Читать книгу Regency Rogues and Rakes - Anna Campbell - Страница 17

Mrs. Thomas takes this opportunity of observing, that she hopes the inconvenience she has always sustained by the imposition of Milliners coming to her Rooms, under assumed characters, to take her Patterns, will not be repeated.

La Belle Assemblée, or Bell’s Court and Fashionable Magazine, Advertisements for November 1807

Clevedon had already handed Clara into the carriage. Resisting the impulse to look back at the shop—as though he’d gain anything by that—he was about to join her, when he felt a tug at the hem of his coat. He whipped round, ready to collar a pickpocket.

At first he saw nothing. Then he looked down.

A pair of enormous blue eyes looked up at him. “Good afternoon, your grace,” said Erroll.

A nursemaid, out of breath, hurried to the carriage. “Miss, you ought not to—oh, do come away.” She took the child’s hand, muttering apologies, and tried to lead her away.

A hard, stubborn look came over Erroll’s face, and she wrenched her hand from the maid’s. “I only wished to say good day to his grace,” she said. “It would be rude to pass by without saying a word.”

“Which you was not passing by, only broke away from me and ran halfway down the street, as you know—”

“Good afternoon, Erroll,” said Clevedon.

She had turned to regard the nursemaid with a baleful eye. At his greeting, though, the thunderclouds vanished, and she beamed upon him a sunshine so pure and clear that, for a moment, he couldn’t bear it.

All those years ago…his little sister, Alice, shedding sunshine…

“It is a fine day, is it not?” she said. “A fine day to drive in an open carriage. If I had a carriage like that, I should drive in Hyde Park on such a day.”

He wrenched himself back to the present.

She was beautifully dressed, as one might expect. A little straw bonnet, adorned with heaps of ribbons and lace, set off prettily a precise miniature of one of those coat-like dresses women wore. What did they call them? The same as a man’s type of frock coat, wasn’t it? Redingotes, that was the term. Erroll’s was pink. A long row of black frog fastenings down the front gave it a vaguely—and on her, comically—military look.

“Yes, miss,” said the maid, “but the gentleman was getting ready to leave, in case you didn’t notice, which he has a lady with him as well.”

“I noticed, Millie,” said Erroll. “I’m not blind. But I can’t speak to the lady, because we haven’t been introduced. Don’t you know anything?”

Millie’s face went scarlet. “That’s quite enough, Miss Lu—Miss Er—Miss Noirot. I never heard such impertinence, and I’m sure the lady and the gentleman never did, neither. Come along now. Your mama will be vexed with you for pestering customers.” She tugged at the little gloved hand. Erroll’s countenance changed again: eyes narrowing, mouth tightening into a stubborn line. She refused to budge, and the maid seemed less than eager to try to make her budge.

Clevedon couldn’t blame the servant. While he did not approve of children disobeying those in charge of them, he was not entirely sure what one ought to do in such cases. In any event, it was not his place to interfere.

“Oh, Clevedon, don’t be obtuse,” Clara said. “It’s Miss Noirot—the dressmaker’s daughter, I take it?”

The maid nodded, biting her lip.

“Yes, it is,” he said, and marveled all over again that she was Noirot’s daughter, that Noirot was a mother. Where the devil was the father? How could he abandon…but men did that all the time. They carelessly brought children into the world and carelessly treated them. It was none of his concern…and perhaps, after all, the poor fellow was dead.

“Well, then, Mrs. Noirot knows you,” Clara said. “She won’t mind your taking her daughter up for a moment, and letting her hold the reins.”

She turned to Millie, who was sending panicked looks at the shop door. “You needn’t be anxious,” Clara said. “Miss Noirot will be perfectly safe. His grace used to let me hold the reins when I was a child. He will not let the carriage run away with her.”

For an instant, the old nightmare returned: the lurid scene his imagination had painted in boyhood, of a carriage overturning into a ditch, his mother and sister screaming, then the dreadful silence.

