Читать книгу Regency Rogues and Rakes - Anna Campbell - Страница 18

We have seen some robes of white crape prepared for the change of mourning; the corsages drooped, and retained in the centre of the bosom, and at the sides by knots of black satin riband, with a jet lozenge in the centre of each.

La Belle Assemblèe, fashions for the month of April 1835

Warford House Tuesday afternoon

Her ladyship is at home, your grace, but she is engaged,” Timms the butler said.

“Engaged?” Clevedon repeated. “Isn’t this Tuesday?”

The Warfords were not at home to visitors on Tuesdays. That was why he’d called today rather than yesterday or tomorrow. On Tuesday he need not make his way through the scrum of Clara’s beaux, the infatuated puppies who swarmed about her at social events. Whenever he approached, he was disagreeably aware of casting a pall over the activities, whatever they were: fellows composing odes to her eyes and such, he supposed. Squabbling over who had which dance. And competing, no doubt, in point of fashion—which was amusing, since Clara didn’t care about fashion. She could not tell one lapel from another, let alone evaluate the quality of a waistcoat.

Still, he might have mistaken the day. He had drunk more than agreed with him last night, and his head still ached. Perhaps it would be better to come back on the correct day. Maybe the damned sun wouldn’t be shining so brightly then.

After confirming that this was indeed Tuesday, Timms apologetically led Clevedon to the small drawing room to wait while he sent a footman to inform Lady Clara of his grace’s arrival.

Unaccustomed to be made to wait when he called anywhere, least of all at Warford House, Clevedon grew restive.

It was exceedingly odd, Clara being engaged on a Tuesday afternoon. He was sure he’d told her—on Saturday, wasn’t it?—he’d take her for a drive today.

He needed to settle this marriage business today. Already a week had passed since he’d decided to put his life in order and make his formal offer. After that, they’d put all in train for a wedding at the earliest opportunity.

The trip to the dressmaker’s had thrown him off balance. Seeing Noirot again…and the child…

He’d been unable to collect his thoughts, let alone remember what he’d meant to say to Clara. The time hadn’t felt…right. He and Clara needed to get used to each other again, he’d told himself. Hadn’t Longmore said so?

But now it seemed they’d have to get used to each other after they were married. Now a formal—and short—engagement seemed the best way to put an end to speculation and gossip.

He’d heard rumors of a mad tale that had traveled from Paris, and would, he knew, reach Warford House before long. Last week he’d confided in Clara—to a point. He knew she was too sensible a girl to fret over idle gossip. In her letters, hadn’t she ridiculed one after another piece of scandal making the London rounds? Her mother, though, was another matter altogether.

When Lady Warford heard the rumors, she’d throw one of her fits. She’d say nothing to Clevedon directly. Instead, she’d harass her family, carrying on about the shame of Clara’s being ignored in favor of a dressmaker, a milliner, a common shopkeeper! She’d grow more and more hysterical until one of the men took Clevedon to task.

In Paris, only last month, he’d borne one awkward visit from Longmore—instigated, no doubt, by Lady Warford. Clevedon doubted his friend was any more eager than he to repeat the experience.

He had nothing to feel anxious or guilty about, he told himself. He’d done nothing improper since he’d returned to London. Before that didn’t count.

Dreams, however torrid, were nothing to feel in the least uneasy about. Fantasies were nothing more than that. Men had fantasies regarding women, all sorts of women, suitable and unsuitable. They had them all the time, waking and sleeping.

As to the discontent: That would stop after he was married.

But his mind, not shy in the least, shied away from contemplating his wedding night.

Where the devil was the footman? Why hadn’t Timms gone himself? What on earth was Clara about? With whom was she engaged on a Tuesday? Had he not told her he would come? He was sure he had…but his mind strayed from time to time—and how could he recollect now, with this vile headache?

He realized he was pacing. He stopped, and told himself he was out of sorts. This was not a suitable humor for a casual call, let alone a momentous one.

She had something else to do. He must have forgotten to tell her about driving today. Or she’d forgotten.

He’d see her tomorrow night at Almack’s. When he did, he’d make an appointment to speak to her.

No, he ought to speak to her father first. That was the proper way to go about it. He’d return another day, when Lord Warford was at home. On Tuesdays his lordship customarily visited one of his charities.

