Silk Is for Seduction (The Dressmakers 1)

“Your grace,” the girl said. She curtseyed. It was nothing half so stunning as her mother’s style of curtsey, but it was gracefully done nonetheless. He wondered at it and at her remarkable self-possession.

Then he recalled whose daughter she was, and wondered why he wondered.

Then he recalled who it was who had a child.

A child, Noirot had a child!

How had she failed to mention such a thing? But what was wrong with him that he was so shocked? She was Mrs. Noirot—and while the title “Mrs.” was used, cavalierly enough, by unwed shopkeepers, actresses, and whores alike, he needn’t have assumed she wasn’t a married woman, with a family and . . . a husband . . . who did not seem to be in evidence. Dead? Or perhaps there was no husband, merely a scoundrel who’d fathered and abandoned this child.

“Do you ever take children for a drive in that carriage?” Erroll said, calling him back to the moment. “Not little children, I mean, but proper grown-up girls who would sit quietly—not climbing about and spoiling the cushions or putting sticky fingers on the glass. Not them, but well-behaved girls who keep their hands folded in their laps and only look out of the window.” The great blue eyes regarded him steadily.

“I—”

“No, he does not,” her mother said. “His grace has many claims on his time. In fact, I am sure he has an appointment elsewhere any minute now.”

“Do I?”

Noirot gave him a warning look.

“Yes, of course,” he said. He took out his pocket watch and stared at it. He had no idea where the hands pointed. He was too conscious of the little girl with the great blue eyes watching him so intently. “I nearly forgot.”

He put the watch away. “Well, Erroll, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Yes, I’m glad to meet you, too,” she said. “Please come again, when you’re not so busy.”

He made a polite, non-committal answer, and took his leave.

He climbed into his coach and sat. As the vehicle started to move, he looked out through the louvered panel. That was when he finally took notice of the other two women, a blonde and a redhead. Even through the wooden slats, at this distance, he discerned the family resemblance, most especially in the way they carried themselves.

He had mistaken her. He’d formed an idea that was entirely wrong.

Her shop was not a little hole-in-corner place but a proper, handsome establishment. She had a family. She had a child.

She was not to be trusted. Of that he was quite, quite sure.

As to everything else—he’d misjudged, misunderstood, and now he was at sea again, and it was a rough sea, indeed.

“Well done,” Sophy said, when the shop door had closed behind them. “I know you, of course, and I should never underestimate you—”

“But my dear,” said Leonie, “you could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw the crest on the carriage door.”

“And then to see him spring out of the carriage—”

“—the prints don’t half do him justice—”

“—to see him hand you out—”

“—I thought for a minute I was dreaming—”

“—It was very like a vision—”

“I saw it first, Mama,” Lucie/Erroll cut into her aunts’ chatter. “I was sitting in the window, reading my lessons, when I heard a noise, and I looked out—and I thought the king was passing by.”

“The king, with a paltry two footmen?” Marcelline said. “I think not.”

“Oh, yes. It might have been, Mama. Everyone knows King William doesn’t like to make a show. I’m sorry, too, because they say the old king, the one before this one . . .” She frowned.

“King George the Fourth,” Leonie prompted.

“Yes, that one,” Lucie said. “Everyone says he was vastly more splendid, and you always knew who it was when he went by. But a duke is grand, too. I thought he was very handsome, like the prince in the fairy tale. We did not expect you so soon, but I’m glad you came early. Was it very agreeable to travel in that fine carriage? I collect the seat cushions were thick and soft.”

“They were, indeed,” Marcelline said. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted two women approaching the shop. It would not do for Lucie to be interrogating her about the Duke of Clevedon in front of customers, but it wasn’t easy to distract her daughter from a fascinating object, especially a large, expensive fascinating object. “I shall tell you all about it down to the last detail, but I’m perishing for a cup of tea. Shall we go upstairs, and will you make Mama a cup of tea?”

“Yes, yes!” Lucie jumped up and down. “I’ll send Millie to the pastry shop. We’re so glad you’re home, and we shall have a party, a wonderful party, with cakes!”

Hours later, when Lucie was safely abed, the sisters gathered in the workroom.

