Silk Is for Seduction (The Dressmakers 1)

“It didn’t occur to me,” Clevedon said. “I didn’t plan to stay above a quarter hour. I’m sorry you were obliged to wait for so long.”

“It was boring,” Longmore said. “And damned aggravating. What the devil am I to do? Is this fair to Clara? Should her brother tell her that the man she’s been waiting for has well and truly lost his head over a milliner? It’ll hurt her, you know. She’s always been so tolerant of your foibles. She has a soft spot in her head, I daresay. But this— You know this isn’t the usual thing for you.”

“It was goodbye,” Clevedon said tightly. “It was longer than I’d intended, but it was goodbye. Do you understand? All Mrs. Noirot ever wanted was to dress my duchess. I’ve never been more than a means to that end. She doesn’t care who the duchess is, but I think she prefers Clara because Clara’s beauty is up to the beauty of her bedamned brilliant designs. I was infatuated—and you know how I am: Once I set my sights on a woman, I’ve got to have her. But that’s done. It was goodbye, Longmore. And I must ask you, out of regard for Clara, to keep it to yourself. Telling her will only cause her needless pain, and why should she suffer over an episode of stupidity?”

“You swear it’s over?” Longmore said.

“I—”

Clevedon broke off as the door opened. Halliday appeared on the threshold. He was holding a small silver tray. This was not a good sign. Halliday never stooped to carrying notes. That was a footman’s job.

“I do beg your pardon for disturbing your grace, but I was told that the message could not wait,” the house steward said.

Clevedon didn’t wait for him but crossed the room in a few quick strides, snatched the note from the tray, and tore it open.

There was no salutation. Merely six words: “We need your help. Lucie’s run away.” It was signed M.

Clevedon and Longmore reached the shop not twenty minutes later. The child had disappeared sometime after returning home with the nursemaid from the Green Park. Sarah had readied a bath for Lucie, but when she came back into the nursery, where the child had been playing, she was gone. They’d searched the house, every inch of it, Marcelline told him.

“She got out,” she said. “She climbed out of an open window at the back of the house. I should never have left a window open if I’d any idea she’d do such a thing.”

She must have learned the trick from Clevedon. That was how he’d got her out of the burning house. She’d kept her eyes closed, but she might easily have heard others talk of the rescue. He hadn’t talked about it, but anybody might have worked it out, once they saw the broken window.

“Any idea what set her off?” he said. “That might offer a clue—”

“She had a prodigious temper fit,” Marcelline said. “But she seemed to calm down afterward. Sarah said she was cheerful enough when they went to the park.”

Sarah clapped her hand over her mouth.

“What?” Clevedon said. “If you know something, say it. We haven’t a moment to lose.”

Sarah began to cry. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It was me, madam. I wasn’t thinking.”

“What, drat you?” Clevedon said.

Sarah hastily wiped her eyes. Her face went a bright red. “When we were in the Green Park. Miss Erroll was asking where your family was. She wanted to know why they didn’t live at Clevedon House. I said you didn’t have your own family yet. I pointed out Warford House there, overlooking the park. I said a lady lived in the house and everyone said you were going to marry her. She got such a look on her face. I knew I shouldn’t have said it. She was that wrought up, before, when she was told you weren’t coming.”

Clevedon looked at Marcelline.

“She was waiting for you,” she said wearily. “I told her you weren’t coming. She threw a fit.”

The child had been waiting for him. And he wasn’t to come, ever again.

This was his fault. He’d given her a doll and she’d cherished it, and it had nearly cost her life. She’d stayed in his house. She’d been petted by the servants and she’d played with the dollhouse. What else was she to think but that he was part of her life now, part of her family?

He’d acted so unthinkingly and selfishly and carelessly. He’d thought only of himself and what pleased him, not of the child and how she might be hurt.

This was how Father had killed Mother and Alice. No thought but for himself.

He was sick, heartsick.

He said, “That simplifies matters. One can assume she decided to hunt me down. That would mean she’s headed toward Clevedon House.”

“I doubt she knows the way,” Marcelline said. “We drove here, recollect. How would she know one street from the next?”

It was easy enough for adults unfamiliar with the area to get lost. She could easily turn into the wrong street.

A six-year-old child, alone in the London streets. In a short time the sun would set. And she might be in any of a hundred places.

“We’ll alert the police,” he said. “They may have found her already. They would certainly take notice of a well-dressed child alone on the street.” He hoped so. Predators would take notice, assuredly.

His fault again. She’d escaped by a method she’d learned from him. She’d run away because of him.

He turned to Longmore. “Send one of the footmen who came with us to the police. But they haven’t nearly enough men. I must ask you to muster your servants and mine, and form a search party. We’ll comb the streets.”

“She’s afraid of the dark,” Marcelline said. Her voice shook and her eyes were red, but she didn’t weep. “She’s afraid of the dark.” Her sisters went to her and put their arms about her, the way they’d done the night of the fire.

He couldn’t pull her into his arms. He couldn’t comfort her.

The pain of not doing that was almost as sharp as the fear for Lucie.

“We’ll find her before dark,” Clevedon said. “I should be a good deal more worried if she’d bolted from your old shop on Fleet Street.”

St. James’s was safer, he told himself. Much safer. A royal palace was mere steps away. The clubs were there as well. While it wasn’t completely respectable, it wasn’t the back-slums. And she was a child, on foot. She couldn’t go far.

But she could be taken. And then . . .

No. No one would take her. He knew where she was going. And he’d find her.

Half past three o’clock, Monday morning

Nothing.

No sign of her.

Police. Private detectives. Clevedon and Longmore’s servants. Th

ey’d all searched. They’d knocked on doors and accosted passersby. They’d stopped carriages and hackneys.

No one had seen Lucie.

Clevedon, Longmore, and Marcelline had walked Bennet Street and St. James’s Street, parting company to enter clubs and shops, and rejoining to traverse the alleys and courts in the vicinity. They’d combed St. James’s Square.

He’d tried to send her home to wait when darkness fell, but she said she couldn’t bear to stay home and wait. She walked until she was shivering with fatigue. Even then he had the devil’s own time persuading her to get into the carriage, though it was an open one, and she might spot Lucie as easily—perhaps more easily—from its height than from the pavement.

At three o’clock he’d taken her home. “You’ll be no good to anybody if you don’t get some rest,” he told her.

“How can I rest?”

“Lie down. Put your feet up. Take some brandy. I’m going home to do the same thing. The search hasn’t stopped. It won’t stop. Longmore and I will come back for you in a few hours. When it’s light.”

“She’s afraid of the dark.” Her voice wobbled.

“I know,” he said.

“What shall I do?” she said.

What shall I do if she’s dead?

The unspoken question.

“We’ll find her,” he said.

The conversation played through his mind again and again while he lay on the library sofa. He closed his eyes but they wouldn’t stay closed.

He rose and paced.

He had to think the unthinkable. He had to allow for the possibility she’d been taken. Very well. But all was not lost. A ransom would be sought. Who’d keep a well-dressed child, who spoke with the accents of the gently bred, when money might be made?

Had the police thought of that? He rose and went to his desk. He started making notes and planning strategies while he waited for the sun to rise.

A loud cough woke him.

Clevedon opened his eyes. His mouth tasted gritty and his head ached and he thought at first he’d been on a prime binge. Then he realized his head wasn’t on a pillow but on his desk. Then he remembered what had happened.