Scandal Wears Satin (The Dressmakers 2)

“People see what they expect to see,” she said. “In the shop, one is the modiste. When one isn’t in the shop but in a place where she isn’t expected to be, she merely seems vaguely familiar.”

Her false voice, the false accent, the mangled English slipped away, and he marveled at that, too: the ease with which Sophy shed one personality and assumed another.

“Shopkeepers are like servants, invisible,” she went on. “Outside their proper sphere, their customers don’t recognize them. If one pretends, boldly and confidently, to be someone else, the observer simply accepts.”

Servants were another matter. No one was invisible to them. If that hadn’t been the case, Madame would be residing at Clevedon House, and Longmore would have one less worry. But that was out of the question. One couldn’t expect a large household to keep such a secret—or any secret, for that matter. She’d gone out in one of her guises and hired French servants from one of the agencies she knew and trusted. These made up the retinue attending her at her hotel. In time, the Spectacle would explain the circumstances under which she’d fled France. That, he had no doubt, would be a bloodcurdling story of treachery and betrayal and flight under cover of darkness and harrowing escapes from Enemies.

He shook his head. “It’s still hard to swallow: the same men who gawked at you through White’s bow window, all competing now to be witty and charming in French.”

“Because the scene was so beautifully set,” she said. “All we needed was for you and Lady Clara to pretend not to recognize me.”

“Clara contrived to do it without telling an outright lie, I noticed.”

But Clara had had only a small part to play. It was Sophy who’d had to take center stage. It was she who’d had to adopt another identity—with every single eye in the theater on her.

She’d done it with a flair and assurance that took his breath away. She’d seemed thoroughly at ease, and he’d thought, She’s in her element.

“You played your part splendidly,” she said. “So well, in fact, that you almost threw me off-stride. I’m still not over the shock of your perfect French.”

He shrugged. “That won me some flattery from Adderley. He even had the temerity to compliment my uppercut—and to say he deserved it.”

“He’ll say anything,” she said. “He’s in very bad trouble.”

And that was one of the many matters worrying Longmore’s brain. “He’ll do anything, too,” he said. “Kindly remember that. And remember as well that he’s not stupid. You’d better have a care.”

She stiffened. “I can’t believe you’re giving me acting advice. Have you forgotten our day at Dowdy’s?”

“This is different.”

“It’s the same thing,” she said. “I’m pretending to be somebody I’m not. I do it all the time. I pretend I don’t want to slap a customer. I pretend she isn’t an idiot. I pretend I like changing the ribbon fourteen times because she doesn’t know what she likes or wants until thirty of her friends have all given their opinions.”

“This isn’t women in a shop,” he said.

“I’m well aware of that,” she said. “Have you forgotten whose idea this was? Have you forgotten that you said it was a perfect plan?”

“You were stark naked when you told me,” he said. “At the time, any plan would have struck me as perfect.”

“Well, then. It ought to be imbedded in your brain.”

“Well, nothing. That was before Clevedon gave us the nasty details about Adderley.”

While they’d been hunting for Clara, Clevedon had been doing his own sleuthing. He’d learned that Lord Adderley’s debts were considerably greater than rumored—and rumor had named a very high figure. He was in so deep that some of his creditors were keeping a close watch on him. He wouldn’t be the first gentleman to decide to flee his obligations via a packet to Calais or other continental parts.

“He’s dealt with some unsavory moneylenders,” she said with a dismissive wave. “I know about them.”

“Their methods aren’t always sporting,” he said.

“I know what they’re like,” she said.

“They’re not harmless oafs like Dowdy’s hired ruffians,” he said.

She let out a huff. “I told you: I know. You’ve no idea what we dealt with in Paris.”

“I don’t,” he said. “It grows clearer and clearer how little I know about you.”

. . . except that her breasts were perfect, and her bottom was beyond perfect, and when she made love she was completely honest.

. . . and that he was spending far too much time working on the problem of how to get her back into his bed.

“We’ll have to indulge in reminiscences another time,” she said. “There they are.”

He looked up. Adderley’s carriage was approaching.

