Scandal Wears Satin (The Dressmakers 2)

“I didn’t like the look of it,” the agent explained to Sophy. “Anyone could see she was a lady, couldn’t they?—same as they could see the other one wasn’t. I knew something wasn’t right. Hardly any luggage. It was easy enough to put her off. She hadn’t any travel papers, had she? She wouldn’t get past the customs officers, and so I told her. I told her, too, whatever the trouble was, she was only going to find worse, being a stranger in a strange place. Well, I ask you, madam. It was plain as plain to me she was a gentlewoman, and the other one wasn’t no aunt. I wasn’t born yesterday, was I? I hope you find her, before she gets into any trouble she can’t get out of.”

Lady Clara had met with a similar rebuff when she tried to book places on the packet bound for Havre.

Sophy and Longmore were proceeding to the next ticket office on their list when a ragged boy ran toward them and stopped short.

“You the ones lookin’ for the two females?” he said. “One tall and pretty and one plain and looks like a bulldog?”

“Yes,” said Sophy.

“I fought it was you,” the boy said. “You look like what he said—tall, dark gentleman and the lady with big blue eyes and lots of fancy clothes. I was to tell you as Mad Dick says he found ’em, and hurry along to the Quebec Tavern, as he don’t know if he’ll be able to keep ’em. Too many officers and such about, givin’ him dirty looks.”

Sophy and Longmore found Clara on the wharf, pacing, while her maid stood guard over their pitiful pile of belongings. The day was warm, but a stiff breeze blew, and she seemed to be huddled against it, her arms folded. Now and again she looked out over the water. To Sophy she looked pale and ill.

The maid noticed them first, but Longmore put up a hand, signaling her to be quiet.

Fenwick sat on a crate, chin in hand, watching Clara pace. As he’d reported, there were a number of naval officers about. They were all keeping an eye on him, and not making much effort to pretend they weren’t. He did look the worse for wear. Two days’ travel had restored much of his grubbiness and his general appearance of being up to no good.

Longmore neared and then, “Ah, there you are, Clara,” he said, and she started at the sound of his voice. “I’ve been all over the town, looking for you.”

She rushed toward him and he opened his arms, but instead of accepting comfort, she started hitting him in the chest. “No,” she said. “No, no, no.”

“What the devil?”

“I won’t go back,” she said. “You can’t make me go back.”

“Then where do you mean to go?” he said.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Anywhere. Anywhere but here.”

The scene promptly attracted attention.

Sophy decided it was time to intervene. She advanced toward the nearest sturdy-looking officer, gave a little shriek, and fainted.

It was a strategic swoon, Longmore noticed. She’d made sure to do it where she could fall into the arms of a muscular, good-looking fellow. For a moment, even Longmore was taken in. He knew she was fatigued to a dangerous degree—even he was tired, and he hadn’t been working long hours before he set out—and he’d hurried her and dragged her from the inn at an unholy hour.

But then Clara hurried toward her, crying, “Oh, Miss Noirot, are you ill? You poor thing. My brother is such a brute.”

At that, the deep blue eyes fluttered open. “My dear, is that you? We’ve been so worried.” She gracefully disentangled herself from the entirely too-handsome naval officer she’d landed on.

“Are you sure you’re all right, miss?” he said.

“Oh, yes, merely dizzy for a moment,” she said in a faint voice.

Longmore advanced. “She’s quite all right,” he said. “She hasn’t had her breakfast yet, that’s all.”

The wind gusted then, and the two young women clutched their hats, while their skirts flew up, treating the onlookers to an exciting vision of lacy petticoats and well-turned ankles.

The naval officer’s gaze darted from one pair of ankles to the other.

“Fenwick, help the maid with the bags,” Longmore said. “Ladies, we’ve entertained the audience sufficiently, I believe.”

Clara’s face took on a familiar, mulish expression.

Sophy said, “Do be reasonable, my dear. You can’t go on a voyage with only that.” She waved at Clara’s woefully small pile of belongings. “You won’t have a thing to wear.”

To Longmore’s amazement, it worked. Clara looked at the bags and at her maid and then at Sophy.

“What you need is a brandy,” said Sophy.

“Yes,” Clara said.

“Let’s go back to the hotel,” Sophy said.

Clara’s lower lip trembled.

“I promise you, everything will be all right,” Sophy said. “Let’s talk about it in a comfortable place.”

“Talking won’t do any good,” Clara said.

“Yes, it will,” Sophy said with so much confidence that even Longmore believed her.

They returned to the George, where Longmore procured a private dining parlor. He ordered brandy first. If getting his sister drunk would make her cooperate, he was happy to do it.

It didn’t take much. After half a glass, Clara seemed to calm a degree. She sat close to Sophy.

“Are you feeling a little better?” Sophy said.

“I can’t bear to go back,” Clara said. “Isn’t there another way?”

“We’re going to fix this,” Sophy said. “My sisters and I will fix this, and we’ll do it beautifully, the way we make your clothes. But I need to understand everything that happened. Think of it as my taking measurements, and trying colors next to your face.”

“It’s easy enough to tell,” Clara said. “I was angry.”

“About what?”

“Something stupid. It isn’t important.”

“A man?”

Clara met her gaze.

“Very well,”

Sophy said. “Not relevant.”

“Why not?” Longmore said.

“Because,” Sophy said. She gave him a look. The message was as clear as if she’d grasped his lapels and said, Don’t say anything. Don’t do anything.

He subsided. Not happily. But they were women, and he was wary of setting off his sister again.

“Go on,” Sophy told Clara.

“I was angry,” Clara said. “And there was Adderley, with champagne. I drank too fast and we danced and I was dizzy.”

“You were drunk,” Longmore said.

Clara glared at him. “Don’t you dare lecture me.”

“I wasn’t—”

“And don’t tell me I oughtn’t to have gone out onto the terrace with Adderley. I’ve seen you slip away with women—even at St. James’s Palace! At a Drawing Room!”

“I’m a man,” Longmore said. “And I don’t do that with innocent girls.”

He looked straight at Sophy.

He hadn’t got her drunk. And she wasn’t innocent.

She might be a trifle inexperienced with some of the more intimate aspects, but he was very sure she knew more about men than Carlotta O’Neill did.

In any case, innocent girls didn’t throw off their nightclothes in front of a man.

Well, perhaps dressmakers did. Dressing and undressing were business, after all.

And perhaps he’d instigated it . . . inadvertently. He’d woken her from a sound sleep and barged into her room and expected her to get dressed in no time.

Maybe she’d done it to spite him.

Maybe. Maybe. Why the devil was he obliged to think at this hour?

“I thought he was going to talk,” Clara was saying. “I thought he was going to tell me how wonderful I was, and I wanted to hear that, because I didn’t feel . . . pretty. I felt big and clumsy.”

“You aren’t that big,” Longmore said.

“Lady Clara isn’t big or clumsy, but this is the way she felt,” Sophy said.

“Feelings,” he said.

“Yes.”

He sat back and drank his brandy.

“I thought Lord Adderley might steal a kiss,” Clara said. “And I was cross and feeling . . . I don’t know.”