Clevedon left the drawing room. Having run tame in this house since boyhood, he knew every inch of it. Best to slip out quietly, before he ran into other family members.

He strode to the antechamber nearby, where he knew he’d find his hat, gloves, and walking stick.

He entered, and his heart began to beat very hard.

It happened before he was fully conscious of what had set it going.

A bonnet. An absurd conglomeration of ribbons and flowers and feathers, it sat on the table where the servants customarily put visitors’ hats and such.

He stared at it for a moment, then started for the door. But there was something…in the air.

He paused at the door. Then he turned back and walked to the bonnet. He picked it up, and brought it close to his face. The scent, the familiar, tormenting scent swam about him, as light and as inescapable as a gossamer net: the faint scent of jasmine, mingled with the scent of her hair and her skin.

Noirot.

He set the bonnet down.

He stepped out into the corridor.

A maid passed, carrying a heap of clothing.

He started in the direction she’d come from.

He heard an anguished cry.

Clara.

He ran toward the sound.

He pulled open the door to the music room. Bright sunlight burst upon him, blinding him for a moment and making lightning bolts in his head.

“Clara, are you—”

“Clevedon! What on earth—”

But Clara was gaping at him, astonished, and his gaze shot to the other woman.

Noirot stood, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted. She closed it promptly, and her face closed down into her playing-cards look.

“What are you about?” he said. “What the devil are you doing here?”

“Look at her,” Clara cried. “That’s my favorite dress—the one I was wearing when Lord Herringstone composed an ode to my eyes.”

Look at her. At Noirot. Look at her.

He looked, his gaze sliding down from the slightly disordered coiffure, loose strands of dark, silken hair clinging to her neck…down over her dark, brilliant eyes…down over her dangerous mouth while he remembered the taste of her, the feel of her mouth against his…down over the firm bosom while he remembered the velvet of her skin under his hand and against his mouth…and down at last to the dress she was holding.

Clara crossed to her and snatched the dress away.

“She says we must give it away,” Lady Clara said. “She objects to everything. Nothing is right—even this, my favorite.”

“The dress is jade green,” Noirot said. “Your eyes are blue and very beautiful, and that’s what prompted Lord Herringstone to compose an ode. Had you been wearing a more suitable color, you would have inspired him to compose an epic. Very few women can wear this color successfully. You may not wear very many shades of green. I should recommend against it—”

“That woman—Lady Renfrew—you made her a beautiful dress, exactly this color.”

“It was not exactly this color,” Noirot said. “It was an entirely different shade of green—and one that would suit you no better. It would seem that your ladyship cannot distinguish hues. Whether it was your governess or your painting master, whoever failed to train your eye ought to be pilloried. You must give me the dress, my lady.”

“Oh, you are horrible, cruel! You’ve taken all my favorite things!”

Noirot pulled the dress away from her and threw it on the floor and kicked it aside.

Clara clapped her hand over her mouth.

Noirot folded her arms.

A dangerous glint came into Clara’s blue eyes.

Noirot regarded her with the same cool lack of expression she would have bestowed on a promising hand of cards.

The fool! She could not treat a marquess’s daughter like a temperamental child, even if she was behaving like one. Noirot would lose any hope of a commission—she’d lose Clara forever—and she’d be lucky if Lady Warford didn’t have her driven from London.

“If I may interpose a—”

“No, Clevedon, you may not,” Clara said. “I told her to come. I made her come. She left me no choice. Nothing she’s proposed bears the smallest resemblance to what I normally wear, and I can’t believe I am such a provincial, so lacking in taste and discernment—but you know I’ve never cared very much, and Mama always advises me. But now I’m told to throw everything out, and what am I to tell Mama? And I am not to have a green dress!”

She stamped her foot. Clara actually stamped her foot.

“It must be blue-green,” Noirot said. She put the tip of her index finger to her chin and regarded Clara with narrowed eyes. “I envision embroidered poult de soie, the corsage decorated with a mantilla of blond lace.” Her finger came away from her chin to lightly glide over her shoulder. As she indicated the fall of the mantilla she imagined, her finger lingered at the place where he’d touched her, on that night when they’d played cards, when he’d helped her with her shawl. He remembered the tiny hitch in her breath and the heated triumph he’d felt, because finally, finally he’d affected her.

