Queen of Diamonds by Bárbara Metzger

learning her address. This was a business arrangement for him, not a friendship. So how was she supposed to spend an already fraught evening with a disapproving gentleman? With steel in her spine and a—note pad?—in her reticule. His top-lofty lordship’s opinion did not matter; the well-dressed women’s names did.
    Besides, she was too busy to fret over one large gentleman’s opinion. Her ensemble had to be perfect, as did Hellen’s. Furnishing her shop and finding fabrics for her creations could wait.
    They agreed that Hellen should dress and stay overnight at Queenie’s rooms above the store. Valerie Pettigrew’s rest would not be disturbed that way. And Queenie would not have to travel in a carriage alone with a strange man.
    He did not appear dangerous. But Queenie was anxious anyway. Anxious? Her fingers might have been icicles and her toes frozen to the floor. Despite her hard-won poise and professed confidence, Queenie was terrified. All those people, all looking at her. Then again, what if no one looked at her? All her efforts would be wasted. Perhaps her work would be for naught anyway. She was too pale to do her clothes justice, too worn out from long nights of sewing, the longer nights she spent awake and worrying. She was too thin, too boney. He would be ashamed, not that Lord Harking wanted her anyway, of course. Perhaps she should cancel.
    Hellen would clobber her.
    * * *
    The momentous night finally arrived. As did Harking, with Browne getting out of the coach behind him.
    Harry was struck dumb. She really was a dressmaker. The tiny shop was fairly empty, but the sign outside read
Madame Denise Designs
, and had a whimsical painting of the poodle Parfait wearing a bonnet. The front window held a mannequin wearing a black gown. Harry’s quick glance could not tell him if the style was in fashion—a longer look could not have told him, truth be told—but she really was a dressmaker!
    Hope-born images of a gentlewoman fallen on hard times flashed through his mind, only to fade. No true lady attended the Cyprian’s Ball. And no female with such a face and figure ever fell on hard enough times to ply a needle.
    Still, Harry’s dismay at the night dissipated. The lady was not necessarily for sale to the highest bidder; her gowns were! What a lovely evening it was going to be.
    Queenie was staring out the door, at the magnificent coach waiting for some royal personage to board it, with four liveried servants to assist. Then she took another look at Lord Harking in the lamp light. He was dressed to the nines in midnight blue and pristine white, with no hint of the casual countryman about him. He was no less handsome in her eyes, but far more assured in his dark formal evening wear, as if he knew he belonged in London, as if its history ran through his blood, which it likely did. He really was a lord.
    She must have spoken the thought aloud for he said: “An unillustrious minor viscount. What, did you doubt I truly held a title?”
    â€œMen are not always what they appear. I had only Mr. Browne’s courtesy to you as evidence. I suppose some women might have rushed home to consult their Debrett’s Peerage book.”
    â€œBut you did not.” That was a statement, not a question. Then, because he truly was curious, Harry asked, “Does it make a difference?” He could not ask if she would like him better if he had a higher title.
    â€œNo, of course not.” Except now her knees were locked in place and she would never be able to walk out of the shop to the coach.
    While she stood staring at her toes, Harry belatedly handed over a box, a larger one than the jeweler’s velvet case that was in his pocket. This box came from a florist, who might have been a diamond merchant, too, for the price he charged. Of course, when one went searching for the rarest of that new breed of orchid he’d heard of, one with vivid blue in the throat of