Scandal Wears Satin (The Dressmakers 2)

“I’d almost got myself to believe that,” Clara said. “But that wasn’t the point, was it? That wasn’t the real problem. How humiliating that I needed Lady Bartham to point out the simple fact: If he’d truly loved and respected me, he would never have done what he did.”

Her ladyship hadn’t said it quite so baldly as that. But Lady Bartham never insulted or hurt anybody plainly and honestly. She’d slither about the subject like a snake, and every so often, when you weren’t expecting it, she’d dart at you, tiny fangs sinking in, so tiny you barely felt them . . . until a moment later, when the poison seeped in.

There was a moment’s silence, then, “Portsmouth is a naval town, my lady. Very rough. Sailors and brothels and—”

“It’s near,” Clara said. “It’s a port. I can get on a ship and sail far away. It can’t be so very dangerous. People go there to tour and sightsee. I’m ruined. Why shouldn’t I see the world? I haven’t even seen England! Where do I ever go? To our place in Lancashire and back to London and back to Lancashire. Since Grandmamma Warford died, I don’t go anywhere. She used to take me away, and we had such fun.” She swallowed. She still missed her grandmother. No one could take her place. Clara had never felt more in need of her counsel than now.

“She used to drive her own carriage, you know,” she went on, though Davis knew perfectly well. But Clara needed to talk, and her maid wouldn’t shriek at her, as Mama did. “She was an excellent whip. We’d drive out to Richmond Park and visit her friends there.” They would go out to Richmond Park and Hampton Court for a day’s outing.

Clara had driven to the park today, hoping somehow her grandmother’s spirit would find her, and tell her what to do. She’d left the park no wiser, and gone on to Hampton Court. None of Grandmamma’s wisdom came to her there, either, and even a living person, Grandmamma’s great friend, Lady Durwich, had no advice but for her to turn back and stop being such a ninny.

Clara wasn’t sure where she was going. To Portsmouth, to start with. After that . . . somewhere, anywhere. But not back to London. Not back to him.

Sophy’s room was small but clean, and the maidservant was as eager to please as Sophy expected her to be. People of every social degree judged by externals. While an upper-class accent and fine clothes were sure to win attentive service, generous tips and bribes could raise the quality of service to unadulterated obsequiousness.

Not only was Sophy expensively dressed but she had ready money. Marcelline had made Leonie provide funds for tips and bribes, and Sophy wasn’t stingy with her coin. She wanted supper and a fire and a bath and she was happy to pay for them.

She got all three quickly, without fuss, despite the hour and the sudden influx of storm refugees.

As it turned out, she was in too much turmoil, about Lady Clara and about the shop, to do more than pick at supper. Since she was, at the best of times, a light sleeper, she knew she was in no state to attempt sleeping until after she’d had a bath. That would quiet her. Certainly she’d feel better once she washed the ghastly egg mixture out of her hair. She’d brought her favorite soap, scented with lavender and rosemary.

Though the inn servants had brought a very small tub, she’d bathed under more primitive conditions. And no, it wasn’t the easiest thing to wash her hair without help, but she managed it.

And so, in time, thanks to the hair washing and the bathing and the soothing scent of her soap—and a glass of wine—the turmoil began to abate.

She donned her nightgown, wrapped herself in her dressing gown, poured another glass of wine, and settled into a chair near the fire to dry her hair.

The old inn’s walls were thick. She heard little of what passed outside her own room. The thunder grew more distant as the storm traveled on. The rain continued, beating against the window, but now that she was safe and dry indoors, the sound soothed her. She’d always liked the sound of rain.

She remembered rainy days in Paris, and the misty rain last week, when she’d strolled up St. James’s Street to lure Lord Longmore from his lair. While pretending to be gazing elsewhere, she’d watched him saunter across the street to her . . . such long legs in his beautifully tailored trousers . . . the finely cut coat, sculpted to his upper body, emphasizing his broad shoulders and lean torso . . . the snowy white neckcloth tied with elegant simplicity under his strong chin . . . he moved with the easy grace of a man completely at home in his body and completely sure of himself . . . such an odd combination he was . . . part dandy, part ruffian . . . so tall and athletic . . . she’d like to be his tailor . . . oh, she’d like to fit him in something snug . . . no harm in dreaming . . .

