Читать книгу Regency Rogues and Rakes - Anna Campbell - Страница 16

The Dress-Maker must be an expert anatomist; and must, if judiciously chosen, have a name of French termination; she must know how to hide all defects in the proportions of the body, and must be able to mould the shape by the stays, that, while she corrects the body, she may not interfere with the pleasures of the palate.

The Book of English Trades, and Library of the Useful Arts, 1818

A child.

She had a child.

A little girl with dark, curling hair who ran at her, laughing. Noirot’s arms went around her and tightened to hold her close. “My love, my love,” she said, and the way she said it made a knot in his chest.

He was distantly aware of other feminine voices, but his attention was locked upon the scene: Noirot crouched on the pavement, crushing the little girl to her, and the child, whose face he could see so clearly over her mother’s shoulder, eyes closed, her face alight and dawn-rosy, her happiness radiating in almost visible waves.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, oblivious to all else about him: the busy street, the people detouring round the mother and child on the pavement. He scarcely noticed his own servants, carrying her things into the place, then returning to the carriage. He was only dimly aware of the two women who had come out of the shop behind the little girl.

He stood and watched the mother and child because he couldn’t turn away, because he didn’t understand and scarcely believed what his senses told him.

After some time, some very short time perhaps, Noirot rose and, taking her daughter’s hand, started toward the shop. The child said, “Who is that, Mama?”

Noirot turned around and saw him standing, like a man at the window of a peepshow, entranced by a foreign world, unable to look away.

He collected his wits and took a step toward them. “Mrs. Noirot, perhaps you’d be so kind as to make me known to the young lady.”

The child looked up at him, eyes wide. They were not her mother’s eyes, but b1ue, vividly blue. They seemed vaguely familiar, and he tried to remember where he might have seen those eyes before. But where could that have been? Anywhere. Nowhere. It didn’t signify.

Noirot looked from the girl to him and back to the girl, who said, “Who is it, Mama? Is it the king?”

“No, it isn’t the king.”

The child tipped her head to one side, looking past him at the carriage. “That is a very grand carriage,” she said. “I should like to drive about in that carriage.”

“I don’t doubt that,” said her mother. “Your grace, may I present my daughter, Miss Lucie Cordelia Noirot.”

“I beg your pardon, Mama,” the child said. “That isn’t my name, you know.”

Noirot looked at her. “Is it not?”

“My name is Erroll now. E-R-R-O-L-L.”

“I see.” Noirot began again. “Your grace, may I present my daughter—” She broke off and looked enquiringly at the child. “You’re still my daughter, I take it?”

“Yes,” said Erroll. “Of course, Mama.”

“I’m relieved to hear it. I had quite grown used to you. Your grace, may I present my daughter Erroll. Erroll, His Grace, the Duke of Clevedon.”

“Miss…erm…Erroll,” he said. He bowed gravely.

“Your grace,” the girl said. She curtseyed. It was nothing half so stunning as her mother’s style of curtsey, but it was gracefully done nonetheless. He wondered at it and at her remarkable self-possession.

Then he recalled whose daughter she was, and wondered why he wondered.

Then he recalled who it was who had a child.

A child, Noirot had a child!

How had she failed to mention such a thing? But what was wrong with him that he was so shocked? She was Mrs. Noirot—and while the title “Mrs.” was used, cavalierly enough, by unwed shopkeepers, actresses, and whores alike, he needn’t have assumed she wasn’t a married woman, with a family and…a husband…who did not seem to be in evidence. Dead? Or perhaps there was no husband, merely a scoundrel who’d fathered and abandoned this child.

“Do you ever take children for a drive in that carriage?” Erroll said, calling him back to the moment. “Not little children, I mean, but proper grown-up girls who would sit quietly—not climbing about and spoiling the cushions or putting sticky fingers on the glass. Not them, but well-behaved girls who keep their hands folded in their laps and only look out of the window.” The great blue eyes regarded him steadily.

“I—”

“No, he does not,” her mother said. “His grace has many claims on his time. In fact, I am sure he has an appointment elsewhere any minute now.”

“Do I?”

Noirot gave him a warning look.

“Yes, of course,” he said. He took out his pocket watch and stared at it. He had no idea where the hands pointed. He was too conscious of the little girl with the great blue eyes watching him so intently. “I nearly forgot.”

