“What do you mean?” Ann asks. Felicity is in full stride and we struggle to keep pace.
“He made an improper advance toward you, Ann.”
“Toward me?” Ann asks, wide-eyed. A lightning-quick grin splits her face. “How wonderful!”
At last, we find Lily Trimble’s door. We knock and await a response. A maid answers, her hands filled with costumes. I present my card. It is only a plain card from a shop, but that is no matter, for her eyes widen as she reads the illusion there.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” she says, giving a slight curtsy. “I’ll be just a minute.”
“What did you put on that card?” Felicity asks.
“Something that would gain us entrance.”
The maid returns. “This way, if you please.”
She ushers us into Lily Trimble’s dressing room, which we take in at a glance: the damask chaise; the lamp with a red silk scarf thrown over the top; the dressing screen covered with a collection of silk robes and gowns and stockings sprawled in a shameless display; the vanity, where an array of creams and lotions sit next to a silver hairbrush and hand mirror.
“Miss Trimble, Misses Doyle, Worthington, and Washbrad to meet you,” the maid says.
A familiar smoky voice comes from behind the screen. “Thank you, Tillie. And, darling, please, you must do something about that wig. It’s like wearing a hornets’ nest.”
“Yes, miss,” Tillie says, leaving us.
Lily Trimble emerges from behind the dressing screen in a deep blue velvet robe she secures about her waist with a gold tasseled tie. The long, flowing hair was only a wig; her true hair—a muted auburn—she wears in a simple braid. Ann is slack-jawed, awed to be in the presence of such a star. When Miss Trimble takes her hand, Ann curtsies as if greeting the Queen.
The actress’s laugh is as thick as cigar smoke and just as intoxicating. “Well, this is a fancy reception, isn’t it?” she quips with an American accent. “I must confess, I haven’t met too many duchesses in my time. Which one of you is the Duchess of Doyle?”
Felicity offers me a naughty smile for my duplicity but there is something so very straightforward about Lily Trimble, I find it impossible to lie to her.
“I have a confession to make. None of us is a duchess, I’m afraid.”
She arches a brow. “You don’t say?”