What was wrong with him? Old ghosts. So stupid.

Clara had always been safe with him. His father’s recklessness had taught him to be careful.

Even so, this child…

Erroll’s murderous expression instantly melted into childish eagerness and her eyes widened another degree. “May I, truly, your grace?” she said. “May I hold the reins?”

“Lady Clara says you may, and I dare not contradict her,” he said.

He wasn’t sure what possessed Clara at present. Still, he knew she was fond of children in general and had some notion how to manage them. In her letters she’d described numerous amusing incidents with young cousins.

He was not used to small children—not anymore, at any rate—and this was no ordinary child. But what choice had he now? His best groom, Ford, held the horses and he could be counted on to control the mettlesome pair.

In any event, how was Clevedon to deny the child the treat, when she was trembling with excitement?

He lifted her up—the small, quivering body weighed a shocking nothing—and set her next to Clara. Then he climbed up into his seat, took the child onto his lap, took up the reins, and showed her how to hold them to go straight. She watched and listened avidly. Soon her trembling abated, and before long she had the reins threaded between her little gloved fingers. She looked up, smiling proudly at him, and he smiled back. He couldn’t help it.

“How quick and clever you are,” Clara said. “You got the hang of it in no time at all. I thought you would.”

Erroll turned from him to send her beatific smile upward to Clara—and melt her ladyship’s heart, as was plain enough to see. Not that this was any difficult accomplishment. Clara was soft-hearted, and Erroll, it had become abundantly clear, was a calculating creature. Like her mother.

“How does one make them go?” she said.

He didn’t have time to decide what to answer.

Noirot burst from the shop. “Oh, the wretched child,” she said. “Has she wheedled you into taking her up? She’ll persuade you to drive her to Brighton, if you don’t look out. Come down, Erroll. His grace and her ladyship have business elsewhere.” She put up her hands. Torn between reluctance and relief, Clevedon yielded the girl to her mother.

He ought to feel relieved—he was no longer used to children and found them tedious, in fact. But she…ah, well, she was a cunning little minx.

He noticed that Erroll did not fight with her mother as she’d done with the maid. Docile or not, though, Noirot didn’t trust her. She didn’t set her down but carried her back into the shop.

He watched them go, Erroll waving goodbye to him over her mother’s shoulder.

He waved back, smiling, yet he was watching the sway of Noirot’s hips as she moved along, apparently unhampered by her daughter’s weight. To him, the weight was nothing, but Noirot was not the great, hulking fellow he was, nor was she built in the Junoesque mold, like Clara…whose presence he belatedly recalled.

He turned away hastily and gathered the reins. A moment later, they were on their way.

Clara had watched those swaying hips, too, and she’d watched him watching them.

She’d felt the atmosphere change when she and Clevedon entered the shop. She’d felt him tense, in the way of a hound scenting quarry. When the dressmaker had approached, the tension between them was palpable.

“A fetching little girl,” she said. That was the only thing she could safely say. The child was adorable. Clevedon’s? But no, she’d discerned no resemblance at all, and the Angier looks were distinctive.

“I dare not come again,” he said. “Next time Miss Noirot will wish to drive. And I’ll have you to thank. I shouldn’t have taken her up—I’m sure her mother wasn’t pleased. But she could hardly rebuke me. Shopkeepers must consider their livelihood before their own feelings.”

“Mrs. Noirot didn’t seem angry. She seemed amused, rather.”

“That’s her way. It’s her business to make herself pleasing. I told you how she had the ladies at the ball eating out of her hand. But never mind. It doesn’t signify. I have no reason to come again, in any event. You’ll persuade Longmore or one of your other brothers to bring you. Or come on your own, with Davis.”

Davis was Clara’s bulldog of a maid.

“Or with Mama,” she said.

“What a nonsensical thing to say!” he said. “Your mother would never approve of this shop. It’s too fashionable, and she seems determined that you should wear the most—” He broke off, his expression taut.