“I only want you not to be overconfident,” he said. “I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

“You don’t know what I’m capable of,” she said. “I’m not your sister. I never had a sheltered life. You don’t know what it takes to establish a successful shop. You have to stop fretting about Adderley’s creditors and unsavory moneylenders, and leave him to me. You need to trust in me to know what I’m doing, so that you can concentrate on doing your own part. You have to be Longmore, who’s taken a fancy to Madame de Veirrion. Look at me. I’m Madame now.”

And she changed.

It was a marvel to him, to watch her. As the other carriage approached, her demeanor changed completely: her posture and the way she moved—even her face wasn’t quite the same face. This all happened in a way too subtle for one to put into words.

Unlike her stint as his cousin Gladys, she wore no disguise this time: no tinted spectacles to dull the brilliant blue of her eyes, no artificial blemishes to spoil her perfect skin, no noxious mixtures to dull the gold of her hair. She was dressed more expensively and extravagantly than usual—and that was no small accomplishment—but her face was in plain view.

Yet she became someone else, as though she had a hundred souls at her disposal, and could become another person as entirely and as easily as another woman changed hats.

In some way, through the sheer force of personality, she made the world believe the illusion she created.

But she was right, or at least partly right: He had to stop thinking about the delicious and troubling puzzle that was Sophia Noirot and concentrate on the allure of Madame de Veirrion.

He’d driven into the park through the Cumberland Gate, at the park’s northeast corner, in order to “accidentally” meet up with the other couple. Most of London’s fashionable set typically entered at Hyde Park Corner, making a great crush at the southeastern edge of the park. The aim was for Longmore and his companion to seem to be on their way out of the park when the encounter occurred.

Once abreast of each other, the two vehicles halted, and Longmore made the introductions.

Clara showed exactly the right degree of feminine curiosity about Madame.

Adderley was doing the masculine version: trying to size up Madame’s assets under the capes and gigantic sleeves of her carriage dress without being obvious about it. But of course it was as plain as plain to Longmore, as it would be to any man, that Adderley had discerned her splendidly rounded figure, and dwelt on it rather longer than he needed to. He made a valiant effort not to appear interested—one must give him a little credit, as little as possible—but Madame kept his attention. He was the hapless fish, swimming into her nets without realizing the nets were there.

Longmore had watched her captivate his friends last night. This afternoon he watched her casually throw the bait: a sidelong glance at Adderley, a tilt of her head, a gesture here, a fleeting smile there. In five minutes, she had him. A speculative gleam came into Adderley’s eyes, and a silent dialogue went on between them—and Longmore was developing a headache from the effort it took to pretend not to notice.

All the while, Madame was talking mainly to Clara. She made it seem th

at she was eager to win Clara’s approval. And all the while Clara listened to Madame’s mangled English with a perfectly sober expression, seeming completely oblivious to the silent byplay between Madame and Adderley.

“I am too much—oh, what is the word I want?” Madame frowned prettily. “To go ahead too much. Ah, forward. I am too much forward, yes? Too bold.”

“Not at all,” Adderley said, gallant fellow. Conceited, sneaking swine.

Madame feigned not to notice, her attention apparently given to Clara. “But my Lady Clara, this I demand: Who knows what arrives? Today we are content, so ’appy. The day after this, the one we love so much—poof!—he is gone. This is what arrives in my life. One day all is content and peace. The day that succeed, all is agitation. Mon époux, he die. Then Paris go mad. Who can say what will pass?”

“Not I, certainly,” said Longmore.

“The time, he run away from us,” she said. “One cannot attend.” She closed her eyes. “That word is not correct.”

“The word you want, madame, is wait,” Longmore said. He’d learned her trick of using English words that sounded similar to French but whose meaning was not quite the same. Demand when she meant ask. Succeed instead of follow. “I believe you meant that because time does not wait for us, you will not wait for time.”

“This is so true,” said Madame. “I make haste. My Lady Clara—la très belle sœur of Lord Lun-mour—let us make an acquaintance with each other. Let us encounter again.” She sent a fleeting glance Adderley’s way. “Tomorrow, yes? We attend the exhibition of the paintings at—What is the place, Lord Lun-mour?”

“The British Institution,” he said.

“That place,” said Madame. “I persuade Lord Lun-mour to accompany me to regard the art.”