“But that is for later,” she went on. “For the present, as your ladyship has reminded me repeatedly, we are wearing white. And as I have reminded your ladyship repeatedly, it must be a soft white. No ivory.” She made a dismissive gesture at a dress draped over a chair. “Too yellow. And not that blinding white.” She indicated another dress, hanging over the back of a small sofa.

“Speaking of blinding,” Clevedon said. “Might we have the curtains drawn? I’ve the devil of a headache—”

“I wonder where you got it,” Clara said. “The same place Longmore gets his, I daresay. Well, you must grin and bear the light. Madame can’t work in the dark.”

“I thought she could do anything,” Clevedon muttered, retreating to the darkest corner of the room. “She told me—more than once—that she’s the greatest modiste in the world.”

“Beyond a doubt she’s the most exacting modiste in the world,” Clara said. “She’s been showing me how colors affect one’s complexion. We came to this room because it has the best light at this time of day.” She paused, frowning. “If you have a headache, why are you here?”

“You were screaming,” he said.

“It’s upsetting when someone takes one’s clothes away,” Clara said. “I find I’m not as philosophically detached as I had supposed. But why are you here, at the house, I mean? You know Papa is never at home on Tuesdays, and you would never come to see Mama, even if she were at home, which she isn’t, else Mrs. Noirot wouldn’t be here. She’s my dark secret, you know.”

“I came to take you for a drive,” Clevedon said. Had she always used to be so talkative?

“But you can see I’m not at liberty. Why did you not tell me you meant to come?”

“I did, on Saturday.”

“You did not. You did not spare me above five minutes on Saturday, and if you uttered ten words to me, that’s all you did. Today, obviously, is inconvenient.”

“We’re nearly done,” Noirot said.

“Hardly,” Clara said. “Now we must decide what to tell Mama.”

Noirot didn’t roll her eyes, which he considered evidence of superhuman self-control. Clara was driving him mad, and he’d only been here for a few minutes. Noirot must be wanting to throttle her.

But her expression only became kindly. “Tell her, my lady, that one can’t expect a fashionable gentleman—who has spent time in Paris—to come up to scratch—”

“Come up to what?” Clevedon said.

“—when one looks like a dowd and a fright and elderly to boot,” Noirot continued past the interruption. “Be sure to hold your head high when you say it, and make it sound like a fact that ought to be obvious to the meanest intelligence. And if there’s a difficulty, throw a tantrum. That’s what high-bred girls generally do.”

“But I never did,” Clara said aghast.

“A moment ago you stamped your foot,” Clevedon said. “You pouted, too.”

“I did not!”

“Your ladyship was too distressed to realize,” Noirot said. “However, you must do it with greater force and with absolute confidence in the rightness of your cause. Still, we must remember that a temper fit is simply a way to obtain the audience’s notice. Once you have her ladyship’s full attention, you will become sweet reason itself, and tell her this anecdote.”

Noirot folded her hands and, while Clevedon and Clara watched, astonished, her eyes filled. The tears hung there, glistening, but did not fall. She said, “Dearest Mama, I know you do not wish for me to be mortified in front of all my acquaintance. And here,” Noirot added in a more normal voice, “be sure to mention somebody your mother loathes. And when her ladyship says this is all nonsense, as she well might, you will tell her about the French gentleman who was mad in love with a married woman—”

“That isn’t the sort of thing for Clara to—”

“Pray let her finish,” Clara said. “You’re the one who brought me to this aggravating person, and I’ve steeled myself to suffer with her in order to be beautiful.”

“Your ladyship is already beautiful,” Noirot said. “How many times must I repeat it? That’s what’s so infuriating. A perfect diamond must have the perfect setting. A masterpiece must have the perfect frame. A—”

“Yes, yes, but we know that argument won’t work with Mama. What about the gentleman and the married woman?”

“His friends reasoned with him, pleaded with him— all in vain,” Noirot said. “Then, one night, at an entertainment, the lady asked him to fetch her shawl. He hastened to serve her, imagining the silken softness of a cashmere shawl, the scent of the woman he loved enhancing its perfection…”

Clevedon remembered Noirot’s scent, the memory reawakened only minutes ago: the scent her bonnet held. He remembered inhaling her, his face in her neck.

“…a cashmere shawl that would put all the other ladies’ cashmeres to shame. He found the garment but—quelle horreur!—not cashmere at all. Rabbit hair! Sick with disgust, he fell instantly and permanently out of love, and abandoned her.”