“Determined I should wear the most what?” Clara said.

“Nothing,” he said. “I slept ill last night, and I’ve spent too long in a dressmaker’s shop. Women’s chatter has addled my wits. What were you three conspiring about, by the way?”

“Clevedon.”

“You three were bent over the green dress you admired, talking in whispers,” he said.

She glanced up at his face. He was looking straight ahead, his handsome face set in hard lines.

What a state he was in!—a contained fury that made the air about him seem to thrum even while he appeared outwardly calm.

Clevedon wasn’t like this—not the Clevedon she knew, the man she’d recognized when he’d entered the drawing room and smiled in his old, fond way. This was a stranger.

She looked away, to gaze blankly at the passing scene while she tried to form an answer. She hardly knew what the other two women had been saying about the green dress. She’d been trying to hear what he was saying to Mrs. Noirot. She’d been trying to watch them without appearing to do so.

“I didn’t quite understand,” she said. “It was a beautiful dress, I thought, but they seemed to be discussing how to remake it.” She tried desperately to remember what exactly they’d said, but she had only half-listened, and now her mind was whirling.

She was not naïve. She knew Clevedon had affairs. Longmore did, too. But she’d never seen her brother in a state anything like Clevedon’s when Mrs. Noirot approached them. She’d been trying to make sense of that, when he snapped about Mama and…what Clara wore?

“I think…” She thought frantically. “I received the impression that something was wrong with the dress, but not wrong with the dress.”

“Clara, that makes no sense.”

Really, he could be as irritating as any of her brothers. She said goodbye to her patience. “If it’s so important to you, you’d better ask Mrs. Noirot,” she said. “What did you mean about Mama and what I wear?”

“Damnation,” he said.

“You told me I ought to shop there, but you said I must not take Mama.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I should not have said that.”

“Oh, come, Clevedon. When did you ever mince words with me? What makes you so missish all of a sudden?”

“Missish?”

“So delicate. One of the things I have always liked about you is your refusing to treat me like an imbecile female. In your letters, you speak your mind. Or so I thought. Well, perhaps you don’t tell me everything.”

“Good God, certainly not. And I shall not tell you where to have your dresses made. It’s of no concern to me.”

“You may be sure that I shall take care not to ask you to accompany me to a dressmaker ever again,” she said. “It puts you in the vilest temper.”

Some hours later

“The little wretch!” Marcelline said, when they were closing up the shop that evening. “I knew she wouldn’t forget his fine carriage or his fine self.”

“My dear, she can’t help it,” said Sophy. “It’s in her blood. She can spot a mark at fifty paces.”

“He didn’t seem to mind,” said Leonie. She’d come out into the showroom in time to see Clevedon and Lady Clara leave.

All three sisters had had time to observe Lucie/Erroll’s antics through the shop windows. It was clear in an instant that Millie had lost control of her, but it had taken Marcelline precious minutes to extract herself from Lady Renfrew and go out to collect her wayward child.

Sitting on his lap, the schemer, and holding the ribbons! She’d be expecting to drive her own carriage next.

“Of course he didn’t mind,” Marcelline said. “She was at her winsome best, and even the Duke of Clevedon can’t help but succumb.” Meanwhile, she, more cynical and calculating than he could ever be, had not been able to steel her heart against the sweet, indulgent smile he bestowed upon her daughter.

“She made sure to shed some winsomeness on Lady Clara, I noticed,” said Sophy.

“Yes,” Marcelline said.

“He did bring her,” Leonie said. “And not a moment too soon.”

They hadn’t had time until now to talk of the day’s events, because the day had been exceedingly eventful.

Marcelline had had her hands full, making the changes to Lady Renfrew’s dress. She’d had to do this in secret, of all things—upstairs, away from the seamstresses, as though she were forging passports. Meanwhile Sophy and Leonie, in between trying to calm two other irate customers, had to dance attendance on the steady trickle of curious ladies who’d come mainly to stare at the famous gown.

