Читать книгу Regency Rogues and Rakes: Silk is for Seduction / Scandal Wears Satin / Vixen in Velvet / Seven Nights in a Rogue's Bed / A Rake's Midnight Kiss / What a Duke Dares - Loretta Chase - Страница 35

There is certainly some connexion between the dress and the mind, an accurate observer can trace some correspondencies; and the weak as well as the strong-minded never cease to be influenced by a good or bad dress.

—Lady’s Magazine & Museum, June 1835

It was sort of a brothel for women, Longmore decided.

The shop even had a discreet back entrance, reserved, no doubt, for high-priced harlots and the men who kept them.

A few minutes earlier, a modestly but handsomely dressed female had let them in that way and led them up a flight of carpeted and gently lit back stairs. Small landscape paintings and fashion plates from earlier times adorned the pale green walls.

He’d been in Maison Noirot’s showroom, but this was another world altogether.

The room into which the female had taken them looked like a sitting room. More little paintings on the pale pink walls. Pretty bits of porcelain. Lacy things adorning tables and chair backs. The very air smelled of women, but it was subtle. His nostrils caught only a hint of scent, as though a bouquet of flowers and herbs had recently passed through. Everything about him was soft and luxurious and inviting. It conjured harem slaves in paintings. Odalisques.

He was tempted to stretch out on the carpet and call for the hashish and dancing girls.

The door opened. All his senses went on the alert.

But it was only the elegantly dressed female carrying a tray. She set it upon a handsome tea table. Longmore noticed the tray held a plate of biscuits. A decanter stood where the teapot ought to be.

When the female went out, he said, “So this is how they do it. They ply you with drink.”

“No, they ply you with drink, knowing you’ll be bored,” Clara said. “Although I shouldn’t mind a restorative.” She flung herself into a chair. “Oh, Harry, what on earth am I going to do?”

Her face took on a crumpled look.

He knew that look. It augured tears.

He was taken completely unawares. She’d seemed perfectly well on the way here. Chin aloft and eyes blazing. He hadn’t been surprised when she told him to take her to Maison Noirot. The meek act with their mother hadn’t fooled him.

Clara was so angelically beautiful that people thought she was sweet and yielding. They mistook indifference for docility. She was the sort of girl who generally didn’t care one way or another about all sorts of things. But when she did care, she could be as obstinate as a pig.

Since the Noirot sisters had got their hooks in her, she’d become extremely obstinate about her clothes.

He beat down panic. “Dash it, Clara,” he said. “No waterworks. Say what’s the matter and have done.”

She found a handkerchief and hastily wiped her eyes. “Oh, it’s Mama. She wears on my nerves.”

“That’s all?” he said.

“Isn’t it enough?” she said. “I’m Society’s big joke and I’m about to marry in haste and my mother does nothing but tell me every single thing I’ve done wrong.”

“And this”—he swept his hand, indicating their surroundings—”will be one more thing.”

“What’s one more thing?” Clara said. “This, at least, will lift my spirits. Unlike a visit to that incompetent in Bedford Square Mama’s so irrationally devoted to.”

He’d taken her here because this was where she wanted to go … and it was where he preferred to go.

Maison Noirot was stupendously expensive, the proprietresses were seductresses (in the way of clothes) of the first order, it was extremely French, and, above all, it was Sophy Noirot’s lair.

If a man had to hang about a dressmakers’ shop, this was the place.

But there would be trouble at home for Clara. More trouble. “Our mother’s going to kick up a fuss,” he said. “And you’ll bear the brunt of it.”

“The clothes will be worth it,” she said.

And this would be her last chance for extravagance in that regard, unless he found a way to dispose of Adderley and restore Clara’s reputation at the same time.

He wasn’t sure Clara wanted Adderley disposed of, but if she didn’t she was either stupid or mad, which meant her wishes didn’t signify.

He must have frowned without realizing, because she said, “It’ll be fun for me, but I know you’ll be bored to death. You needn’t stay. I’ll take a hackney home.”

“A hackney?” he said. “Are you mad? I’d never hear the end of it.” He laid a limp wrist against his temple, pitched his voice an octave higher, and in the put-upon tone his mother had perfected said, “How could you, Harry? Your own sister, left to a dirty public conveyance? Heaven only knows who’s seen her, traveling the London streets like a shop clerk. I shall be ashamed to look my friends in the eye.”

From behind him came the rustling of petticoats—and a stifled giggle?