. . . What was burning?

Longmore tried not to think about his sister, out in the storm.

She wouldn’t be out in the storm, he told himself. She wasn’t that stupid. Even if she was, Davis wouldn’t stand for it.

But wherever Clara was, he wasn’t likely to catch up anytime soon. And wherever she was, he couldn’t protect her.

While his mind painted ugly scenes featuring his sister in the clutches of villains, he wasn’t altogether unaware of what passed in the next room. He’d caught the muffled sound of voices when Sophy talked to the maid, and the tramp of feet in the room and a thump of something heavy being set down and then the splashing.

She was taking a bath.

That was a much more agreeable image than the ones of his sister in peril.

He told himself that worrying about Clara wasn’t going to help her, and it would only wear on his nerves, already frayed after the slog through the storm.

He had another bottle of wine sent up and he gave his coat to the inn servant for drying and brushing.

Since his trousers were still damp, he drew a chair up before the fire. There he sat, drinking.

By degrees, he grew calmer. Clara might be out of her head, but she wouldn’t endanger her horse, he reminded himself. She’d have taken shelter. She’d go to a respectable inn because Davis wouldn’t let her go into one that wasn’t—and respectable inns lined the Portsmouth Road.

The wine and more optimistic thoughts calmed him enough to make him grow drowsy. He was putting his booted feet up onto the fender when Sophy screamed.

He sprang from the chair to the door between their rooms. He yanked the handle. It wouldn’t open. He stepped back a pace and kicked.

The door flew open, crashing against the wall.

She was making little sounds of distress and dancing about and trying to pull off her dressing gown. Smoke rose from the hem. He saw a tiny flame lick upward.

In two quick strides he reached her, ripped the ties she’d been struggling with, pulled the dressing gown off her, and threw it into the bathtub.

“Oh!” she said. “Oh!”

“Are you all right?” he said. Without waiting for an answer, he turned her around, his heart racing while he looked for signs of incipient fire. He spied some brown spots

and holes at the bottom of the garment, but no signs of active burning.

“What the devil were you doing?” He turned her around again. Though festooned with frills—at the neck and wrists and down the front opening—her nightdress was a flimsy nothing. Tissue-thin muslin . . . through which one could easily make out the outlines of her . . . naked . . . body.

A haze entered his mind. He shook it off. No time for that now.

No rushing fences. Not the time and place.

A part of his mind said, Why not?

He ignored it. “Are you drunk?” he demanded. “Did you fall in the fire?”

Someone beat on the door to the passage. “Madam! Madam!”

She ran to her portmanteau and began rummaging.

Longmore strode to the passage door and yanked it open. An inn servant stood there. “What the devil do you want?”

“Sir—your lordship—I beg your pardon—but someone screamed—and one of the guests smelled smoke.”

Sophy drew on a shawl. “Yes, I screamed,” she said. “I thought I saw a bat.”

“A bat, madam? But the smoke?” The servant sniffed. “I do smell smoke.”

The fellow was trying to peer round Longmore, who advanced to the threshold to block his ogling half-naked females who didn’t belong to him.

“That was the bat,” Longmore said. “I caught it and threw it into the fire. Do you fancy a bite? It’s not quite cooked through, I’m afraid. No? Well, then, off with you.”

He shut the door in the servant’s face.

He turned back to Sophy, whose most interesting parts the shawl now enveloped.

At first, he’d checked mainly to see whether she was on fire. After that he’d discovered how flimsy her nightdress was. Now he noticed that her hair was damp, streaming down her shoulders. It fell over her breasts. It was long and thick. In places, long tendrils had started to dry, and as they did, they were brightening from a pale brown to gold . . . and they were curling. All by themselves.

His breathing quickened, and that instantly got his breeding organs excited.

Not now.