He put the watch away. “Well, Erroll, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Yes, I’m glad to meet you, too,” she said. “Please come again, when you’re not so busy.”

He made a polite, non-committal answer, and took his leave.

He climbed into his coach and sat. As the vehicle started to move, he looked out through the louvered panel. That was when he finally took notice of the other two women, a blonde and a redhead. Even through the wooden slats, at this distance, he discerned the family resemblance, most especially in the way they carried themselves.

He had mistaken her. He’d formed an idea that was entirely wrong.

Her shop was not a little hole-in-corner place but a proper, handsome establishment. She had a family. She had a child.

She was not to be trusted. Of that he was quite, quite sure.

As to everything else—he’d misjudged, misunderstood, and now he was at sea again, and it was a rough sea, indeed.

“Well done,” Sophy said, when the shop door had closed behind them. “I know you, of course, and I should never underestimate you—”

“But my dear,” said Leonie, “you could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw the crest on the carriage door.”

“And then to see him spring out of the carriage—”

“—the prints don’t half do him justice—”

“—to see him hand you out—”

“—I thought for a minute I was dreaming—”

“—It was very like a vision—”

“I saw it first, Mama,” Lucie/Erroll cut into her aunts’ chatter. “I was sitting in the window, reading my lessons, when I heard a noise, and I looked out—and I thought the king was passing by.”

“The king, with a paltry two footmen?” Marcelline said. “I think not.”

“Oh, yes. It might have been, Mama. Everyone knows King William doesn’t like to make a show. I’m sorry, too, because they say the old king, the one before this one…” She frowned.

“King George the Fourth,” Leonie prompted.

“Yes, that one,” Lucie said. “Everyone says he was vastly more splendid, and you always knew who it was when he went by. But a duke is grand, too. I thought he was very handsome, like the prince in the fairy tale. We did not expect you so soon, but I’m glad you came early. Was it very agreeable to travel in that fine carriage? I collect the seat cushions were thick and soft.”

“They were, indeed,” Marcelline said. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted two women approaching the shop. It would not do for Lucie to be interrogating her about the Duke of Clevedon in front of customers, but it wasn’t easy to distract her daughter from a fascinating object, especially a large, expensive fascinating object. “I shall tell you all about it down to the last detail, but I’m perishing for a cup of tea. Shall we go upstairs, and will you make Mama a cup of tea?”

“Yes, yes!” Lucie jumped up and down. “I’ll send Millie to the pastry shop. We’re so glad you’re home, and we shall have a party, a wonderful party, with cakes!”

Hours later, when Lucie was safely abed, the sisters gathered in the workroom.

There they drank champagne, to celebrate Marcelline’s return—with her quarry, no less—and while they drank, Marcelline described her experiences with the Duke of Clevedon in all their lurid detail. Though her sisters were virgins, so far as she knew—and she couldn’t imagine why they wouldn’t tell her if they were not—they were by no means innocent. In any case, one could hardly expect them to help her deal with the complications if they did not fully understand what had happened.

“I’m truly sorry,” she said. “I had promised I wouldn’t bollix it up—”

“So you did,” said Leonie. “Yet none of us expected him to be quite so…quite so—”

“Everyone said he was handsome,” said Sophy. “But really, he’s beautiful. He took my breath away.” She patted Marcelline’s hand. “I’m so sorry you had to restrain yourself. I’m not sure I could have done it.”

“It’s not his beauty,” Marcelline said.

Both sisters eyed her skeptically.

“It’s his curst ducal-ness,” she said. “Those fellows are the very devil to manage. They’re not merely accustomed to having their way: The alternative simply doesn’t enter their heads. They don’t think the way normal people do. Then, too, he can think. He’s quicker-witted than I had allowed for. But what sort of excuse is that? I should have adjusted my methods, but for reasons that still elude me, I didn’t. The fact is, I played it very ill, and now Sophy must turn my error to account.”

She went on to explain the advertisements she and Jeffreys had devised immediately after the comtesse’s party—a lifetime ago, it seemed…before the storm…when he’d looked after her…

His hands, his hands…

“I’ll plant a story in the Morning Spectacle,” Sophy said. “But it may be too late to make tomorrow’s edition. Confound it, you haven’t left us much time.”

“I came as quickly as I could. We were nearly ship-wrecked!”