He turned, his pulse accelerating.

Three young women—one brunette, one blonde, one redhead—regarded him with expressions of polite interest. The two latter had large, shockingly blue eyes. Only in the eyes did he detect any sign of the amusement he’d thought he’d heard, and it wasn’t much of a sign.

It would be more accurate to say he detected it only in her eyes, since Sophy Noirot’s sisters might as well have been shadows or a Greek chorus—or window curtains, for that matter.

They were all very well, each entertaining in her own way, and all quite good-looking, if not great beauties.

But she cast the others into the shade.

Why, only look at her. Pale gold curling hair under the frothy lace cap. Enormous, speaking eyes of deepest sapphire. A haughty little nose. A plump invitation of a mouth. A sharp, obstinate little chin. Below the neck … ah, that was even better. Delicious, in fact, despite the lunatic clothing style deemed the height of fashion.

“Duchess,” Clara said, rising from her chair and curtseying.

“Pray don’t ‘Duchess’ me,” said Her Grace. “This is business. While on the premises, why do we not pretend we’re in France, where you’d address a duchess as madame, much as one addresses a modiste. Meanwhile, think of me simply as your dressmaker.”

“The world’s greatest dressmaker,” Sophy said.

“And that would make you …?” Longmore said.

“The other greatest dressmaker in the world,” Sophy said.

“Someone ought to explain superlatives to you,” he said. “But then, I’m aware that English isn’t your first language.”

“It isn’t my only first language, my lord,” she said. “Le français est l’autre.”

“Perhaps someone ought as well to explain the meanings of only and first,” he said.

“Oh, yes, please do enlighten me, my lord,” she said, opening her extremely blue eyes very wide. “I never had a head for figures. Leonie always complains about it. ‘Will you never learn to count?’ she says.”

“And yet,” he began.

It was then he realized she’d drawn him away from his sister—who was moving with the other two toward another door.

“Where are you slipping off to?” he said.

“To look at patterns,” said Clara. “You’ll find it exceedingly tedious.”

“That depends,” he said.

“On what?” Sophy said.

“On how bored I feel.” He looked around. “Not much entertainment hereabouts.”

“Your club is only a few steps up the street,” Sophy said. “Perhaps you’d rather wait there. We can send to you when Lady Clara is done.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I feel I ought to hang about and exert a calming influence.”

“You,” Sophy said. “A calming influence.”

“Excitable women. Clothes. The possible rape and pillage of our father’s bank account. A man’s cool head seems to be needed.”

“Harry, you know Papa doesn’t care how much I spend on clothes,” Clara said. “He likes us to look well. And I know you don’t care what I buy. It was kind of you to take me here, but you needn’t watch over me. I’m perfectly safe.”

His gaze traveled over the three sisters, and lingered on Sophy. He thought hard and fast and picked his words carefully. “Very well. A man can think more clearly when he isn’t surrounded by women, and I need to create an alibi.”

She took the bait, her gaze sharpening. “Why?” she said. “Are you planning to murder somebody?”

“Not yet,” he said. “You won’t let me murder the bridegroom. No, I want an alibi for Clara, who isn’t supposed to be here.”

“Mama said I must go to Downes’s,” Clara said, “but Harry took pity on me.”

“I took pity on me,” he said. His gaze returned to Sophy. “I brought her here to prevent scolding, ranting, and sobbing, that’s all.”

“Then the least I can do in gratitude is give you an alibi,” Sophy said.

He could think of any number of pleasing acts of gratitude, but this would do for a start.

“Not too complicated,” he said.

She rolled her great blue eyes. “I know that.”

“I’m a simple man.”

“This is so simple, even a dolt could remember it,” she said. “When Lady Clara returns home, she’ll say that you were intoxicated and drove her here instead of to Downes’s, drunkenly insisting this was the place.”

“Oh, that’s perfect!” Clara said.

“That will do admirably,” he said. “She can say I stood over her and made her order sixty or seventy dresses, and a gross of chemises and …”

His mind went hazy then, and images of muslin and lace underwear strewed themselves about his brain, and somewhere in that dishevelment was a blue-eyed angelic devil, mostly unclothed. He waved a hand, waving the images away. Now wasn’t the time. He was only beginning his siege, and he knew—he could always tell—he faced a very tricky fortress. All sorts of hidden passages and diversions and booby traps.

But then, if it were easy, it would be boring.