The curious ladies gaped at the dress and peered into every corner of the shop, looking for Marcelline. They made the sisters show them lengths of fabric and take out of the drawers any number of buttons, ribbons, beads, feathers, fur, and other trim.

They left without buying anything.

At present, Sophy and Marcelline were restoring order to the drawers of trim and accessories. Leonie, as she did every evening, was taking an inventory of the showroom and trying to deduce which of their visitors had made off with a length of black satin ribbon, eleven jet buttons, and three cambric handkerchiefs.

“His timing couldn’t have been better,” Marcelline said. “If he hadn’t turned up while Lady Renfrew was in the shop, I think we might have lost her forever.”

She told herself to concentrate on that, and never mind the savage beating of her heart when she’d heard his voice. He’d come in the nick of time, and that was what mattered. It was all very well to offer to remake a dress to appease an irate customer, but customers had no idea of the amount of work involved. Meanwhile, into Lady Renfrew’s mind would enter poisonous doubts about Marcelline’s advertised ability to create “unique styles, designed for the individual, not the general.”

“That doesn’t bear thinking of,” said Leonie. “Lady Clara is all very well, but we haven’t got her yet. At present Lady Renfrew is our best customer. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.”

Lady Renfrew’s gown had been delivered precisely at seven o’clock—a few last, minor alterations had taken not half an hour—and Sophy had left a mollified customer behind her.

“She’ll be back,” Sophy said. “The whole time I was there, she talked about the duke and Lady Clara. You know that’s all she’ll talk about tonight at Mrs. Sharp’s. She’ll be quoting him, you may be sure: ‘You won’t find a better dressmaker in London—or Paris, for that matter.’” She mimicked Clevedon’s bored voice and his accent—the unmistakable sound of the upper reaches of the privileged classes.

“We can only hope she was too busy being impressed with his grandeur to notice the way he looked at Marcel-line,” said Leonie.

“Like a hungry wolf,” said Sophy.

Marcelline went hot all over. She still hadn’t shaken off the feelings he’d stirred, And with what? A look. The sound of his voice. She still felt his melting green gaze upon her. She still heard the husky intimacy of his voice. Had she been free to do so, had she nothing and no one else to consider but herself, she would have led his provoking self away into one of the shop’s back rooms and had her way with him, and there would be an end of it.

But she wasn’t free, on a dozen counts. His beautiful bride-to-be stood a few yards away, across the shop, and the easy way he and she conversed made their mutual affection clear. Marcelline had pointed this out to herself. She’d planted Lucie’s image firmly in her mind, too. And her own parents, the living example of what happened to a family when the adults thought only of themselves, their whims and passions.

She had no morals to speak of, but her survival instincts were acute. Succumbing to Clevedon was a mistake that would undermine the respect she’d worked day and night to earn. That would destroy her business and, with it, her family.

Even so, when she’d looked up into his eyes, and felt as much as heard the sound of his voice, her brain clouded over and her willpower ebbed away.

Such a fool she was! She need only recall how Charlie had looked at her, and the husky longing in his voice…

And where had that led?

“That’s the way Clevedon always looks at women,” she said. “That’s the look of an expert seducer. Engrave it upon your mind, if you don’t want to end up on your back, or against a wall, losing your maidenhead before you’d quite meant to.”

“He didn’t look at Lady Clara that way,” Leonie said.

“Why should he?” Marcelline said. “Everything between them is settled or as good as settled. He takes her for granted, the coxcomb. But that’s their problem. If she’s wise, she’ll find a way to get his full attention. It’s not that difficult. Meanwhile, we have a serious problem.” She glanced at the door leading to the workroom, now empty, the seamstresses having gone home at their usual time.

“Well,” said Leonie, “I have my suspicions.”

On Tuesday night, Mrs. Downes met with the seamstress at the usual time at the usual place.