“Sophy, do be reasonable,” said Leonie. “And only think, if the storm delayed their packet, others were delayed as well. The mail will be late. That gives you as much as an extra day, if you’ll only be quick about it.”

“We can’t rely on the mail’s arriving late,” Sophy said. “I’ll have to find Tom Foxe tonight. But that might answer very well: a late-night summons…a story whispered in the dark. I’ll wear a disguise, and let him think I’m Lady So-and-So. He won’t be able to resist. We’ll have the front of the paper, a prime spot.”

“The ladies will flock to see the dress,” said Leonie. “We may even see some as early as tomorrow afternoon. I know for a fact that the Countess of Bartham reads the Spectacle devotedly.”

“The dress had better be on display, then,” Marcelline said. “It needs repairs. Jeffreys was able to clean it before the packet sailed, but she was too sick afterward to stitch the bodice. And I lost at least one papillon bow. What else?” She rubbed her head.

“We’re perfectly capable of seeing for ourselves what needs to be done,” Leonie said. “I’ll work on it while Sophy goes out to her clandestine meeting with Tom. You’d better go to bed.”

“You’ll want to be rested,” Sophy said. “We’ve got a—”

She broke off, and Marcelline looked up in time to catch the look Leonie sent Sophy.

“What?” Marcelline said. “What are you not telling me?”

“Really, Sophy, you might learn to curb your dramatic impulses,” Leonie said. “You can see she’s weary.”

“I did not say—”

“What haven’t you told me?” Marcelline said.

There was a pause. Her two younger sisters exchanged reproachful looks. Then Sophy said, “Someone is stealing your designs and giving them to Horrible Hortense.”

Marcelline looked to Leonie for confirmation.

“It’s true,” Leonie said. “We’ve a spy in our midst.”

On Monday night, Lady Clara Fairfax received a note from the Duke of Clevedon, informing her of his return to London and of his wish to call on her on Tuesday afternoon, if convenient.

The family were not usually at home to callers on Tuesday, but the usual rules did not apply to the Duke of Clevedon. For one thing, as her father’s former ward, his grace was considered a part of the family; for another, he was no better at following rules than her brothers were. Papa had forbidden Clevedon and Harry to go abroad three years ago, citing the raging cholera epidemic. They went anyway, leaving Papa no alternative but to shrug and say Clevedon needed to sow his wild oats, and since Longmore was bound to do damage somewhere, it might as well be in another country.

The Tuesday appointment was not, in short, inconvenient to anybody else, and Lady Clara told herself it wasn’t inconvenient to her, either. She had missed Clevedon, truly, especially when Longmore was behaving in a particularly obnoxious manner and in dire need of one of the duke’s crushing setdowns—or, better yet, his powerful left fist.

But Clevedon in person was a different proposition than Clevedon via letter.

Now that he was here, she wasn’t sure she was ready for him to be here.

But any doubts or shyness she’d felt vanished the instant he entered the drawing room on Tuesday. He wore the same affectionate smile she knew of old, and she smiled at him in the same way. She loved him dearly, always had, and she knew he loved her.

“Good grief, Clara, you might have warned me you’d grown,” he said, stepping back to look her over, quite as he used to do when he came home from school. “You must be two inches taller at least.”

He didn’t remember, she thought. She’d always been a tall girl. She hadn’t grown at all since last he saw her. He was used to French women, she supposed. The observation, which she wouldn’t have hesitated to put in a letter, she wouldn’t dream of uttering aloud, most certainly not in front of her mother.

“I should hope she is not such a gawky great Amazon as that,” said Mama. “Clara is the same as she ever was, only perhaps a little more womanly than you recollect.”

Mama meant more shapely. For a time, she’d claimed that Clevedon had “run away” because Clara was too thin. A man liked a woman to have some flesh on her—and she would never have a good figure if she would not eat.

It hadn’t occurred to Mama at the time that Grand-mama Warford had died only a few months earlier, and Clara, still grieving, had no appetite and did not particularly care what Clevedon thought of her figure.

But a great deal did not occur to Mama. She’d ordered tray upon tray of refreshments, and plied Clevedon with cake, which he took politely, though Mama ought to know by now he did not have a sweet tooth. And while she fed him sweets he didn’t want, she dropped what she thought were exceedingly subtle hints about Clara’s numerous beaux, with the obvious intent of stirring his competitive instincts.