He continued, “ … and all those other sorts of trousseau things. And when our mother regains consciousness, and demands that Clara cancel the order, Clara will appeal to our overly conscientious sire, who’ll say one can’t simply cancel immense orders on a whim.”

Sophy folded her arms. Something flickered in her blue eyes. Otherwise, her expression was unreadable. “Good,” she said. “Keep with that. Don’t embellish.”

“No danger of that,” he said. “At any rate, it’s easy enough to make it partly true. I’ve only to toddle into my club and drink steadily until you’ve finished bankrupting my father. Then, when I return Clara to Warford House, no one will have any trouble believing in my inebriated obstinacy.”

He sauntered out of the sitting room.

He walked to the stairs and started down.

He heard hurried footsteps and rustling petticoats behind him.

“Lord Longmore.”

She said his name as everybody else did, not precisely as spelled but in the way of so many ancient names, with vowels shifted and consonants elided. Yet it wasn’t quite the same, either, because it carried the faintest whisper of French.

He looked up.

She stood at the top of the stairs, leaning over the handrail.

The view was excellent: He could see her silk shoes and the crisscrossing ribbons that called attention to the fine arch of her instep and her neat ankles. He saw the delicate silk stockings outlining the bit of foot and leg on view. His mind easily conjured what wasn’t on view: the place above her knees where her garters were tied—garters that, in his imagination, were red, embroidered with lascivious French phrases.

For a moment he said nothing, simply drank it in.

“That was a beautiful exit,” she said.

“I thought so,” he said.

“I hated to spoil it,” she said. “But I had an idea.”

“You’re a prodigy,” he said. “First an alibi, then an idea. All in the same day.”

“I thought you could help me,” she said.

“I daresay I could,” he said, contemplating her ankles.

“With your mother.”

He lifted his gaze to her face. “What do you want to do to her?”

“Ideally, I should like to dress her.”

“That would be difficult, considering that she hates you,” he said. “That is, not you, particularly. But you as a near connection to the Duchess of Clevedon, and your shop as harboring same.”

“I know, but I’m sure we can bring her round. That is, I can bring her round. With a little help.”

“What do you propose, Miss Noirot? Shall I drug her ladyship and carry her, senseless, to your lair, where you’ll force her into dashing gowns?”

“Only as a last resort,” she said. “What I have in mind for you at present is quite simple—and no one will ever know you aided and abetted the Enemy.”

“This is London,” he said. “There’s no such thing as ‘no one will ever know.’ “

“No, really, I promise you—”

“Not that I care what anybody knows,” he said.

“Right,” she said. “I forgot. But I must not be recognized.”

“Does that mean a disguise?” he said.

“Only for me,” she said. “I need to visit Dowdy’s, you see, and—”

“And Dowdy’s is …?”

“The lair of the reptile, Horrible Hortense Downes, the monster who puts your mother into those dreary clothes. I need to get into her shop.”

In her world, he knew, clothes were the beginning and the end of everything, and worlds were lost on the wrong placement of a bow.

“You’re proposing a spying expedition behind enemy lines,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s it exactly.”

“Are you going to blow up the place?”

“Only as a last resort,” she said.

He was quite happy to take her, even if she didn’t blow the place up. He’d be happy to take her anywhere. But his promptly agreeing meant her prompt departure and he wasn’t yet tired of looking at her ankles.

He pretended to ponder.

“It’s only for an hour or so,” she said. “That shouldn’t disrupt your busy schedule.”

“Ordinarily, no,” he said. “But I’ve got this Adderley problem to work on, and that wants deep and lengthy cogitation.”

“You do not have the Adderley problem to work on,” she said. “Did I not tell you my sisters and I would deal with it?”

“It’s not the sort of thing I want to leave to women,” he said. “It could get messy, and I’d hate to see your pretty frocks spoiled.”

“Believe me, Lord Longmore, my sisters and I have dealt with extremely messy situations before.”

He met her gaze. In those blue eyes he caught a glimpse of something, unexpected and hard. It was gone in an instant, but it set off a sharp recollection of the men who’d pursued her and emerged from the experience damaged.

There was more to her than met the eye: that much he’d recognized early on.

“Let me think it over,” he said. “Let me think it over in the cool depths of my club.”

He continued down the stairs.

Two hours later

From the environs of White’s famous bow window, where Beau Brummell had presided some decades earlier, a sudden buzz of excitement broke in upon a dull, drizzly afternoon. The noise gradually increased in volume sufficiently to obtain Lord Longmore’s attention.

