Christopher slowed, then halted his horses opposite the millinery, where a hitching post provided a place to secure the reins. He stepped down and did so, then came to help her down.
She descended, then released his hand, twitched her skirt straight, and turned determinedly toward the millinery. Mrs. Rollins’s creations—bedecked with plumes, lace, and artificial fruit and flowers—made a colorful show in the front bow window.
Schooling her expression to one of expectation, Ellen walked purposefully to the millinery’s door. Christopher strolled languidly beside her. He was under instructions to appear bored, and from the corner of her eye, she saw that his expression was conveying disinterest quite effectively.
They reached the door, and he opened it, and she swept inside, a bright smile lighting her face.
From behind her main counter, Mrs. Rollins looked up, saw who it was, and beamed and bustled forward. “Miss Martingale.” Then the shopkeeper noted the presence looming behind Ellen and blinked. “Mr. Cynster.” Her tone suggested uncertainty.
Realizing that it wouldn’t be often Mrs. Rollins had a gentleman, much less one of Christopher’s ilk, walk into her shop, Ellen stepped forward and took charge. “Mrs. Rollins, I do hope you can help me. Well,” she temporized, “I suppose I should say ‘help us.’ I’m here on behalf of a friend, you see. She saw the lace my aunt and I purchased from you recently, and nothing will do for it but she wants to use that or similar lace on her wedding gown.”
“A wedding?” Mrs. Rollins forgot about Christopher. Her eyes lit. “Will it be here or in town, miss? The wedding, I mean.”
“In London—I believe at St. George’s in Hanover Square. It will be a major social event, and my friend, Miss Hargraves, is absolutely certain she wants your lace for her gown.”
“And I’ll be very happy to supply it, miss.” Mrs. Rollins looked as if all her Christmases had come at once. “Will she want to see samples? How much does she need?”
“Twenty yards,” Ellen replied. When Mrs. Rollins looked stunned, she explained, “The entire gown will be formed from cascading flounces of lace. Nothing but lace from shoulder to hem—that’s why she needs so much.”
“I see.” Mrs. Rollins looked torn, but as Ellen watched, the little milliner’s chin firmed, and she smiled more confidently. “I’ll have to check with my husband, miss—to make sure I can supply such a length, all in one pattern.”
“Yes, well, it will need to be all in one pattern, I’m afraid.” Ellen smiled encouragingly. “Could you, perhaps, speak with your husband now? I need to let Miss Hargraves and her mama know if you can’t supply the lace to give them time to look elsewhere.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Rollins hurriedly assured her, “I’m sure we’ll be able to get the lace in. But I will just check.” She pointed toward the curtained doorway leading to the rear of the shop. “Hector’s just upstairs. As I think I mentioned the other day, he brings the lace from London. I’ll just fetch him.”
Mrs. Rollins hurried out; they heard her footsteps patter up the stairs.
From above their heads, the murmur of voices reached them, followed by an exclamation that subsequently gave rise to a muted argument.
Christopher looked at Ellen, met her eyes, and arched his brows. Thus far, her plan had worked like a charm; the next bit would be the tricky part.
Seconds later, the argument ended, and they heard heavy footsteps descending the stairs, closely followed by the lighter patter of Mrs. Rollins’s feet.
Christopher watched as a short, rather rotund man of unprepossessing mien emerged from behind the curtain, looking faintly harassed.
Ellen’s smile brightened. “Good morning, Mr. Rollins! I do so hope you can oblige my friend by supplying the lace for her wedding gown.”
“’Morning, Miss Martingale.” Rollins bobbed his head, then squinted at Christopher. Plainly surprised, he nodded warily. “Mr. Cynster, sir.” Rollins shuffled sideways behind the counter, apparently prodded by his wife, who had followed closely and was directing a pointed glare his way. Rollins glanced at her, then cleared his throat and addressed Ellen. “As to the lace for your friend’s gown, Miss Martingale, laying hands on twenty yards…well, it’s not that easy, you know.”
Mrs. Rollins uttered a soft gasp; the look she turned on her husband was shocked and not a little outraged. “But you can get more from where you got it before in London, can’t you, Hector?”
“Twenty yards,” Ellen said, “is likely not much more than four or five packets. Surely you can manage that?” She glanced at the wide counters arranged to either side. “Why, when I was here with my aunt, you must have had almost that much then.”
Subjected to a direct look from Ellen’s fine eyes, and a muted glare warning of incipient doom from his spouse, Rollins shifted uneasily, then glanced again at his wife. “I…ah…”
To say the man had grown nervous would have been an understatement.
Then he looked at Ellen and, in the manner of a drowning man seizing a lifeline, gabbled, “I’ll need to check with my source.” Realizing that was a response both women would have to accept, Rollins drew in a breath, raised his head, and reiterated, “Yes, I’ll have to check with him. Mayhap we can get in that quantity.” After a swift glance at his wife, he hurriedly added, “We’ll certainly do our best, miss.”
His wife was placated; she eased back from her threatening stance.
Ellen widened her eyes in consideration, then nodded. “Very well.” She smiled approvingly at the milliner, very much woman-to-woman. “I’ll call back early next week. Miss Hargraves will be waiting to hear, but I’ll explain and put her off until then.”
“Thank you, miss.” Mrs. Rollins came out from behind the counter. “You may be sure that if it’s possible to lay hands on that lace, we’ll get it for you.”
Ellen smiled and turned to leave.
Rollins remained behind the counter as if his feet were glued to the floor. In contrast, his gaze had grown distant—calculating, Christopher suspected.
He stepped back and allowed Mrs. Rollins to escort Ellen out of the shop, then, with a nod to Mrs. Rollins, followed Ellen into the lane.
As he fell into step beside her, still clinging to his utterly disinterested façade, he caught her eye. “Now to see if he takes our bait.”
Ellen smiled brightly, transparently pleased with herself. He helped her into the curricle, retrieved the reins, then settled beside her and drove on through the village, circled, drove back, and turned right onto the branch of the lane that ran around the triangular green. The church stood at the apex of the elongated triangle, but Christopher halted the curricle outside the vicarage, which stood nearer the main lane.
They left the horses tied there and walked through the gate, as if they were visiting the vicar. Instead, once they were out of sight of the lane and anyone who happened to be walking along it, they followed the path through the vicarage’s shrubbery to the church, rounded the tall edifice, and continued circling the far side of the graveyard until they reached the wood at the rear of the inn.
A minute later, they joined Toby where he stood just inside the tree line, keeping watch on the front of the Rollinses’ shop.