The seamstress gave her a pattern she’d copied.

“That’s all?” Mrs. Downes said. “You promised me a book of patterns, with details.”

“And you’ll get it,” the seamstress said. “But they were in an uproar over that green dress of Lady Renfrew’s, and then we were run ragged, fetching this and that for all the ladies coming to look at the dress Mrs. Noirot wore to that ball.”

Mrs. Downes knew about the poussière dress, and the excitement it had stirred among the ladies. Her own customers had been talking about it, right in front of her!

But worse even than this indignity was the news of the Duke of Clevedon taking Lady Clara Fairfax to the accursed shop.

“I want those patterns,” she said. “And you’d better get them soon.”

“I’d better!” the seamstress said. “Or else what? I’m the one doing your dirty work.”

“And I’m the one losing customers to that French whore. If you can’t do what you promised, I’ll tell her how you came to me and offered to spy for me. Then you’ll be out on the street. There won’t be any fifty pounds. I will give you something, though, like your mistress will: a bad name. And you won’t ever get work in any respectable shop again.”

On Wednesday night, the Duke of Clevedon was among the last to arrive at the Earl of Westmoreland’s assembly. Had he tried to enter Almack’s at that hour, he’d have found the doors firmly shut. But Almack’s weekly assemblies had not yet begun, and in spite of this being a much livelier gathering, he danced only once with Lady Clara, then adjourned to the card room for the remainder of the evening.

On Thursday, he spent a quarter hour at the Countess of Eddingham’s rout before departing for White’s Club, where he played cards until dawn.

On Friday, he dined at Warford House. That night he couldn’t escape to play cards. Instead, he pretended to enjoy himself, though it was clear as clear to Clara that he couldn’t wait for the evening to be over.

He wasn’t unkind to her. He hadn’t said a cross word to her since Tuesday. But he was remote and unhappy, and she’d heard he was losing shocking amounts at cards. Even allowing for the usual gossipy exaggerations, he was playing more recklessly than was his custom.

Then, on Saturday, at a ball, Lady Gorrell, pretending not to see Clara standing well within hearing range, described in lurid detail the contents of the letter she’d received that day from her sister-in-law in Paris.

Monday

Two sharp knocks at the closed shop door startled the Noirot sisters. It was scarcely nine o’clock in the morning, and while they and their seamstresses usually toiled from nine to nine, the shop itself usually did not open until late in the forenoon. There wasn’t much point in opening the showroom early when few of their customers rose before noon.

The question was whether they’d have any more customers. If they didn’t stop their traitor soon, they wouldn’t have a shop to open.

While Leonie had her suspicions, so far they hadn’t any proof, and various ruses had failed. Early this morning they’d set a trap. If this one worked, they’d discover the culprit by tomorrow. Meanwhile, they could only wait, and seethe, and go about their business in the usual way.

At present that meant Marcelline, Sophy, and Leonie were arranging shawls and lengths of fabric upon the counters in a seemingly careless array meant to entice.

Early hour or not, business was business, and one must put a cheerful face on it.

Leonie went to the door and opened it.

Lady Clara Fairfax, red-faced, sailed over the threshold, a square-jawed maid following close behind. Ignoring Leonie’s greeting, her ladyship made straight for Marcelline. Gliding toward her with a smooth greeting and a smoother curtsey, Marcelline asked in what way she might serve her ladyship.

“You might serve me by telling me the truth,” Lady Clara said. “On Saturday night, I overheard a most astonishing tale—one I could hardly credit—”

She broke off, belatedly remembering the servant at hand. “Davis, wait in the carriage,” she said.

Davis sent a glower round the shop, alighting on each sister in turn, then went out, slamming the door behind her.

Lady Clara took a breath, let it out, and began again. “Mrs. Noirot, I happened to overhear an outrageous story regarding a gentleman of my acquaintance—a gentleman who accompanied me to this shop not a week ago.”