He’d settled in the morning room with Foxe’s Morning Spectacle to review Sophy’s story about last night’s debacle. As regarded breathlessly dramatic style and fanatical attention to every boring inch of Clara’s dress, Sophy had outdone herself. Clara had been “innocence cruelly misled,” Longmore had appeared as a paragon among avenging brothers, and the dress description—dripping with an arcane French known only to women—took up nearly two of the front page’s three columns. Her account had routed from said page virtually all the other gossip Foxe called news.

Longmore had read it this morning after breakfast. He saw no more in it now than he had then. It was unclear what good the piece would do Clara—unless it was simply the first step in a campaign. If so, he looked forward to seeing where it would lead.

After chuckling over Sophy’s world’s-greatest-collection of adjectives and adverbs, he moved on to the other gossip and sporting news. Thence he proceeded to the advertising pages at the back.

There Maison Noirot had taken over prime real estate, squeezing into obscure corners the notices for pocket toilets, artificial teeth, and salad cream.

That was when he discovered Mrs. Downes’s announcement.

He was wondering about the connection between Sophy’s need to be taken to her rival’s shop and the advertisement when someone at the bow window said, “Who is she?”

“You’re joking,” someone else said. “You don’t know?”

“Would I ask if I knew?”

Other voices joined in.

“Hempton, you innocent. Have you been in a coma during the last month?”

“How could you not have heard about the Misalliance of the Century? They talk of it in Siberia and Tierra del Fuego.”

“But that can’t be Sheridan’s new bride.”

“Not the elopement, you slow-top.”

“You mean Clevedon?” said Hempton. “But he married a brunette. This one’s a blonde.”

Longmore flung down the Spectacle, left his chair, and stalked to the bow window.

“What now?” he said, though he could guess.

The men crowding the window hastily made room for him.

Sophy Noirot stood on the other side of St. James’s Street. A gust of wind blew the back of her pale yellow dress against her legs and made a billowing froth of skirt and petticoats in front. The wind made a complete joke of the lacy nothing of an umbrella she held against the rain. The previous downpour had diminished to a light drizzle, and the misty figure glimpsed between the clumps of vehicles, riders, and pedestrians seemed like something in a dream.

The commentary at the bow window, however, made it clear she was not a dream, except in the sense that she was, at the moment, the starring player in every man’s lewd fantasy.

Ah, she was real enough, wearing a scarf sort of thing that dangled to her knees—or where one assumed her knees must be, under all those yards of lace and muslin. Atop the golden hair perched a silly hat, dripping lace and ribbons and feathers. Longmore could see a sort of Dutch windmill arrangement of lace and feathers at the back of the hat when she bent to talk to a scruffy little boy. She gave him something, and he dashed across the street, dodging riders and vehicles.

Then she looked up, straight at the bow window and straight at Longmore.

And smiled.

Then all the men at the bow window looked at him.

And smiled.

And he smiled right back.

Longmore took his time. He finished his glass of wine, reread the advertisement, then called for his things.

He donned his hat and gloves, grasped his walking stick, and went out. The drizzle had dwindled to a fine mist and the wind had died down somewhat.

She had walked a little way up the street. She was watching the passing scene on Piccadilly. Every passing male was watching her.

He coolly descended the steps and strolled across the street to her.

“I should have thought you’d find an urchin nearer the shop to carry the message that my sister was ready to go home,” he said. “Or why not send a servant or a seamstress? You had to come yourself? In the rain?”

“Yes,” she said.

“I collect you had something particular to say to me, then,” he said.

“I daresay I could have said it elsewhere,” she said. “But this was a fine opportunity to show off my hat, which is my own design. I’m not a genius with dresses, like Marcelline, but my hats are quite good.”

He eyed the hat, with its lace and windmill and whatnot. “It strikes me as demented,” he said. “But fetching.”

She dimpled, and his heart gave a lurch that astonished him.

“I sincerely hope it’s fetching enough to weaken your resistance,” she said.

“What resistance?” he said.

“To my scheme.”

“Oh, that. Taking you to Dowdy’s.”

“I need to find out what they’re up to.”

“I should think that was obvious,” he said. “They’re out to crush the competition, as any self-respecting rival would do.”

He started walking down St. James’s Street, wondering what devious means she’d contrived to persuade him to do what he was going to do anyway.

