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“You said twenty guineas,” Mrs. Downes said.
“That was for the sketchbook,” Pritchett said. “And tonight I was in a hurry enough to make it twenty for the portfolio as well. But now you’ve annoyed me.”
“I ought to report you. They hang people for arson.”
“I wonder what would happen if I said you put me up to it,” Pritchett said. “We’ll never know, I suppose. There’s my coach.” She nodded at a vehicle entering the inn yard. “Fifty guineas. Now or never.”
“I don’t carry that sort of money with me.”
Pritchett tucked the portfolio under her arm, picked up her bag, and started to walk away. She counted under her breath, “One. Two. Three. Four. F—”
“Wait.”
Pritchett paused without turning around.
Mrs. Downes walked very quickly toward her. Not a minute later, a very large purse changed hands, and a very short time thereafter, Pritchett stepped into the coaching office to order a post chaise.
Though she and her sisters had made a plan before they collapsed, exhausted, in their beds, Marcelline slept poorly.
She’d watched while one of the maidservants bathed Lucie—and the other one bathed the doll, taking off her filthy little gown and sponging her off—even sponging the soot from her hair—as though it was the most normal thing in the world. They took the doll’s dress away to clean, along with Lucie’s clothes. Then Lucie had to see the dollhouse. By that time, she had three maidservants wanting to look after her. They moved a dainty little bed into a pretty little room adjoining Marcelline’s. And that was where Lucie had wanted to sleep: not with her mother, but in state.
Her child was safe, probably safer than she’d ever been in all her short life. All the same, Marcelline had nightmares. She dreamed that Lucie hadn’t escaped the fire, and Marcelline had gone to the mouth of Hell, screaming for her daughter, and she’d heard horrible laughter in answer before the door slammed in her face.
The next morning, when the maid came in with chocolate, Marcelline discovered that she’d slept much later than usual. It was past nine o’clock, she was told, and Lucie was having breakfast with the duke.
She leapt from the bed, rejecting the chocolate. “Where are my sisters?” she said.
They’d agreed to rise by half-past six. The seamstresses had been told to go to the shop at eight. By now they would have arrived and found a charred spot where the shop used to be.
“Mrs. Michaels said we were not to disturb you, Mrs. Noirot,” the maid said. “But Miss Lucie was asking for you, and I was told I might wake you.”
Noirot didn’t burst into the breakfast room, and she didn’t seem any more flurried or disordered than usual. Her hair was slightly askew, as always, but in a manner Clevedon felt certain was deliberate, not careless. No matter what happened, she couldn’t present herself with anything less than style.
Her face was pale, her eyes deeply shadowed. She couldn’t have slept well. He hadn’t slept well, either, and he’d awakened in low spirits.
But then he’d come down to breakfast and found Lucie, with Joseph the footman’s assistance, investigating the sideboard’s contents. Seeing her made him smile, and lightened his heart.
Now she sat at his right, enthroned upon a chair piled with pillows. She was happily slathering butter and jam on bread. Her doll sat next to her, on another chair piled with pillows.
“Ah, here is your mother,” Clevedon said, while his heart pounded. So stupid it was to pound that way, like a boy’s heart upon seeing his first infatuation.
Noirot went to her daughter and kissed her forehead and smoothed her hair.
“Good morning, Mama,” Lucie said. “We’re going to drive in the carriage after breakfast. There is a very good breakfast on the sideboard. Joseph will help you lift the covers. There are eggs and bacon and all manner of breads and pastries.”
“I haven’t time for breakfast,” Noirot said. “As soon as your aunts come down, we must leave.”
Lucie’s blue eyes narrowed, and her face set into the hard expression Clevedon had seen before.
“And you will not make a fuss,” Noirot said. “You will thank his grace for his kindness—his many kind-nesses—”
“She’ll do nothing of the kind,” Clevedon said. “We were having an interesting conversation about the dollhouse. She’s scarcely had time to play with it. She was too sleepy last night. And I promised to drive her in the carriage. I do not see what the great hurry is to be gone.”
At this moment, the two sisters entered, looking cross. Doubtless they’d been awakened before they liked, and they were hungry.
“We need to get quickly to the shop and see what can be salvaged,” Noirot said. “Someone must be there to meet the seamstresses—if they’re there. We should have sent them word last night, but I didn’t think of it until this morning. I need them. We need to find a place to work. We need to make Lady Clara’s dress.”
He ought to wince at the mention of Clara. He ought to feel ashamed, and he did. But not enough to be thrown off the course he’d devised last night, to keep his mind off what had happened in the workroom, and off what he wanted, still, though he’d got what he wanted and was supposed to be done with this woman.
“I dispatched Varley, my man of business, to your shop early this morning, along with a parcel of servants,” he said. “They reported that the structure as a whole survived, though the damage is extensive. But the contents that were not reduced to ashes are black, wet, and reeking, as I suspected. We retrieved a set of iron strongboxes, which will be carried up to your rooms as soon as the filth has been cleaned from them.”