There they drank champagne, to celebrate Marcelline’s return—with her quarry, no less—and while they drank, Marcelline described her experiences with the Duke of Clevedon in all their lurid detail. Though her sisters were virgins, so far as she knew—and she couldn’t imagine why they wouldn’t tell her if they were not—they were by no means innocent. In any case, one could hardly expect them to help her deal with the complications if they did not fully understand what had happened.

“I’m truly sorry,” she said. “I had promised I wouldn’t bollix it up—”

“So you did,” said Leonie. “Yet none of us expected him to be quite so . . . quite so—”

“Everyone said he was handsome,” said Sophy. “But really, he’s beautiful. He took my breath away.” She patted Marcelline’s hand. “I’m so sorry you had to restrain yourself. I’m not sure I could have done it.”

“It’s not his beauty,” Marcelline said.

Both sisters eyed her skeptically.

“It’s his curst ducal-ness,” she said. “Those fellows are the very devil to manage. They’re not merely accustomed to having their way: The alternative simply doesn’t enter their heads. They don’t think the way normal people do. Then, too, he can think. He’s quicker-witted than I had allowed for. But what sort of excuse is that? I should have adjusted my methods, but for reasons that still elude me, I didn’t. The fact is, I played it very ill, and now Sophy must turn my error to account.”

She went on to explain the advertisements she and Jeffreys had devised immediately after the comtesse’s party—a lifetime ago, it seemed . . . before the storm . . . when he’d looked after her . . .

His hands, his hands . . .

“I’ll plant a story in the Morning Spectacle,” Sophy said. “But it may be too late to make tomorrow’s edition. Confound it, you haven’t left us much time.”

“I came as quickly as I could. We were nearly shipwrecked!”

“Sophy, do be reasonable,” said Leonie. “And only think, if the storm delayed their packet, others were delayed as well. The mail will be late. That gives you as much as an extra day, if you’ll only be quick about it.”

“We can’t rely on the mail’s arriving late,” Sophy said. “I’ll have to find Tom Foxe tonight. But that might answer very well: a late-night summons . . . a story whispered in the dark. I’ll wear a disguise, and let him think I

’m Lady So-and-So. He won’t be able to resist. We’ll have the front of the paper, a prime spot.”

“The ladies will flock to see the dress,” said Leonie. “We may even see some as early as tomorrow afternoon. I know for a fact that the Countess of Bartham reads the Spectacle devotedly.”

“The dress had better be on display, then,” Marcelline said. “It needs repairs. Jeffreys was able to clean it before the packet sailed, but she was too sick afterward to stitch the bodice. And I lost at least one papillon bow. What else?” She rubbed her head.

“We’re perfectly capable of seeing for ourselves what needs to be done,” Leonie said. “I’ll work on it while Sophy goes out to her clandestine meeting with Tom. You’d better go to bed.”

“You’ll want to be rested,” Sophy said. “We’ve got a—”

She broke off, and Marcelline looked up in time to catch the look Leonie sent Sophy.

“What?” Marcelline said. “What are you not telling me?”

“Really, Sophy, you might learn to curb your dramatic impulses,” Leonie said. “You can see she’s weary.”

“I did not say—”

“What haven’t you told me?” Marcelline said.

There was a pause. Her two younger sisters exchanged reproachful looks. Then Sophy said, “Someone is stealing your designs and giving them to Horrible Hortense.”

Marcelline looked to Leonie for confirmation.

“It’s true,” Leonie said. “We’ve a spy in our midst.”

On Monday night, Lady Clara Fairfax received a note from the Duke of Clevedon, informing her of his return to London and of his wish to call on her on Tuesday afternoon, if convenient.

The family were not usually at home to callers on Tuesday, but the usual rules did not apply to the Duke of Clevedon. For one thing, as her father’s former ward, his grace was considered a part of the family; for another, he was no better at following rules than her brothers were. Papa had forbidden Clevedon and Harry to go abroad three years ago, citing the raging cholera epidemic. They went anyway, leaving Papa no alternative but to shrug and say Clevedon needed to sow his wild oats, and since Longmore was bound to do damage somewhere, it might as well be in another country.