Marcelline did not utter a single one of the sarcastic responses, flippant rejoinders, interruptions, distractions, or violent oaths that came to mind. She was a professional. Her expression became one of polite interest.

“Before you leap to any conclusions,” Lady Clara went on, “let me assure you that I have not come here in a jealous spirit. That would be absurd, in his case. I’m not blind, and I know—That is, I have brothers, and they think they’re more discreet than they are. Oh.” She took out a handkerchief, and dabbed her eyes. “Oh.”

This was an alarming turn of events. Anger, outrage—perfectly usual and understandable.

Tears—Oh, Gemini!

“My dear—my lady.” Marcelline took her by the elbow and led her to a chair. “Sophy, bring her ladyship a glass of wine.”

“No,” Lady Clara said. “I do not need wine.”

“Brandy, then,” said Marcelline.

“Well, perhaps,” said Lady Clara.

Sophy went out.

Lady Clara gave a little sob, then stiffened, visibly composing herself. “I don’t cry. I never cry. I’m not like that. But he’s the dearest friend I have.” Her blue gaze lifted to Marcelline. “I can’t let you hurt him,” she said.

Noirots were born unencumbered with consciences. Even if she’d owned one, Marcelline had not done anything so very wrong as to cause it to trouble her.

She told herself she was untroubled, but she couldn’t make herself believe it. After all, this was an agreeable young lady, who had not treated Marcelline or her sisters other than politely—which was far from the case with most of their customers. Furthermore, it was clear she truly loved Clevedon, and it was very true that Marcelline felt sorry for her on this count, though she knew that was completely absurd. Lady Clara was the daughter of a marquess. She was on the brink of marrying a duke, and looking forward to an income of at least one hundred thousand pounds a year, perhaps double that. Marcelline’s shop, along with their upstairs living quarters, would easily fit into his London townhouse’s servant quarters, and still leave room for his army of servants.

Meanwhile, the Noirots were on the brink of being destroyed by an incompetent competitor.

While Marcelline tried to harden her heart, Leonie—the least sentimental of three unsentimental siblings—said, “Pray, put your mind at rest, my lady. None of us wish to hurt any gentleman except in the pocketbook. In that regard, naturally, we should like to do as much damage as possible.”

Lady Clara looked over at her. “That is not what I heard.”

“I daresay not,” said Leonie. “But I don’t think that anyone in your circle quite understands the degree to which we are mercenary.”

Ah, yes. Disarming honesty. That was the best tack with this one. Leave it to hardheaded Leonie to strike the right note when her elder sister was temporarily unhinged.

“My sister is right,” said Marcelline. “It’s completely incomprehensible to persons of rank. You never think of money. We think of little else.”

“Well, then, if it is money,” said Lady Clara, “I shall give you as much as ever you want, if only you would go away, without letting him find out, to a place where he can’t find you.”

“This is very dramatic,” said Marcelline.

“Brandy is definitely called for,” said Sophy, entering with the Noirots’ sovereign remedy for all troubles. The brandy glowed within a small crystal decanter that sat, along with a matching glass, on a pretty tray. There she’d set out a delectable offering of biscuits, cakes, and cheese. Some customers spent hours in the shop, and one must be prepared to feed them—and ply them with drink, if necessary.

Lady Clara sipped her brandy without blinking and with obvious appreciation. Given the early hour, this small gesture went a great way in increasing the Noirot sisters’ respect for her—which was highly inconvenient, when they were all trying to maintain a coldly professional and mercenary detachment.

“I know these things are always exaggerated,” she said. “But I know as well that there’s truth in the tales. I’ve seen with my own eyes. He’s changed.”

“With respect, your ladyship has not seen the gentleman for three years,” Leonie said. “Men change. They’re the most changeable creatures.”