Clara stared at her. “You’re roasting me,” she said.

Clevedon collected himself and said, “You’ll find the anecdote in Lady Morgan’s book about France. It was published some years ago, but the principle remains. I wish you’d seen my friend Aronduille’s face when I asked him whether it mattered what a woman wore. I wish you could have heard him and his friends talking about it, quoting philosophers, arguing about Ingres and Balzac and Stendhal and David, art and fashion, the meaning of beauty, and so on.”

Clara glanced at him, then returned to Noirot. “Well, then, I shall try it, and I shall say it is all because Clevedon is so infernally discriminating, worse even than Longmore—”

“Clara would it not be better if you—”

“But what am I to wear to Almack’s tomorrow night?” Clara said. “You’ve rejected everything.”

Almack’s, he thought. Another dreary evening among the same people. He would have to pluck Clara from her hordes of admirers and dance with her. Whatever she wore, he would know Noirot had touched it.

He said, “Since no one was being murdered, and I seem to be de trop—”

“Not at all, your grace,” Noirot said. “You’ve arrived in the nick of time. Her ladyship has been remarkably patient and open-minded, considering that I’ve upset her universe.”

“You have, rather,” Clara said.

“But here is his grace, come to take you for a drive. Fresh air, the very thing you need after this trying morning and afternoon.”

“But Almack’s—”

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

“But my mother—”

“You will have already dealt with her, as I suggested,” Noirot said.

Clara looked at Clevedon. “She is the most dictatorial creature,” she said.

“His grace has been so kind as to mention this character flaw before,” Noirot said with nary a glance at Clevedon. “I serve women of fashion all day long, six days a week. One must either dominate or be dominated.”

Ah, there it was: the disarming frankness, leavened with a touch of humor.

Gad, she was beyond anything!

“I have had enough of being dominated for the present,” Clara said. “Clevedon, pray be patient another few minutes, and I shall be glad to take the air with you. I promise to be back in a trice. Mrs. Noirot has left me a few paltry items she finds not completely abhorrent. My maid shall not have any momentous decisions to make regarding bonnets or anything else.”

She started toward the door, and hesitated. Then, with the look of one who’d made up her mind, she went out.

She had exactly what she wanted, Marcelline told herself. More than she’d hoped for. She hadn’t even had to wait for the betrothal. She had Lady Clara already, and a large order. Tomorrow night, the crème de la crème of Society would see Lady Clara Fairfax wearing a Noirot creation.

Maison Noirot would soon be the foremost dressmaking establishment in London.

Marcelline had accomplished everything—and more—than she’d planned when she set out for Paris, mere weeks ago.

She could not be happier.

She told herself this while she set about sorting the various rejected items of Lady Clara’s wardrobe.

“Are you going to burn them?” came Clevedon’s voice from the corner to which he’d withdrawn.

“Certainly not,” she said.

“But they have no redeeming qualities,” he said. “I should never have noticed the poor choices in color before you poisoned my mind, but even I can discern inferior cut and stitchery.”

“They can be taken apart and remade,” Marcelline said. “I am a patroness of a charitable establishment for women. Her ladyship was so generous as to allow me to take half the discards for my girls.”

“Your girls,” he said. “You—you’re a philanthropist?” He laughed.

She longed to throw something at him.

A chair. Herself.

But that was her shallow Noirot heart speaking. He was beautiful. Watching him move made her mouth go dry. It wasn’t fair that she couldn’t have him without complications. In bed—or on a carriage seat or against a wall—it wouldn’t matter that he was idle and arrogant and oblivious. If only she could simply use him and discard him, the way men used and discarded women.

But she couldn’t. And she’d used him already, though not in that way. She’d used him in a more important way. She’d got what she’d wanted.

A maid entered, and Marcelline spent a moment directing her. When she went out again with a heap of clothing, Marcelline did not take up the conversation where it had stopped. She did not take up the conversation at all.

She wouldn’t let him disturb her in any way. She was very, very happy. She’d achieved her goals.

“Which set of unfortunate women is it?” he said. “I’ll tell my secretary to make a donation. If they can make anything of those dresses, they’ll have earned it.”

“The Milliners’ Society for the Education of Indigent Females.” She could have added that she and her sisters had founded it last year. They’d learned at an early age more than they wanted to know about indigence and the difficulties of earning a living.

