Vixen in Velvet (The Dressmakers 3)

“Meet them?” Leonie looked about the consulting room, exasperation clear in every feature.

That, he realized was unusual. She was always so guarded. Except in lovemaking.

“I can’t leave the shop!” she said. “Not today, of all days. It will look as though we’ve abandoned it.”

“Never mind that your customers have abandoned you,” he said.

“He doesn’t understand,” she said. “He tries. He understands to a point, but he never had to work for a living. He doesn’t—” She shook her head. “He lives his life as a duke, that’s all, and he assumes we’ll live as a duke’s family. Did he hurt you much?”

“A glancing blow, no more,” Lisburne said. He caught himself before he tested the sore place on his jaw where His Grace had made contact—and where he might have done substantial damage had Lisburne been an instant slower to dodge. “We’re too evenly matched, and we hadn’t time to assess each other’s weak points. Still, I noted a slight redness at the top of Clevedon’s right cheekbone. With any luck, it’ll turn into a black eye. But speaking of injuries”—he pointed to the place in his jaw—“I detect some throbbing, after all. Perhaps you could kiss it and make it better.”

Leonie moved away. “Not during business hours.”

He glanced at the chaise longue and away and suppressed a sigh.

“Well, then, business,” he said. “I’d just as soon not have to argue with Clevedon over every detail of what’s to be done. He can be intolerably overbearing. Ducal, as you said. If you’ll tell me your plan, I promise to listen attentively and be as good as gold.”

If he stood too close, he’d catch her scent. Then he wouldn’t be as good as gold.

He moved away to the looking glass and examined himself. Nothing horribly out of order. Everything buttoned and tied properly. His boots gleamed. His hair was a trifle disordered and his neckcloth wasn’t right, thanks to the contretemps with Clevedon. But he discerned no signs of careless desolation.

He heard a little giggle, quickly smothered. He turned.

Her expression was sober, but he knew she was amused to see him playing Narcissus—he who always left it to his valet to fuss over his appearance.

She looked down at her piece of paper.

“Have you made two columns?” he said. “Drawn with a ruler?”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “For one thing, I had to weigh the pros and cons of summoning Sophy. The cons outnumber the pros. I won’t bore you with them. She’d find a way to turn the furor to our advantage, I don’t doubt. But we have strong reasons against her returning quite yet. And so I believe the best way for all of us to recover is find out the truth. Shall I explain my reasons?”

He wondered why Sophy, who seemed so important to the shop, needed to stay away. He’d heard stories about her and Longmore, but nothing, apart from a bridal trip, that explained an enforced absence.

He knew it was no good asking. Leonie could be amazingly direct and open. If she wasn’t, she wasn’t, and that was the end of it.

“I want the truth about Swanton’s mystery woman, too,” he said. “But my reasons are obvious. I’d like to hear yours.”

“They’re simple enough,” she said. “If we discover that Lord Swanton is in the wrong, he’ll make amends. This is good for us. Since Maison Noirot and the Milliners’ Society are now associated with him, we’ll be associated with doing the right thing. People love confessions and redemption.”

“They like hangings, too.”

“I hope it won’t come to that, even if we discover a fraud,” she said. “But first we have to find out which it is.”

He hadn’t the least doubt she’d enumerated possible courses of action for every possible outcome.

“I’ll be happy to beat the truth out of Theaker and Meffat,” he said. “While I don’t require help, I believe Clevedon would be overjoyed to assist. That would present a good way of—er—mending our fences. I don’t like to be at odds with him.”

He hated it. He especially hated knowing he’d deserved Clevedon’s attack.

“He’s tetchier these days because of Marcelline,” she said. “But I should prefer to reserve beating for a last resort. I’d rather find the woman.”

“Except for Theaker and Meffat, nobody knows who she is,” he said. “She might be anywhere. We don’t know her name. I didn’t even get a good look at her.”

“I got the number of the hackney,” she said.

He blinked once, surprised. Then he saw how stupid he was to be surprised. She was logical and orderly and good with numbers. She’d had the presence of mind—or the recklessness—or both—to follow Theaker and the woman, while Lisburne and Swanton had dithered, chasing their own tails.

“Do you know how many hackneys ply the London streets?” he said. “Over a thousand. They might be anywhere at any time of the day. Or night.”

“Fenwick knows most of the hackney coachmen,” she said. “I’m sure I mentioned this.”

He remembered then. Her sister Sophy had found Fenwick on the streets. The boy liked horses, and made friends with grooms and hackney coachmen. Leonie had told him this. Last night.

Before the very nice interlude.

“We still don’t know much about Fenwick,” she said. “He’s a clam about his past. But we do know he’s well acquainted with London’s less elegant population. I sent him out to track down our woman in black.”

“You sent the boy who wears the gorgeous livery, who speaks his own peculiar version of English,” he said. Lisburne’s mind wasn’t working as well as it ought. It drifted to the chaise longue. It wandered upstairs, to the sitting room. He remembered undressing her. The delicious forever it had taken. The touching gesture of modesty when she’d held the corset over her beautiful breasts . . . the complete lack of modesty and self-consciousness afterward.

“The people he’ll be talking to understand him well enough,” she said. “This won’t be the first time he’s helped us find a missing person. We must hope he does it quickly. Almack’s last assembly is tomorrow night. People will remain in Town after that, but by the end of the month, they’ll be scattering.”

“Ten days,” he said.

“We can’t afford ten days with no customers,” she said. She paused and moved away, to pick up a bit of ribbon from a chair. Since she’d had no customers today, it must be debris from last night.

Last night. Last night.

He could close the door. No customers. Her employees worked on the floor below. He could take her behind the curtain . . .

“I may be forced to sell the Botticelli,” she said.

Lisburne’s face was a picture.

His mind had been elsewhere, Leonie knew, and she had a good idea where. Her mind wanted to go there, too. Her body, actually. Straight into his arms. More of what they’d done last night. She’d dreamed such beautiful, wicked dreams.

But this was full day, a dreadful day, and dreams were for the night, like lovemaking. Dreams, like lovemaking, were for escaping.

She couldn’t escape now. She had an immense, dangerous problem to solve. If she didn’t solve it, she’d lose everything that mattered, everything she and her sisters had worked and risked and struggled for. She’d lose all that Cousin Emma had given them, and it would be like seeing her die again.

Leonie had to keep her mind on business.

Lisburne was pleasure. No, to her he was a great deal more. She’d fallen in love and given herself gladly, and she’d do it again and again until he was done with her. Or until some miracle occurred and she was cured and was done with him.

But business came first, last, and always. She had a disaster to recover from, and not a minute to lose.

“The Botticelli,” he said.

“Our wager?” she said. “Lady Gladys? Beaux and proposals and invitations by the end of the m

onth? Do you recollect?”

His green gaze narrowed. “I recollect. Two weeks with you. Your undivided attention. No business.”

“If matters continue as they are, I’ll have no business,” she said.

“How the devil do you propose to win, if the ladies won’t come to the shop?” he said. “Gladys resides with Lady Warford, you know, while her father the great general is abroad, getting soldiers killed somewhere. It doesn’t matter if you’re related by marriage. If you were Clara’s own sister, and had got yourself into a scandal, Lady Warford would send you away to live with the sheep on a desolate island off the coast of Scotland, and Clara would be forbidden to even write to you.”

“Lady Gladys must come to the shop,” she said. “We’ve two promenade dresses, a ball dress, and a dinner dress for her. And Joanie Barker has made a splendid hat. Sophy is a genius with millinery, and Joanie is her protégée.”