“He’s moody and bored and remote,” said her ladyship. “No matter where he is, he’s absent. The only time he was present, truly present, was when we came here. I saw.” She waved her glass at Marcelline. “I saw the way he looked at you, Mrs. Noirot. And so what must I think, when I hear about a dark adventuress who got her hooks into the D—into a certain gentleman. Or that he had pursued this exotic at the opera, at Longchamp, at the gaming hells—with half the world as witness—before he so far took leave of his reason as to bring this object of his obsession—”

“This sounds like something I could have written,” Sophy murmured.

“—bring his obsession to the Comtesse de Chirac’s annual ball. And this was not because his grace thought it a great joke to bring her, but because his—his lover—his paramour had threatened to kill herself if he didn’t.”

“Kill herself?” all three sisters echoed. They looked at one another. Their eyebrows went up a barely perceptible degree. This was the only outward sign of their incredulity—this and Leonie’s having to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

“Nor was this the first time this woman had made threats,” Lady Clara went on. “I heard of violent scenes all over Paris, culminating in a duel with the Marquis d’Émilien. This shocked even the most jaded of jaded Parisians. Shortly after grievously wounding the marquis in the Bois de Boulogne, the love-maddened gentleman pursued the young woman from Paris in the dead of night. In the course of this pursuit, he threatened the British consul and every other official he encountered. He was so deranged, it appears, that he believed they were deliberately obstructing his departure from France.”

They were all accustomed to playing cards. This was why Sophy and Leonie did not fall down laughing, and why Marcelline, who was growing increasingly exasperated, had no trouble maintaining her politely interested expression. As though she hadn’t enough problems, with Dowdy actively working to destroy her business. Now Marcelline was to be torn to pieces by the scandalmongers, merely because some people had seen what looked like flirtation! It was absurd—but then, the high ranks were not famous for their rationality.

She ought to be amused, but she was alarmed. Rumors alone could destroy her business. Though it wasn’t hard to seem unmoved outwardly, she was having trouble deciding what to say.

Leonie, who didn’t have her problems, had no such difficulty. “Clearly, members of the higher orders cannot count,” she said. “If they would only count the number of days my sister had been in Paris—let alone the date when she first met the gentleman—they’d realize this is utter nonsense. Their first encounter occurred on the fourteenth of this month. I remember the date, because it headed the letter she wrote to us the same night, announcing the fact. That leaves the time from the night of the fourteenth to the early morning of the seventeenth, when my sister left Paris. How, I ask your ladyship, could all these events occur in little more than two full days?”

Leave it to Leonie to reduce emotion to numbers, Marcelline thought. And how little those numbers seemed. A few days. That was all the time Clevedon had needed to damage Marcelline’s brain and jab thorns into her heart and plant dreams in her mind, so that she was uneasy by day and by night.

She gathered her wits. “Meanwhile he’d had so many months to live among the Parisians,” she said. “They’re the ones you ought to blame, if you want scapegoats. You’ve never been to Paris, I believe?”

“Not yet,” said Lady Clara.

“Then you’ve no notion how different it is from London.”

“I know what Paris is like,” said Lady Clara. “Cleve—The gentleman wrote to me faithfully—until, that is, he met you. It’s no good denying it. When I asked him why he hadn’t written—I could see he had not broken his arm—he told me what had happened.”

“And what, precisely, was that?” Marcelline said. “It can’t have been an incriminating tale. Last week you accompanied him here in cheerful spirits. You didn’t look at all as though you wanted to kill him. Or me.”

“He told me he’d met a vastly provoking dressmaker,” Lady Clara said. “But he’s a man, and as articulate as he can be in letters, his vocabulary, in matters of emotion, is less than clear. What he meant—and pray don’t confuse me with an idiot, as you know it perfectly well—what he meant was that Mrs. Noirot was provocative. What he meant was, he was fixed on her.”

As though he did nothing to fix me on him, Marcelline thought. As though he’s a victim of my wiles—or demonic powers, more like it.

“I asked him directly whether he was infatuated,” Lady Clara continued, “and he laughed and said that seemed the likeliest explanation.”