But her past was a secret under lock and key. “Some of our girls have gone on to become ladies’ maids,” she said. “The majority find places as seamstresses, for which there’s always need, particularly during mourning periods.” Luckily for them, the court was frequently in mourning, thanks to the British royal family’s penchant for marrying their Continental cousins.

The butler entered, followed by a footman carrying a tray of refreshments to sustain his grace during the wait for her ladyship.

Marcelline was famished. She’d been waiting on Lady Clara since this morning, and had not been offered a bite to eat or anything to drink. But mere tradesmen did not merit feeding.

Oh, would the girl never be dressed? How long did it take to tie on a bonnet and throw a shawl about one’s shoulders? One would think, given her anxieties about Marcelline ruining his life, Lady Clara would not leave them alone together for above half a minute.

But they were hardly alone, with servants going to and fro. Not that Lady Clara had anything to worry about, servants or no servants.

The only designs Marcelline had were upon her lady-ship’s statuesque person—and her father’s and future husband’s purses.

That was all.

She was very, very happy.

The silence stretched out, broken only by the servants’ comings and goings.

Then, at last, at long last, Lady Clara reappeared.

Marcelline stopped sorting for long enough to make an adjustment to her ladyship’s bonnet—it was not tilted precisely as it ought to be—and to twitch her cashmere shawl into a more enticing arrangement. Her shawls were very fine. One could not fault her there.

Having arranged Lady Clara to her satisfaction, Marcelline stepped away, made a proper curtsey, and returned to her work.

She was aware of Clevedon’s big frame passing not far from her. She was aware of the muffled sound of his boots on the carpet. she heard the low murmur, his voice mingling with Lady Clara’s, and the latter’s soft laughter.

Marcelline kept busy with her work and did not watch them go.

And when they were gone, she told herself she’d done a fine job, and she’d done nobody any great wrong—a miracle, considering her bloodline—and she had every reason to be glad.

That evening

The gown Mrs. Whitwood had returned lay on the counter. the enraged customer had come and gone while Marcelline was dancing attendance upon Lady Clara Fairfax at Warford House.

Sophy had soothed Mrs. Whitwood. Sophy could soothe Attila the Hun. The dress would be remade. The cost was mainly in labor, the smallest cost of making a dress. Still, it cost time—time that Marcelline, her sisters, and her seamstresses could be spending on other orders.

If this kept up, they’d be ruined. It wasn’t simply that they couldn’t afford to keep remaking dresses. They couldn’t afford the damage to their reputation.

Marcelline was studying the dress, deciding what to change. “Who worked on it?” she asked Pritchett, her senior seamstress.

“Madame, if there is a fault with the workmanship it must be mine,” Pritchett said. “I supervised every stitch of this dress. But madame can see for herself. It is precisely as madame ordered.”

“Indeed, and the details, as you know, are of my own design,” Marcelline said. “It’s very strange that another dress should appear, bearing these same details. The angle and width of the pleats of the bodice was my own invention. How curious that another dressmaker should have precisely the same idea, in the same style of dress.”

“Most unfortunate, madame,” Pritchett said. “Yet some would think it a miracle we haven’t had this problem before, when you consider that we take in all sorts of girls, from the streets, practically. One doesn’t wish to be uncharitable. Some of them don’t know any better, I daresay. Never taught right from wrong, you know. I shall be happy to work late—as late as needed—to make the dress over, if madame wishes.”

“No, I’ll want you fresh tomorrow,” Marcelline said. “Lady Clara Fairfax’s ball dress must be ready to deliver at seven o’clock sharp in the evening. I shall want all my seamstresses well rested and alert. Better to come in early. Let us say eight o’clock in the morning.” She glanced at her pendant watch. “It’s nearly eight. Send them all home now, Pritchett. Tell them we want them here at precisely eight o’clock tomorrow morning, ready for a very busy day.”

She rarely kept her seamstresses past nine o’clock, even when the shop was frantically busy, as it had been when Dr. Farquar’s daughter had needed to be married in a hurry—or when Mrs. Whitwood, having quarreled with Dowdy, had come to Maison Noirot to have herself and her five daughters fitted out in mourning for a very rich aunt.

Marcelline’s personal experience had taught her that one did better work early in the day. By nightfall, spirits flagged and eyesight failed. The workroom had a skylight, but that was no use after sunset.