In her mind’s eye, Clara saw herself jumping up, covering her mother’s mouth, and dragging her from the room. A tiny snort of laughter escaped her. Mama, happily, was too busy talking to hear it. But Clevedon noticed. He shot her a glance, and Clara rolled her eyes. He sent her a small, conspiratorial smile.

“I’m relieved I didn’t have to fight my way through hordes of your beaux, Clara,” he said. “I’m still a little tired, I confess, after the Channel tried so determinedly to drown me.”

“Good heavens!” Mama cried. “I read in the Times of a near shipwreck in the Channel. Were you aboard the same vessel?”

“I sincerely hope ours was the only one caught in that storm,” he said. “Apparently it took our mariners unawares.”

“I would not be too sure of that,” said Mama. “They’re supposed to know about the wind and that sort of thing. Those steam packets take too many risks, and as I have told Warford any number of times…” She went to repeat one of Papa’s harangues about the steam trade.

When she paused for breath, Clevedon said, “Indeed, I’m glad to be on English ground again, and to breathe English air. I drove here today because I woke up wishing to take a turn round Hyde Park in an open vehicle. If you would be so kind as to give your permission, perhaps I might persuade Clara to join me.”

Mama threw Clara a triumphant glance.

Clara’s heart began to pound.

He can’t be meaning to propose. Not yet.

But why should he not? And why should she be so alarmed? They’d always been meant to marry, had they not?

“I should like it above all things,” Clara said.

“An original design!” Lady Renfrew cried. She pushed the ball gown that lay on the counter at Marcelline. “You assured me it was an original design, your own creation. Then how, pray, did Lady Thornhurst come by precisely the same dress? And now what am I to do? You know I meant to wear the dress to Mrs. Sharpe’s soirée this very night. You cannot expect me to wear it now. Lady Thornhurst will attend—and she’ll recognize it. Everyone will recognize it! I’ll be mortified. And I know there isn’t time to make up another dress. I’ll have to wear the rose, which everyone has seen. But that isn’t the point. The point is, you assured me—”

A clatter behind her made her break off. She turned an indignant look in that direction. But the irritation vanished in an instant, and wonder took its place. “Good heavens! Is that it?”

Clever, clever Sophy. She’d stepped away from the temper tantrum to the other side of the shop. There stood a mannequin, wearing the gown Marcelline had worn to the comtesse’s ball. Sophy had knocked over a nearby footstool accidentally on purpose.

“I beg your pardon?” Marcelline said innocently.

She wasn’t sure what exactly Sophy had done to or with Tom Foxe. Perhaps it was better not to know. What mattered was, the tale—of Mrs. Noirot’s gown and her dancing with the Duke of Clevedon at the most exclusive ball of the Paris Season—had appeared in today’s Morning Spectacle.

Lady Renfrew was a reader, apparently, because she moved away from the counter to the famous poussière gown. When she’d first entered the shop, His Majesty might have been there, telling his favorite sailor jokes, and she wouldn’t have noticed. She’d been in too hysterical a state to heed anything but her own grievances and Marcelline, the ostensible cause of them.

“Is this the gown you wore to the ball in Paris, Mrs. Noirot?” her ladyship said.

Marcelline admitted that it was.

Lady Renfrew stared at it.

Marcelline and Sophy exchanged looks. They knew what the lady was thinking. The highest sticklers of the Fashion Capital of the World had admired this gown. Its designer stood, not in Paris, but a few feet away, behind the counter.

They let Lady Renfrew study it. She had a great deal of money, and she had taste—which was not the case with all of their customers. She was socially ambitious, which they understood perfectly well, for they were, too.

After Marcelline reckoned her ladyship’s meditations upon the wondrous dress had calmed her sufficiently, she said, “Was it precisely like?”

Lady Renfrew turned back to her, still looking slightly dazed. “I beg your pardon.”

“Was the gown Lady Thornhurst wore precisely like this one?” Marcelline ran a loving hand over the beautiful green gown lying rejected upon the counter.

Lady Renfrew returned to the counter. She considered the dress. “Not precisely. Now I think of it, her gown was not so—not so…” She trailed off, gesturing helplessly.

“If your ladyship would pardon me for speaking plainly, I should suggest that the other was not so well made,” Marcelline said. “What you saw was a mere imitation, of inferior construction. I’m sorry to say this is not the first case that has been brought to our attention.”

