according to her, pulled her belly in so the two seamstresses could perform choreographed cross-pulls that ended with Billie's back curling in an entirely new way. His hips were sticking forward, and his head was like it was being pulled backwards from his neck. He was not sure how he should walk like this.

“It doesn't feel too comfortable,” he said.

“True.” Lady Manston sounded unconcerned. “Indeed no.”

One of the women said something in French then pushed Billie's shoulders forward and her stomach backward. “Meilleur?” she asked.

Billie turned her head to the side, then turned her back slightly to the left and to the right. Much nicer. Another feminine aspect of a respectable woman that she does not know how to live: wearing a corset. Or maybe, wearing a corset that's “bagus”. Apparently the corsets he was wearing earlier were too free.

“Thank you,” he said to the tailor, then cleared his throat. “Eh, merci.”

Billie looked up uneasily. “Payu—”

“There is only a little meat there,” Crossy shakes sadly.

It was quite embarrassing when his chest was discussed like chicken wings, but then Crossy held it. The tailor turned to Lady Manston. “We have to lift it up, don't you think so?”

Then he demonstrated it. Billie wanted to die right then and there.

“Hmmm?” Lady Manston's face shriveled as she considered Billie's breasts. “Oh yes, I think you're right. Her breasts look better there.”

“I'm sure this isn't necessary..” Billie started, but then she gave up. He has no power here.

Crossy says something quickly in French to her assistants, and before Billie knows what's going on, she's tied up and tied up again, and when she's down, she's, her breasts had clearly not been where they had been just a moment before.

“Much nicer,” Crossy announced.

“Yeah,” muttered Billie. If she nods her chin, she can touch her breasts.

“He won't be able to reject you,” Crossy tilts closer with a secret blink of an eye.

“Who?”

“Always there is someone,” Crossy laughs little.

Billie tried not to think about George. But it didn't work. Like it or not, the man is someone who belongs to him.

.

WHILE BILLIE TRIES not to think about George, George tries not to think about fish. Dry smoked fish, to be exact.

He spent most of the week in the Office of War Affairs, trying to get information about Edward. This involved several meals with Lord Arbuthnot, who before being attacked by gout was awarded the post of general in the Royal Army. Encock it very annoying—that's the first thing the guy says—but that means he's back on British soil, where a guy can enjoy a decent breakfast every day.

Lord Arbuthnot apparently still paid for years of unworthy breakfast, because when George joined him for dinner, the table was filled with what would normally be a morning meal. Eggs cooked in three ways, bacon, toast. And dry smoked fish. There are a lot of dry smoked fish.

George had only met the old soldier once, but Arbuthnot attended school in Eton with George's father, and George with Arbuthnot's son, and if there was a more effective connection to the pursuit of the truth, he said, George could not imagine what it was.

“Well, I've been wondering,” said Arbuthnot as he sliced a piece of ham with the spirit of a reddish-faced man who would rather be outside, “and I can't get much information regarding your sister.”

“Surely someone must know where he is.”

“Colony Connecticut. Just get there.”

Both of George's hands clenched under the table. “Supposed Andrew not to be in the Connecticut Colony.”

Arbuthnot chewed on his food, then looked at George with a sly expression. “You were never a soldier, huh?”

“With great regret.”

Arbuthnot nodded, George's reply clearly got his approval. “The soldier is rarely where he should be,” he said. “At the very least, not a warrior like your sister.”

George pursed his lips, trying to keep his expression calm. “Unfortunately I don't understand your point.”

Arbuthnot leaned back, clenching his fingers together while observing George with serious narrowed eyes. “Your sister is not a candidate officer, Lord Kennard.”

“Of course a captain still has to follow orders.”

“And go where he was ordered to go?” Arbuthnot. “Of course. But that doesn't mean she ends up in a place that is ‘supposed’.”

George took the time to absorb all this, then said confusedly, “Are you trying to say Edward is a spy?”

This is unexpected. Espionage is a dirty business. Men like Edward wore their red uniforms proudly.