“Yes, Madame, but we have not quite completed Mrs. Plumley’s redingote.”

“It isn’t wanted until Thursday,” Marcelline said. “Everybody is to go home, and prepare for a long, hard day tomorrow.”

“Yes, Madame.”

Marcelline watched her go out of the showroom.

The trap she and her sisters had set yesterday morning was simple enough.

Before they went home at the end of the workday, the seamstresses were required to put everything away. The workroom was to be left neat and tidy. No stray bits of thread or ribbon, buttons or thimbles should remain on the worktable, the chairs, the floor, or anywhere else. The room had been perfectly neat early yesterday morning when Marcelline deliberately dropped a sketch of a dress for Mrs. Sharp on the floor.

The first seamstress arriving in the morning—and that was usually Pritchett—should have noticed the sketch, and turned it over to Marcelline, Sophy, or Leonie. But when Sophy went in, shortly after the girls’ workday began, the sketch was gone and nobody said a word about it. It didn’t turn up until this morning. Selina Jeffreys found it under her chair when she came to work.

Pritchett had scolded her for hurrying away at night and leaving a mess. She’d made a great fuss about the sketch—Madame’s work was never to be carelessly handled.

But Marcelline, Leonie, and Sophy knew there hadn’t been a mess, and that Jeffreys’s place had been as clean and orderly as the others. Nothing had been lying under her chair or anyone else’s.

Well, now they knew. And now they were ready.

The shop door swung open, setting the bell jangling.

She looked up from the dress, and her heart squeezed painfully.

Clevedon stood for a moment, his green gaze sweeping the shop and finally coming to rest on her. He frowned, then quickly smoothed his beautiful face and sauntered toward her. Riveted on that remarkable face, too handsome to be real, it took her a moment to notice the large box he was carrying.

“Your grace,” she said, bobbing a quick curtsey.

“Mrs. Noirot,” he said. He set the box on the counter.

“That cannot be Lady Clara’s new dress,” she said. “Sophy said her ladyship was delighted with it.”

“Why the devil should I be returning Clara’s purchases?” he said. “I’m not her servant. This is for Erroll.”

Marcelline’s heart beat harder, with rage now. She was aware of her face heating. It probably didn’t show, but she didn’t care whether it did or not. “Take it back,” she said.

“Certainly not,” he said. “I went to a good deal of trouble. I know nothing about children anymore, and you will not believe the number and variety of—”

“You may not give my daughter gifts,” Marcelline said.

He took the lid off the box, and lifted from it a doll—such a doll! She had black curling hair and vivid blue glass eyes. She was dressed in silver net and lace, trimmed with pearls. “I’m not taking it back,” he said. “Burn it, then.”

At that moment, Lucie burst through the door from the back. She stopped short at the sight of the doll, which the beast hadn’t the grace to return to its box.

She’d been watching the street from the window upstairs, no doubt, as she always did. She’d recognized his fine carriage.

She was six years old. It was too much to expect her to resist the doll. Her eyes widened. Yet she managed a creditable “Good evening, your grace,” and a curtsey. All the while, her eyes never left the doll. “My, that’s a fine doll,” she said. “I think it’s the most beautiful doll I’ve ever seen in all my life.”

All six years of it.

“You’re going to pay for this,” Marcelline said under her breath. “And painfully.”

“Is it, indeed?” he said to Lucie. “I’m not a good judge of these matters.”

“Oh, yes.” Lucie drew a step nearer. “She isn’t like ordinary dolls. Her eyes are blue glass, you see. And her face is so lifelike. And her hair is so beautiful, I think it must be real hair.”

“Perhaps you’d like to hold her,” Clevedon said.

“Oh, yes!” She started toward him, then hesitated and looked at Marcelline. “May I, Mama?” she asked in her best Dutiful Child voice.

“Yes,” Marceline said, because there was nothing else she could say. She was hardheaded and practical, and any mother would know this was setting a terrible precedent as well as compromising her reputation.

But to deny her child—any child—such a treat, after the child had seen it and had done nothing wrong to be punished for, was wanton cruelty. She was a strict mother. She had to be. But too many cruelties, large and small, had marked her own childhood. That was one legacy she wouldn’t pass on.

