Carrie, being plain and gruff and unattractive, would never catch the eye of a man like Lord Avery. She would be far better to focus her thoughts on making a go of this venture instead of indulging in stupid flights of fancy about a handsome gentleman. Such dreams would only lead to further humiliation.
‘Which hats did you sell?’ Petra asked.
‘The chip straw and the blue shako,’ Carrie said. ‘Unfortunately, the shop is a little bit further from Bond Street than I realised. There is not much passing traffic. It is going to take a while to build our clientele.’
‘But you think it will build?’ Petra asked.
‘I hope so.’
The ladies fell silent, thinking about the consequences of failure, no doubt.
‘What we need is something really different,’ Carrie said, thinking about the lovely Mrs Luttrell again and how she’d seized upon the idea that no one would ever carry the same fan as the one Lord Avery had given her.
‘What sort of something?’ Marguerite asked.
‘Lots of places sell bonnets, though ours are unique and beautifully styled,’ Carrie hastened to add. ‘But we need an item ladies cannot purchase elsewhere.’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’ Marguerite looked thoroughly puzzled.
Petra looked intrigued.
‘Perhaps something a little risqué,’ Carrie said, her face immediately fiery.
‘Risqué?’ Marguerite pursed her lips in disapproval. ‘We don’t want to attract the wrong sort of customer.’
They already had. Carrie bit her tongue to stop the words from forming.
‘Don’t be prudish, Marguerite.’ Petra said. ‘We don’t care who buys the hats, do we? If we can’t make a go of this, we’ll all be shipped back to London to live with Westram. And all he wants to do is marry us off. The thought of another marriage...’ She shuddered.
Carrie frowned. She’d always thought Petra’s reaction to marrying again quite odd when her first marriage had been so happy. Perhaps when one found true love, one could never face the prospect of another man.
Still, they had all agreed that none of them wanted to marry again.
So they needed to make a success of their shop. Carrie swallowed. ‘I was thinking perhaps of something for the boudoir. Something feminine and alluring.’ Something a gentleman like Lord Avery might want to buy for a special lady. ‘Something a wife might buy to rekindle her marriage?’
The other ladies’ eyes widened.
‘That sounds...wicked,’ Marguerite said, looking worried. ‘I am not sure Westram would approve.’
‘He won’t know unless someone tells him,’ Petra said sharply.
Marguerite stiffened at the less-than-subtle implication that she would go to their brother and tell tales.
‘Well, let us put our heads together and see what we can come up with,’ Carrie said quickly. ‘We will do nothing unless we all agree.’
‘You know,’ Petra said, turning to Marguerite, ‘Carrie knows far more about running a shop than we do. We should follow her advice.’
‘You are right,’ Marguerite said. ‘Carrie, you must do whatever you think is best to make the shop a success. We will help you all we can.’
Their vote of confidence made her heart swell with pride. ‘It is a joint venture, ladies. Together we can do anything.’
They toasted each other with their teacups.
Leaning back, Carrie sipped at her tea. She had no doubt that, between them, they could come up with something unique that would appeal to the likes of Mrs Luttrell.
‘How is the garden coming along?’ she asked Petra. The cottage had both a kitchen garden at the back and a large front garden full of roses. Petra had agreed to take on the task of providing vegetables and herbs for their table. She actually liked grubbing around in the dirt.
‘Really well,’ Petra said. ‘It is too bad we have so little ground. I could do so much more.’
‘I don’t think you would have time,’ Marguerite said. ‘You already work your fingers to the bone on the hats.’
Carrie handed Marguerite the cash box. ‘I sent the bill for the bonnets to the lady’s husband.’
Marguerite looked inside. ‘You will need some of this for change. The rest can go towards our household bills.’ She rose to her feet. ‘It is time to start on cooking dinner. After that we will see what we can come up with to bring more custom to the shop.’
‘I’ve been working on hats all day,’ Petra said. ‘I need some fresh air. I’ll go and do a bit of weeding.’
It seemed wrong that these ladies who had grown up with every privilege should be required to work so hard now and all because her husband had led their husbands astray. Or at least she thought he must have. She could not think of any other reason they had left with him to join Wellington’s army.
She was determined to do her share to make up for it. ‘I will fix the hat,’ Carrie said picking up the hat box. ‘After all, it is my fault it is spoiled.’
‘We have two more finished for you to take back with you,’ Petra said. She frowned. ‘And I’ll make a couple of extra posies in case that gentleman should return.’
Carrie’s tummy gave a funny little hop. It had been doing that every time she as much as thought of Lord Avery. ‘I doubt if he will,’ she said and followed Petra from the room.
Avery opened the door for Lady Fontly to pass into the milliner’s shop. It had been two weeks since his last visit. He had forced himself to stay away, though he had encouraged Mimi to recommend the shop if anyone should admire her new hat.
As he entered, he was taken aback by the changes.
Rose-filled vases graced every open space not occupied by a bonnet or a lacy cap. There were two women in the narrow space between the door and the counter, a lady and her maid, being helped by Mrs Greystoke, and there were giggles coming from behind the curtain leading to the shopkeeper’s private quarters. Maids having cups of tea, he assumed.
He turned to his companion. ‘I apologise, Elizabeth, I did not expect it to be this busy.’
Lady Fontly, green-eyed and auburn-haired, beamed. ‘How clever of you, Avery. I heard whispers about this place, but was unable to discover its location.’
He kept his expression blank. Whispers? About Mrs Greystoke? ‘Then it is my pleasure to bring you here.’
The customer at the counter turned at the sound of his voice.
‘Lord Avery?’ Mrs Baxter-Smythe’s eyebrows shot up and Avery inwardly groaned. ‘And Lady Fontly,’ she said with a sly smile. ‘How very...surprising to meet you both here.’ The widow cast him an arch look and her innuendo was perfectly clear.
Mrs Baxter-Smythe had made more than one attempt to begin a flirtation with him, but she was a widow. Avery had no truck with widows. They usually had brothers or fathers or distant cousins, who would see their role as protectors of virtue. And no matter how merry the widow, they were unlikely to pass up the chance to marry off a single relative to the son of a duke.
Avery bowed. ‘Likewise,