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“Considering the women are here still only because of your sister,” Clevedon said. “They engaged to make a dress for Clara for this evening, and they seem to believe that nothing—acts of God or man, plague, pestilence, flood, famine, or fire—excuses them from keeping their promise. It is very curious. They seem to view a promise to make a dress in the same uncompromising light you and I would view a debt of honor.”
“The dress be damned,” Longmore said. “Have you been eating opium? Drinking absinthe? Contracted a fever? The clap, perchance? I understand it goes to the brain. That dressmaker—”
“Which one do you mean?” Clevedon said. “There are three of them.”
“Don’t play with me,” Longmore snapped. “By God, you’re enough to try the patience of all the saints and martyrs combined. You’ll drive me to call you out. I will not let you make a fool of my sister. You will not—”
He broke off because the door flew open and Miss Sophia hurried into the room. “Your grace, I wonder—”
She stopped short, apparently noticing Longmore belatedly. Or maybe she’d noticed the instant she came through the door, if not before. Clevedon suspected that both sisters were as well supplied with guile as Noirot. For all he knew, Miss Sophia had interrupted on purpose. They’d probably heard Longmore at the other end of the house.
In any case, he would have been hard for her to miss, not only because he was as tall as Clevedon but also because he was standing in her way.
But maybe she’d mistaken him for Clevedon. People did sometimes, from the back or from a distance. They were both large dark-haired men, though Longmore dressed more carelessly.
Whatever the reason, she appeared surprised and stopped short. “I do beg your pardon,” she said. “How rude of me to burst in.”
“Not at all,” Clevedon said. “I told you not to stand on ceremony with me. We haven’t time for ceremony. This is only my friend—or perhaps former friend—Lord Longmore. Longmore, though you don’t deserve it, I’ll allow you to meet Miss Noirot, one of our esteemed dressmakers.”
Longmore, meanwhile, who’d spun around at her abrupt entrance, had not taken his eyes off her. For a moment he appeared dumbstruck. Then he bowed. “Miss Noirot.”
“My lord.” She curtseyed.
And, oh, it was one of those curtsies, not precisely like Noirot’s, but something equally impressive in its own way.
Longmore’s black eyes widened.
“What is it, then?” Clevedon said.
Sophia’s blue gaze, suspiciously innocent, came back to him. “It’s about the notice we’re putting in the papers, your grace. I write these all the time, and you would think it’d give me no trouble at all, but I continue to struggle, in spite of having quiet.”
She’d heard, Clevedon thought. She’d heard Longmore raging, and she’d stepped in. She was the one who’d written the account for the papers of the famous gown Noirot had worn. She was the one in charge of turning difficulties and scandal to the shop’s advantage.
“It’s the shock,” Clevedon said, playing along. “You can’t expect to recover overnight, especially when everything is in a turmoil.”
“To be sure, I can’t judge my own prose,” she said. “Will you give me your opinion?” She shot a glance at Longmore. “If his lordship would pardon the intrusion.”
Longmore stalked away and flung himself onto the sofa.
“‘Mrs. Noirot begs leave to inform her friends and the public in general,’” she read, “‘that she intends re-opening her showrooms very shortly, with a new and elegant assortment of millinery and dresses, in the first style of fashion, on reasonable terms—’”
“Leave out ‘reasonable terms,’” Clevedon cut in. “Economies matter to the middling classes. If you want the custom of my friends’ ladies, it’s better to be unreasonable. If it isn’t expensive, they won’t value it.”
She nodded. “There, you see? Marcelline would have caught that—but I daren’t interrupt her. If Lady Clara’s dress isn’t finished on time, my sister will be devastated.”
Clevedon saw Longmore shoot the dressmaker a darkling look from under his thick black eyebrows. “If my mother lets her wear the dress,” he muttered.
Blue eyes wide, Sophia turned fully toward him. “Not let her wear the dress? You can’t be serious. My sister is killing herself to finish that dress.”
“My dear girl—” Longmore began.
“Our shop burned down,” Sophia said. “My sister’s little girl—my niece—the only niece I have—nearly died in that fire. His grace saved her life—he risked his own—he ran into a burning building.” Her voice was climbing. “He took us in—he’s lent us money to buy supplies—we are all running ourselves ragged to fulfill our obligations to our customers—and you say—you say your mother won’t let Lady Clara wear our dr-dress.” Her voice shook. Tears shimmered in her blue eyes.
Longmore leapt up from the sofa. “I say,” he said. “There’s no need to take on.”
Sophia drew herself up. “If her ladyship your mother says a word against that dress—against my sister—after what she’s endured—I promise you, I shall personally, with my own bare hands, strangle her, marchioness or no.”
She threw down the advertisement she’d written and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
Longmore picked up the piece of paper, opened the door, and went after her.
