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:

1. 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...