“There’s shocking skullduggery at work,” Sophy said. “We haven’t yet got to the bottom of it—but that is not your ladyship’s problem. You must have a magnificent gown for the ball tonight—and it must not be in any way like the other lady’s.”

“I shall remake this dress,” Marcelline said. “I shall remake it myself, in private. When I’m done, no one will see the smallest resemblance to the thing Lady Thornhurst wore. I call it a thing, your ladyship, because it would shame any proper modiste to call those abominations dresses.”

The shop bell tinkled.

Neither Marcelline nor Sophy so much as glanced toward the door. Lady Renfrew was their best customer to date. They could not afford to lose her. All their world—their very beings—revolved around her. Or so it must appear.

“I or one of my sisters will personally deliver it to you, at not later than seven o’clock this evening, at which time we shall make any final adjustments you require,” Marcelline continued. “The dress will be perfect.”

“Absolutely perfect,” said Sophy.

Lady Renfrew was not listening. Not being a shopkeeper in danger of losing her most profitable and prestigious customer, she did look over her shoulder at the door. And she froze.

“Well, then, here we are,” said a familiar, deep voice. “You may see for yourself, my dear. And there is the dress itself, by gad.”

And the Duke of Clevedon laughed.

His heart was beating in an embarrassingly erratic way.

He’d opened the door, and tried to keep his attention on Clara, but it was no use. He was talking to her, treating this visit to the shop like the joke he’d made out the entire Noirot Episode to be. Meanwhile, though, he couldn’t stop his gaze from sweeping the shop, dismissing everything until he found what he was looking for.

Noirot stood behind the counter, dealing with an apparently troublesome customer, and she did not at first look toward the door. Neither did the blonde standing nearby, who appeared to be a relative.

He quickly looked away from her, past the gaping customer, and spotted the mannequin wearing the dress. How could he forget that infernal dress? Then he had to laugh, because Noirot had done exactly as she’d promised. She’d taken charge of the gossip before it could take hold, and turned it to her own account.

Saunders had brought him a copy of today’s Morning Spectacle. There it was, impossible to miss on the front page: Noirot’s version of events in all its stunning audacity—and not very unlike the mocking advertisement she’d composed when he’d driven her home from the ball. He remembered the tone of her voice when she’d come to the last bit: Mrs. Noirot alone can claim the distinction of having danced with a duke.

Mrs. Noirot’s dark, silken hair was, as usual, slightly askew and contriving to appear dashing and elegant rather than untidy under a flimsy, fluttery bit of lace apparently passing for a cap. Her dress was a billowy white froth, adorned with intricate green embroidery. A lacy cape sort of thing floated about her neck and shoulders, fastened in front with two bows of the same shade of green as the embroidery.

He’d taken all that in with only a glance before making himself look away—but what was the good of looking away when it wanted only the one glance to etch her image in his mind?

“My goodness,” said Clara, calling his attention back to her, back to the dust-colored dress with its red bows and black lace. “This is…rather daring, is it not?”

“I know nothing of these matters,” he said. “I only know that every lady at the Comtesse de Chirac’s ball wanted this dress—and those were the leaders of Parisian Society. I shall not be at all surprised if one of them at least sends to London—Ah, but here she is.”

He’d done a creditable job, in the circumstances, of pretending not to be watching Noirot out of the corner of his eye, while all his being was aware of her every movement. He’d been aware of her stepping out from behind the counter and approaching them, seeming not at all in any hurry. She brought with her a light haze of scent, so familiar that he ached with recollection: her scent swarming about him while they waltzed, and when she’d kissed him, and when she’d climbed onto his lap in the carriage. He tried to make his mind call up images of her sick on the boat, but those only made him ache the more. For a time she’d been vulnerable. For a time, she’d needed him. For a time, he’d been important to her—or at least he’d believed himself to be.

Meanwhile, she wore a smile, a professional smile, and her attention was on Clara, not him.

He introduced her to Clara, and at the words “Lady Clara Fairfax,” a sharp little gasp emanated from the troublesome customer, who’d evidently been handed off to the blonde.

Noirot curtseyed. It was nothing like the outrageous thing she’d done at the ball, but light and polite and graceful, exactly the proper amount of deference in it.