Business, Marcelline reminded herself. This was business. This was the customer she’d wanted. It was trying to lure Lady Clara into her shop that had led Marcelline into so much trouble. And here the lady was. In the shop.

She said, “How could he help it? Only look at me.”

She gestured in the graceful way she so often did, her hand sweeping downward from her neckline.

Lady Clara looked, truly looked, finally, at what Marcelline was wearing.

Pink and green, one of her favorite color combinations, this time in silk batiste, with a deeply plunging pelerine of the same material, over gossamer puffed sleeves and a delicately pleated chemisette.

“My goodness,” said Lady Clara.

Marcelline resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. Lady Clara was as oblivious as Clevedon. They noticed nothing about a dress until one forcibly called their attention to it.

“This isn’t half what you would have seen in Paris,” Marcelline said. “There I was obliged to exert myself, because I was competing with the most stylish women in the world, who’ve made a high art of attracting men. That is your ladyship’s true rival: Paris. I’m nothing. If the gentleman is bored and remote, it’s because the women about him at present don’t know how to get his attention.”

She let her gaze slide from the top of Lady Clara’s dull bonnet, over the white crepe dress trimmed in black—mainly ribbon and a little embroidery but not a stitch of lace in sight—and downward, with a small, despairing sigh, to the hem. The style was—well, it hadn’t any style. As to the craftsmanship: In a drunken stupor, the least talented of Marcelline’s six seamstresses could do better than this.

Sophy and Leonie drew nearer to Marcelline, their gazes moving in the same pitying way over the dress.

“The Court has been wearing mourning for the Emperor of Austria, then the Prince of Portugal,” Lady Clara said defensively. “We’ve only recently changed from black.”

“You cannot wear this shade of white,” Marcelline said. “It ruins your complexion.”

“Such a complexion!” Sophy said. “Translucent. Women would weep and gnash their teeth in envy, were you not wearing a white that drains away all the vitality.”

“The black trim can’t be helped,” said Leonie. “But must it be so heavy?”

“It isn’t required to be crepe, certainly,” said Marcel-line. “Where is the rule that says one may not use a thinner ribbon, of satin? And perhaps some knots—so. Or a jet lozenge. And a little silver, perhaps here and here, to brighten it. But above all, never this shade of white!”

“You’re not making the most of your figure,” said Sophy.

“I’m big,” Lady Clara said.

“You’re statuesque,” said Leonie. “What I should give to have your height. What I should give to be able to look a man in the eye.”

“Mainly, I’m looking down at them,” said Lady Clara. “Except for my brothers and Cl—the gentleman.”

“All the better,” said Sophy. “A man ought to look up to a woman, literally or figuratively, because that is the proper mode of worship, and worship is the very least he can do. It doesn’t matter what her height is. You’re the most beautiful young woman in London—”

“That’s doing it too brown,” said Lady Clara. She drank more brandy. “You’re wicked, the three of you.”

She was not wrong.

“Perhaps one might see at the theater a whore who seems prettier,” said Sophy. “But that’s only because she makes the most of herself and of certain cosmetic aids. You, however, have a deep, true English beauty that will only make you handsomer as time passes. It’s disgraceful and ungrateful of you not to make the most of the gifts with which you’ve been blessed.”

“You look big,” said Marcelline, “because the dress is matronly. You look big because it’s carelessly cut and ill sewn. Puckers! My six-year-old daughter can sew better than this. I say nothing of the overall design, which seems to have been adopted from fashions current in Bath among the grandmother set. The analogy is fitting, since so many drink the waters for their health, and this shade of white makes you look bilious. Let me show you the shade of white you ought to wear. Sophy, fetch a hand mirror. Leonie, the soft white organdy.”

“I did not come here to buy a dress,” Lady Clara said.

“You came because you want to bring the gentleman back from wherever it is he’s gone to,” said Marcelline. “We’re going to show you how to do it.”