“Carried up—”
“Varley rescued some account books or some such from wherever you’d hidden them, as well.” He gestured at the sideboard. “Everything is in hand. Pray take some breakfast.”
“In hand?” she said, and he thought she staggered a bit. But that was his mind, playing tricks. Nothing staggered Noirot.
Yet she sat down hard, in the chair to his left, opposite Lucie.
“Shall I make you a plate, Mama?” Lucie said with a suspicious sweetness. “Joseph will help me.” She set down her cutlery, wiped her hands carefully on her napkin, and made to climb down from her throne. The footman Joseph obediently came forward, helped her down, and followed her to the sideboard. She pointed and he dutifully filled the plate according to her directions.
“It’s grand to be a duke,” the blonde sister said.
“So it is,” he said. “I live in a house large enough to accommodate your work without disrupting my own life. I have a good number of servants, all of whom will be happy to do something a little different, if offered. And I possess the resources to assist you, without the least discomfort to myself, in getting your business going again.”
Joseph set the filled plate down before Mrs. Noirot, then returned to Lucie, who directed him regarding her aunts’ breakfasts.
“Accommodate us?” Noirot said. “You can’t be serious.”
“I understand that time is of the essence,” he said. “You don’t wish to lose any more business than can absolutely be helped. I’ve consulted with Varley on the matter. It’s his opinion that a suitable new location can be found within a few days. In the meantime, he agreed that you can do what needs to be done more quickly and easily from here.”
“Here,” she repeated. “You’re suggesting we set up shop in Clevedon House.”
“It’s the simplest solution,” he said.
He knew it was. He’d thought about the problem and little else for most of the night. By concentrating on her business difficulties, he’d kept the other thoughts at bay. “I’m not used to so much drama in my life. I was too excited, you see, to fall asleep. While I lay awake, my mind gnawed on your dilemma.”
“It didn’t occur to you that your mind might be addled by all the excitement?”
“On the contrary, I believe my mind was sharpened by the experience, in the way that metal is sharpened after being thrust into a fierce flame,” he said.
Her dark gaze met his, and then he couldn’t block out the memory of their hurried, furious coupling on the worktable: her choked sounds of pleasure, the mad heat and ferocious joy…
Business, he told himself. Stick to business. Order. Logic.
“Mrs. Michaels can help you organize a proper work space,” he said. “You and your sisters may take my vehicles and servants, and purchase what you need to fill the most pressing orders. Your seamstresses may come here, as soon as you like, to start working. If you need additional help, Mrs. Michaels will select the better needlewomen from among the maids.”
Her face had gone very white, indeed. Her sisters were watching her. He couldn’t tell whether they were alarmed or not. They showed as little of their feelings as she did. But they must have sensed she needed help because the blonde jumped in.
“I like it better than our plan,” she said. “Marcelline was going to play cards, to win the money to buy what we needed.”
Marcelline.
He was aware of his pulse racing and of the mad excitement that made it race. So ridiculous. Through shipwreck, physical intimacy, catastrophic fire, they’d maintained the polite forms of address. She’d been “Noirot” to him and he was “your grace” or “Clevedon” to her. But now he sat among family members, and they’d revealed who she was to them.
He couldn’t say it aloud, but he could feel it on his tongue.
Marcelline. It was a name like a secret, a whisper in the dark.
She was all secrets and guile—and of course she would play cards to get money, he thought.
“We can send for Belcher,” the redhead said. “He and your grace’s solicitor—Varley, is it?—can draw up papers for a loan.”
“Nonsense,” Clevedon said. “Whatever your supplies cost can be only a fraction of what we give away to sundry charities every month.”
Noirot’s—Marcelline’s—color came and went. “We’re not a charity,” she said. She leaned toward him, and in a low, choked voice, she added, “I owe you my daughter’s life. Don’t make me owe you any more.”
His heart tightened into a fist, and it beat against his chest. There was a moment of pain so fierce he had to look away and catch his breath.
His gaze went to Lucie, the child he had saved.
Noirot thought it was a debt she owed him, one impossible to repay. She had no way of knowing the value of the gift he’d been given.
He couldn’t save Alice. He’d been far away when the accident happened. He knew he could never bring her back. He knew that saving this child could not bring her back.
But he knew, too, that when he’d carried Lucie, alive and unhurt, out of the burning building, he’d felt not only profound relief but a joy greater than anything he could have imagined.
Lucie, with Joseph’s help, was settling back upon her throne.
“It isn’t the same,” he said, scorning to whisper. Let the servants hear, and make what they would of it. “For once, put your pride aside and your need to dominate everybody, and do the sensible thing.”
“You’re the one who’s not being sensible,” she said. “Think of the talk.”
“My sister is being sensible in that regard, certainly,” the redhead said. “We can’t accept gifts from you, your grace. We’ve lost our shop, but we can’t lose our reputation.”
“We can’t give the tittle-tattles ammunition,” the blonde said. “Our rivals—”
“We have no rivals,” Noirot said, chin up, dark eyes flashing.
He bit back a smile.
“I mean, those who fancy themselves our rivals will be sure to tell lurid tales,” the blonde said.