She walked alongside him. “I know that,” she said. “But I need to see exactly what we’re up against: the old Dowdy’s or something new, something we hadn’t reckoned on. I need to see whether the place is the same and the clothes are the same.”

“I suppose you’ll be shocked if I say that all women’s clothes look the same to me,” he said.

“I wouldn’t be shocked at all,” she said. “You’re a man. And that’s the point of my asking you. I need a big, strong man in case I’m discovered, and run into difficulties with Dowdy’s bullies.” She paused briefly. “While we were fitting your sister, she happened to mention Lady Gladys Fairfax, and what a pity it was that we couldn’t take her in hand,” she said.

“Cousin Gladys,” he said. “Don’t tell me she’s coming to the wedding.”

“I don’t know who’ll be invited,” she said. “But when Lady Clara spoke of her, I got the idea for a way to manage this.”

They’d reached the corner of Bennet Street. He paused to check for carriages and riders turning off St. James’s Street.

When the way seemed clear, he took her elbow and hurried her across. As soon as they reached the pavement on the opposite side, he let go of her. He still felt the warmth of her arm under his palm, and the warmth raced straight to his groin so suddenly that it made him dizzy.

The rear entrance to the shop was through a narrow court off Bennet Street. She waited until they’d turned into the court. Then she said, “Lady Clara says your mother will go to Dowdy’s early in the week to order a dress for the wedding. Leonie can spare me from the shop most easily on Friday morning. Would you take me then?”

After the bustle of St. James’s Street, the tiny court seemed eerily quiet. He was aware of a scent, vaguely familiar, drifting about him. He drew a fraction closer and stared at the discreet door, pretending to think hard while he drank in the scent. Woman, of course, and … lavender … and what else?

He realized his head was sinking toward her neck. He straightened. “Bullies,” he said. “In a dressmaking shop.”

“Two great brutes,” she said. “To deal with the drunks and thieves. Or so Dowdy claims. Personally, I believe she’s hired the men to intimidate the seamstresses. You know, the way they keep them in brothels to—”

“That sounds like fun,” he said. “And you’ll be in disguise, of course.”

“Yes.”

“As a serving maid, I suppose.”

“Certainly not,” she said. “What would a serving maid be doing buying expensive dresses? I’m going to be your cousin Gladys.”

Lord Adderley wasted no time in putting the notice of his engagement in the papers, but the news traveled through London in a matter of hours—faster even than the Spectacle could get it into print. By Monday his tailor, boot maker, hatter, vintner, tobacconist, and others who provided for his comfort and entertainment had once again opened their account books and allowed him credit.

He’d had a narrow escape.

Another week and he would have had to flee abroad. While peers could not be arrested for debt, they weren’t immune to other unpleasantness, like having their credit shut off. All of his creditors seemed to have joined a cabal, because every single one, including all the shopkeepers, cut him off at the same time, two days before Lady Igby’s ball.

The forthcoming nuptials put everybody in a more forgiving frame of mind.

He celebrated on Monday night with Mr. Meffat and Sir Roger Theaker in a private dining parlor of the Brunswick Hotel. They toasted one another throughout the meal. By the time the table had been cleared, wine had loosened their tongues—no matter, since there was nobody nearby to hear.

“A close-run thing it was,” said Sir Roger.

“Perilously close,” said Lord Adderley.

“Wasn’t sure you’d manage it,” said Mr. Meffat. “Watching like hawks, they were.”

Lord Adderley shrugged. “As soon as I saw Lady Bartham settle in to gossip with the mama, I knew there wouldn’t be trouble from that quarter for a while.”

“It was Longmore who worried me,” said Mr. Meffat.

Adderley resisted the urge to feel his bruised jaw. He’d had more reason than anybody to worry. He’d broken into a sweat, which he’d explained away to Lady Clara as excitement, to be so close to her, to hold her in her arms—all the usual rubbish, in other words.

He said, “I only needed a few minutes, and he was on the other side of the room. Still, it was your quick acting that saved the day.”

It was Meffat’s and Theaker’s job to attract attention to the terrace without attracting too much attention. Not the most difficult job in the world. One only had to say, “Wonder what Adderley’s about on the terrace? Who’s the female with him?”

One didn’t have to say it to too many people. One or two would do. The drift terrace-wards would begin, and some others would notice, and follow, curious to see what was attracting attention.