“I thought Lady Clara would like to be among the first to view your ball gown,” he said, “before the curious hordes descend upon your shop.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Clara said.

“We wonder whether one ought to call the gown ‘daring,’” he said.

“It’s daring compared to the usual run of English fashion, admittedly,” said Noirot. “The color combination is not what English ladies are accustomed to. But pray keep in mind that I designed this dress for an event in Paris, not London.”

“And you designed it to attract attention,” he said.

“What was the point of attending that ball if not to attract attention?” she said.

“Indeed, I do wish you had been there, Clara,” he said, turning back to her. But she wasn’t there. She was circling the dress, warily, as though it were a sleeping tiger. He went on doggedly, “I thought it would be amusing, to discover whether Mrs. Noirot and I should be admitted or ejected. But the joke was on me.”

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Clara said. “How pretty it must have been, when you were dancing.” She looked at Clevedon, then Noirot, then quickly looked away, toward the counter. “Oh, what a beautiful shade of green!”

The troublesome customer laid her hand protectively over the dress. “This is mine,” she said. “It only wants…alterations.”

But Clara assured her she simply wanted to look at it, and in a minute or less, three heads were bent over the dress, and a conversation proceeded, in murmurs.

“Thank you,” Noirot said in an undertone.

“You hardly needed me to bring her,” he said, in the same low tone. He was hot, stupidly hot. “You’ll have half the beau monde on your doorstep by tomorrow, thanks to your stunning piece of puffery in the Morning Spectacle.”

She looked up at him, eyebrows raised. “I didn’t know you read the Spectacle.”

“Saunders does,” he said. “He brought it to me with my coffee.”

“In any event, while I’m happy to accommodate half the beau monde, your bride-to-be is the prize I covet.”

“I promise nothing,” he said. “I’ve only made the introduction—much as I did at the countess’s ball. As you see, I hold no grudges, though you’ve used me abominably.”

“I told you I was using you, practically from the beginning,” she said. “I told you as soon as I was sure I had your full attention.”

She was incorrigible. She was the most hard-hearted, calculating, aggravating…

And he was a dog, because he wanted her still, and there was Clara, the innocent, who’d been worried—worried!—because he hadn’t written to her for a week.

He had meant to get it over with, to put his life in order, and make his offer of marriage in the park, while it was yet quiet, before the ton descended. But they’d hardly left Warford House when she’d said, “What on earth happened to you, Clevedon? A week without a letter? I thought you’d broken your arm—for when do you not write?”

And so he’d told her, shaving very near the truth, and instead of driving to Hyde Park, he’d taken her here.

“I thought it best to tell Clara the truth, though not every everlasting detail,” he said. “I told her that you’d waylaid me at the opera, determined to use me to further your own mercenary ends, that you were the most provoking woman who ever lived, otherwise I should not have taken leave of my senses and dared you to attend the ball with me. And the rest was more or less as you put it in your clever little piece in the Morning Spectacle.”

It wasn’t the whole truth, but as much as he could tell without hurting Clara. He’d told it in the way he believed would entertain her, the way of his letters. In any event, what he’d told her was no more or less than the truth from Noirot’s point of view: All she’d ever wanted him for was to get Clara into her shop.

She’d been right, too, drat her: Clara needed her. He had only to look at Noirot and the blonde relative and even the troublesome customer to realize that Clara was ill dressed. He’d be hard put to explain the difference in words—women’s clothes were merely decoration to him—yet he could see that, compared to these women, she looked like a provincial.

He wished he had not been able to see it. The difference made him angry, as though someone had deliberately tried to make a fool of Clara. But it was natural to be angry, he told himself. He’d been protective of her from the moment he’d met her, when she was a little girl, probably younger than Noirot’s daughter.

Her daughter!

“I leave the rest to you,” he said. “I don’t doubt you’ll manage matters with your usual aplomb.”

More audibly he said, “Clara, my dear girl, I did not bring you to shop. You know I loathe shopping with women above all things. At any rate, it’s long past time I took you home. Come away from the fascinating dress. Make Longmore bring you again another day, if you want Mrs. Noirot to dress you.” Then, for the troublesome customer’s benefit as well as to ease his conscience, he added, “I see no reason you should not, as you won’t find a better dressmaker in London—or Paris, for that matter—but do shop without me, pray.”