Folding his large frame, he crouched down to Lucie’s level. Solemnly he held out the doll. Equally solemnly, she took it, holding her breath until it was safely in her arms. Then she held it so carefully, as though she believed the thing was magical, and might disappear in a minute. “What is her name?” she asked.

“I have no idea,” he said. “I thought you would know.”

Oh, the wretched, manipulative man!

Lucie considered. “If she were my doll, I should call her Susannah.”

“I think she would like to be your doll,” Clevedon said. He slanted a glance upward, at Marcelline. “If she may.”

Though she was captivated by the doll, Lucie didn’t fail to see whose permission he sought. “Oh, if Mama says she may? Mama, may she? May she be my doll?”

“Yes,” Marcelline said. What other answer could she make, curse him!

“Oh, thank you, Mama!” Lucie turned back to Clevedon, and the look she sent him from those great blue eyes was calculated to break his heart, which Marcelline sincerely hoped it did. “Thank you, your grace. I shall take very good care of her.”

“I know you will,” he said.

“Her limbs move, you see,” Lucie said, demonstrating. “She needn’t wear only one dress. This one is very beautiful, but she’s like a princess, and a princess must have a vast wardrobe. Mama and my aunts will help me cut out and sew dresses for her. I’ll make her morning dresses and walking dresses and the most beautiful carriage dress, a blue redingote to match her eyes. The next time you come, you’ll see.”

The next time you come.

“Why don’t you take Susannah upstairs to meet your aunts?” Marcelline said. “I have something to discuss with his grace.”

Lucie went out, cradling the doll as though it were a living infant. Clevedon rose and watched her go out, through the door to the back of the shop. He was smiling, and it was a smile Marcelline had never seen before. It was not his charming smile or his seductive one or his winning one.

It was fond and wistful, and she could not withstand it. It won her and weakened her will more effectively than any of his other smiles could have done.

Which only made her angrier.

“Clevedon,” she began.

He turned back to her, the smile fading. “You may not rake me over the coals,” he said. “She set out to captivate me, much as her mother did—”

“She’s six years old!”

“You both succeeded,” he said. “What was I to do? She’s a little girl. Why should she not have a doll?”

“She has dolls! Does she seem neglected to you? Deprived in any way? She’s my daughter, and I take care of her. She has nothing to do with you. You’ve no business buying her dolls. What will Lady Clara think? What do you think your fine friends in the ton will say when they hear you’ve given my daughter gifts? You know they’ll hear of it.” Lucie would show the doll to the seamstresses, naturally, and they’d tell everybody they knew, and word would spread through the ton in no time at all. “And do you think their speculations will do my business any good?”

“That’s all you think about. Your business.”

“It’s my life, you great thickhead! This”—she swept her hand to indicate the shop—“This is how I earn my living. Can you not grasp this simple concept? Earning a living?”

“I’m not—”

“This is how I feed and clothe and house and educate my daughter,” she raged on. “This is how I provide for my sisters. What must I do to make you understand? How can you be so blind, so willfully obtuse, so—”

“You’ll make me run mad,” he said. “Everywhere I turn, there you are.”

“That’s monstrous unfair! Everywhere I go, there is your great carcass!”

“You upset everything,” he said. “I’ve been trying for a fortnight to propose to Clara, and every time I steel myself to it—”

“Steel yourself?”

“Every time,” he went on, unheeding, “you”—he waved his hand—“There you are. I went to Warford House today to come up to scratch, as you so poetically put it, but you had her worked up into such a state, we couldn’t have a proper conversation, and all my speech— and I spent half an hour composing it—went out of my head.”

The door to the back of the shop opened again and Leonie came in.

“Oh, your grace,” she said, feigning surprise, though she’d probably heard the row from the stairs. Marcelline hoped the seamstresses had followed orders and left early, else they’d have had an earful.

“He was about to leave,” Marcelline said.

“No, I wasn’t,” he said.

“It’s closing time,” Marcelline said, “and we know you aren’t buying anything.”

“Perhaps I shall,” he said.

“Leonie, please lock up for me,” she said. To him she said, “I’m not keeping my shop open all night to pander to your whims.”

“Do you plan to throw me out bodily?” he said.

She could knock him unconscious. Then she and her sisters could drag him out into the alley behind the shop. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d had to dispose of a troublesome male.

“You’re too big, curse you,” she said. “But we’re going to settle something, once and for all.”