He looked at Lucie. “What do you say, Erroll?”
“May I play with the dollhouse?”
“Of course you may, sweetling.”
To Noirot he said, “You three drive a hard bargain. A loan it is.”
“Thank you,” Noirot said. Her sisters echoed her. At her glance, they all rose. “May I leave Lucie in your servants’ care, your grace?” she said. “You’re all determined to spoil her, and she’s not going to discourage you, and I haven’t time for a battle of wills. We haven’t a minute to lose. We absolutely must have Lady Clara’s dress ready by seven o’clock this evening.”
He stared at her. “You must be joking,” he said. “Your shop burnt down. Surely your customers won’t expect you to complete orders today.”
“You don’t understand,” Marcelline said. “Lady Clara has nothing to wear to Almack’s tonight. I threw out all of her clothes. She must have that dress. I promised.”
Five o’clock that afternoon
Clevedon House was in a state of what its owner hoped was controlled chaos.
Servants hurried to and fro, some carrying in the goods the women had shopped for in the morning—what seemed to Clevedon like bales of fabric, along with boxes containing who knew what—while others raced from one part of the house to another, carrying messages or sustenance, fetching this or that from cupboards and closets and even the attics.
A bevy of seamstresses had arrived in the late morning, gaping at their surroundings before they disappeared into the rooms on the first floor set aside for the temporary workplace.
The redhead—Miss Leonie Noirot she turned out to be—at some point assured him that all would settle by tomorrow, once everyone was properly installed and their materials in place. She thanked him more than once for his rescue of the account books and only smiled when he told her that was none of his doing; he wouldn’t know a ledger from a book of sermons, never having looked into either item.
The blonde, meanwhile—she was Miss Sophia Noirot—had borrowed paper and pens and ink to write advertising for the newspapers. He’d offered his private study for her use, because Miss Leonie had told him that Sophy needed quiet in which to compose—really, it was like writing a chapter of a novel, she explained—and their work area was too busy, with people coming and going and Marcelline giving orders right and left.
Clevedon had retreated to the library. He could have fled the house altogether, but that seemed irresponsible. He’d started this; he ought to see it through. As it turned out, he was needed more than he’d supposed. Every now and again someone came by with a question only he could answer or a problem only he could solve. Usually, this was one of Noirot’s sisters, for madame herself kept scrupulously away, but sometimes it was Mrs. Michaels and occasionally Halliday, regarding one issue or other that puzzled even his omniscience.
The truth was, Clevedon didn’t want to flee. He found the enterprise vastly interesting. Every so often, he would stand in the library doorway to watch the hurrying to and fro. He would have liked to watch the women make Clara’s dress, but Miss Sophia had tactfully warned him away: The seamstresses would never be able to concentrate with a gentleman about, she said. As it was, the big footmen in their finery threw the women into a flutter.
Clevedon still had doubts they’d be able to finish the dress in time. The materials had not arrived until early afternoon, and what hints he’d caught of the design told him the labor involved would be prodigious.
At present he was scanning a copy of a woman’s magazine, La Belle Assemblée, that one of his aunts had left behind. Hearing approaching footsteps, he put the magazine down and pushed a heap of invitations on top of it.
The door opened and the footman Thomas announced Lord Longmore, who stormed in close on the servant’s heels, black eyes blazing. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” he demanded.
Thomas quietly made himself scarce.
“Good afternoon, Longmore,” Clevedon said. “I’m in excellent health, thank you. I regret to say that you seem to be in a state of delirium. I hope it isn’t a contagious fever. I’ve a rather large company in the house at present, and I should hate for them all to come down with whatever is ailing you.”
“Don’t talk rubbish,” Longmore said. “When I read this morning’s papers, I thought it was another of their lunatic fantasies—like that nonsense about suicidal scenes with a temperamental dressmaker. And so I attempted to tell my mother, who, as you can well imagine, is in a frenzy.”
That brought Clevedon back to earth with a thud.
He’d forgotten about Lady Warford. But what difference did it make? He refused to let her nerves and hysterias control his behavior. She was her husband’s problem.
“I come here because nothing must do, Mother says, but I must see for myself what my friend is about,” Long-more went on. “And what do I discover when I arrive? It turns out that the newspapers, not to mention my mother, have sadly understated the case. I find that my friend has settled three unwed women, not in a discreet cottage in Kensington, but in his ancestral home! And along with them another half dozen females—and the servants sweating like coal-carriers, fetching and carrying for shopkeepers! With my own eyes I saw Halliday carrying what looked to be a laundry basket. A laundry basket!”
The house steward oversaw the household. He kept his master’s books and acted as his secretary. He gave orders. He did not sully his hands with fetching and carrying. If he’d carried a basket, then Halliday was doing it for his own amusement—or as an excuse to appease his curiosity about the strangers in their midst.
Longmore was still ranting. “I know you like to play with convention,” he said, “but this—Plague take it, words fail me! Never mind my mother, how am I to look my sister in the eye?”
“Well, that’s amusing,” Clevedon said.
“Amusing?”