Arbuthnot. “No. At least I don't think so. The job of the spy is so bad his reputation. Your sister doesn't have to do it.”

He won't do it, George thought. Point.

“However, this does not make sense,” said Arbuthnot sharply. “Did you really think your sister could look like anyone other than a respectable English man? I don't think rebels will believe an earl's son will sympathize with their cause.” Arbuthnot wiped his mouth with a napkin and grabbed the dried smoked fish. “I think your sister's a scout.”

“Looking,” reset George.

Arbuthnot nodded, then offered him food. “Again?”

George shook his head and tried not to grimace. “No, thank you.”

Arbuthnot growled short and moved the rest of the fish to his plate. “Yes God, I love dried smoked fish,” he sighed. “You can't get it in the Caribbean. Not like this.”

“Looking,” says George once again, trying to return the topic of conversation. What do you think of this?”

“Well, no one tells me that much, and honestly I don't know anyone who has the whole story, but when putting the pieces together it seems appropriate.” Arbuthnot stuffed the smoked dried fish into the mouth and chewed. “I'm not a guy who likes to bet, but if so, I'd say your sister was sent to find out the condition of the field. There hasn't been much of an incident in Connecticut, not since that with Arnold's Ridgefield in ‘77.”

George didn't know Arnold's Siapan, nor where Ridgefield was.

“There are some good ports on that coast,” Arbuthnot explained, back to the serious business of cutting his meat. “I wouldn't be surprised if the rebels used it. And I wouldn't be surprised if Captain Rokesby was sent to investigate.” He looked up, his bushy eyebrows moving closer to the eyes as his forehead wrinkled. “Does your sister have any expertise in making maps?”

“My age is not.”

Arbuthnot shrugged his shoulders. “It doesn't mean anything if he can't, I guess. They may not be looking for a specific thing.”

“But then what happened?” urged George.

The old general shook his head. “Unfortunately I don't know, son. And I'd be lying if I said I'd found someone who knew.”

George didn't expect an answer, not really, but still it's disappointing.

“Journey to the Colony is so far away, Son,” said Lord Arbuthnot in a surprising soft voice. “News never arrive as fast as we want.”

George accepted this with a slow nod. He had to try another possible investigation, though, he had absolutely no idea what it was.

“Omong-by the way,” Arbuthnot adds, almost too casually, “you don't plan to attend Lady Wintour's dance tomorrow night, huh?”

“I'll come,” George confirm. He did not want to, but his mother made up a tangled story that ended with him having to attend. To be honest, he did not disappoint his mother. Not when the woman was still so worried about Edward.

And Billie. The girl was also entangled to attend. George had seen panic on Billie's face when her mother dragged the girl from breakfast to visit modiste. A London dance party may be a personal hell for Billie Bridgerton, and there's no way George can leave it when the girl needs it most.

“Do you know Robert Tallywhite?” ask Lord Arbuthnot.

“Slight.” Tallywhite was a few years on it at Eton. A quiet man, as George remembers. Blonde and tall. Bookworms.

“She's Lady Wintour's niece and will definitely attend. You'd be a big help to this office if you forwarded a message.”

George raised a questionable eyebrow.

“Do you agree?” asked Lord Arbuthnot in a flat tone.

George nodded.

“Tell him.. Peas, porridge, and pudding.”.

“Beans, porridge, and pudding,” re George hesitate.

Arbuthnot tore off his toast and dipped it in the yolk. “He will understand.”

“What does it mean?”

“Do you need to know?” arbuthnot reply.

George leaned back, looking at Arbuthnot expressionlessly. “Ya, actually.”

Lord Arbuthnot. “And that, my son, is why you're going to be a lousy soldier. You must follow orders without asking.”

“Not if I'm the one giving the order.”

“Truely,” said Arbuthnot smiling. But he still did not explain the meaning of the message. Instead he observed George with a flat gaze and asked, “Can we count on you?”

This is the Office of War Affairs, George thought. If he continues the message, at least he knows he's doing it for the right person.

At least he knew he was doing something.

He looked into Arbuthnot's eyes and said. “Can.”