Clara had been easiest of all to manage. Though no schoolroom miss—she was one and twenty, older than Adderley would have preferred—she was as ignorant about lovemaking as a child. All he had to do was keep her wineglass filled and whirl her about the floor until she was dizzy and whisper poetry in her ear. Still, one had to be careful. Too much wine and too much spinning and she’d be sick—on his last good coat.

“At least you got yourself a beauty,” Theaker said. “Mostly, when their pa sets a big dowry on them, it’s on account of being squinty or spotty or bowlegged.”

“What he means is, mostly, they’re dogs,” Meffat said.

“I’m fortunate,” Adderley said. “I know that. I might have done so much worse.”

She was a beauty, and that would make the bedding and getting of heirs more agreeable. Still, she wasn’t to his taste, a great cow of a girl. He liked daintier women, and he would have preferred a brunette.

But her dowry was enormous, she’d been vulnerable, and beggars couldn’t be choosers.

“Bless her innocence,” said Theaker. “She went just like a lamb.”

“There’s one won’t give you any trouble,” said Meffat.

* * *

Warford House

Wednesday 3 June

Clara kept her composure until she’d closed her bedroom door behind her.

She swallowed, walked quickly across the room, and sat at her dressing table.

“My lady?” said her maid, Davis.

A sob escaped Clara. And another.

“Oh, my lady,” said Davis.

“I don’t know what to do!” Clara buried her face in her hands.

“Now, now, my lady. I’ll make you a good, hot cup of tea and whatever it is, you’ll feel better.”

“I need more than tea,” Clara said. She looked up to meet Davis’s gaze in the mirror.

“I’ll put a drop of brandy in it,” said Davis.

“More than a drop,” Clara said.

“Yes, my lady.”

Davis hurried out.

Clara took out the note Lord Adderley had sent her.

A love note, filled with beautiful words, the kinds of words sure to melt the heart of a romantic girl.

Of course the words were beautiful. They’d been written by poets: Keats and Lovelace and Marvell and scores of others. Even Shakespeare! He thought she wouldn’t recognize lines from a Shakespeare sonnet! Either he was a complete idiot or he thought she was.

“The latter, most likely,” she muttered. She crumpled the note and threw it across the room. “Liar,” she said. “It was all lies. I knew it. How could I be such a fool?”

Because Mr. Bates had not asked her to dance, and she’d watched him whirl Lady Susan Morris, Lady Bartham’s daughter, about the floor. Lady Susan was petite and dark and pretty, and next to her Clara always felt ungainly and awkward.

Then what?

A moment’s hurt. Then Lord Adderley was at her elbow, with a glass of champagne, and a perfect remark, sure to make her smile.

Irish blarney, Mama would have said.

Maybe that’s what it was. Or maybe it was like the beautiful words he wrote, stolen from gifted writers. False, either way.

Champagne and waltzing and flattery, and Clara had taken the bait.

And now …

What to do?

She rose and walked to the window and looked out. In the garden below, the rain was beating the shrubs and flowers into submission. If she’d been a man—if she’d been Harry—she’d have climbed out and run away, as far as she could go.

But she wasn’t a man, and she had no idea how to run away.

Time, she thought. Her only hope was time. If they could drag out the engagement for months and months, a new scandal would come along, and everybody would forget this one.

Davis entered with the tea. “I put in a few extra drops, but you’ll need to drink it quickly,” she said. “Lady Bartham’s called, and Lady Warford said you’re to come straightaway.”

“Lady Bartham,” Clara said. “That wants more than a few drops. That wants a bottle.”

She swallowed her brandy-laced tea, put on her company face, and went down to the drawing room.

The visit was even worse than anticipated. Lady Bartham was so sympathetically venomous that she left Clara half blind with rage and Mama with a sick headache.

The next morning, Mama announced that she was sick to death of this ghastly engagement and everybody’s insinuations. They would consult the calendar and fix a date for the wedding.

“Yes, of course, Mama,” Clara said. “In the autumn, perhaps. Town won’t be so busy then.”

“Autumn?” Mama cried. “Are you mad? We’ve not a moment to lose. You must be married before the end of the Season—before the Queen’s last Drawing Room at the latest.”

“Mama, that’s only three weeks!”

“It’s sufficient time to arrange a wedding, even a large one—and a small one is out of the question. You know what people will say. And if those wicked French dressmakers Harry took you to can’t finish your bride clothes on time, it is too bad. It is not my fault if my children disobey me at every turn.”