Clevedon waited until their footsteps had faded. Then he clapped his hands. “Well done, Miss Noirot,” he said. “Well done.”
Smiling, he quietly closed the door, and returned to perusing La Belle Assemblée.
Clevedon had taken the magazine to the writing table. He was making notes when the door opened, only far enough for a bonneted head to make its appearance.
“I’m going,” Noirot said. The bonnet withdrew, and she started to close the door.
He rose and started to the door. “Wait.”
She stuck her head in again. “I haven’t time to wait,” she said. “I only wanted you to know the dress is done.” She spoke coolly enough, yet he detected the note of triumph in her voice.
He reached the door, and opened it fully.
She had what appeared to be a shrouded body in her arms.
That must be the dress, tucked in among layers of tissue paper, and wrapped, like a mummy, in muslin.
“You’re not carrying it yourself,” he said. “Where’s a footman?” He saw one loitering against the corridor wall. “There. You, Thomas.”
“No.” She waved Thomas back to his post in the corridor. “I promised to deliver it personally, and it will not leave my hands.”
He glanced down at the corpse. “May I see it?” he said.
“Certainly not. I haven’t time to unwrap it and wrap it up again. You’ll see it tonight, and be astonished, like everybody else. At Almack’s.”
Almack’s. A weight settled upon him. Another Wednesday night with the same people who gathered there every Wednesday night during the Season. The same conversations, enlivened by the latest scandal. That would be him, most likely, tonight. They’d be whispering about him behind their fans, behind their cards. Lady Warford would have plenty to say, and would imagine she expressed herself with the greatest subtlety while she dropped indignant hints as large and unmistakable as elephant dung.
He remembered what Longmore had said about his mother not allowing Clara to wear the dress. “I’d better come with you,” he said. “Longmore was here—”
“I know,” she said. “Sophy dealt with him. And I’ll deal with Lady Warford, if that becomes necessary. I doubt it will. When Lady Clara sees herself in this dress—but never mind, I haven’t time to boast, and you’d be bored, in any event.”
“No, I wouldn’t be bored,” he said. He’d been reading La Belle Assemblée. He had ideas. “I’ve been—”
“It’s half-past six,” she said. “I’ve still got to get to Warford House.”
“Take the curricle,” he said.
“I don’t know what I’m taking,” she said. “Halliday promised I’d have your fastest vehicle. They’re waiting for me.”
He wanted to go with her. He wanted to see the dress, and Clara’s face when she saw it. He wanted them all to see that it was business, and Noirot was not only talented but principled—to a point—when it came to her work, in any case—and honorable—to a point—when it came to her work, in any case…
But that, to his shame, wasn’t the only reason he wanted to go with her.
He was near enough to breathe her scent, to see the faint wash of color come and go in her cheeks…and the pearly glow of her skin where the light caught it…and the tendrils of dark hair straying artfully from her bonnet, curling near her ears. He wanted to bring his hand up to cup her face and turn it to his and bring his mouth to hers…
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
And ignoble as well, when she was carrying Clara’s dress, and he loved Clara and had always loved her and couldn’t bear the thought of hurting her.
He’d caused trouble enough. Lady Warford had probably been harassing Clara all day long, blaming her for Clevedon’s negligence and misbehavior. The jealous cats who pretended to be their friends would be sure to sharpen their claws on Clara, too.
He stepped back from the door. “I should be a great idiot to keep you, after you’ve achieved what I could have sworn was impossible.”
She stepped back, too. “Let’s hope they let me deliver it.”
Chapter Twelve (#ulink_022fd0ad-7015-5c68-a695-5f2b32a1f4d6)
A lady of genius will give a genteel air to her whole dress by a well-fancied suit of knots, as a judicious writer gives a spirit to a whole sentence by a single expression.
John Gay, English poet and dramatist (1685–1732)
Marcelline reached Warford House at five minutes before seven. Though she arrived in Clevedon’s carriage, his crest emblazoned on the door, she knew better than to go to the front door. She went round to the tradesmen’s entrance, where she was made to wait. It had occurred to her that she might be rebuffed, but she’d refused to entertain doubts. The dress was magnificent. Lady Clara had understood she was in the hands of a master, else she’d have sent Marcelline away the other day, the minute she started tossing out her ladyship’s wardrobe.
At last Lady Clara’s maid, Davis, appeared and gave her permission to enter. Her expression grim, Davis led Marcelline past the staring servants and up the backstairs.
Her dour look was soon explained. Marcelline found both Lady Clara and her mother in the younger woman’s dressing room. Clearly, they’d been quarreling, and it must have been a prodigious row, to make both ladies’ faces so red. But when Davis entered and said, “The dressmaker is here, my lady,” a silence fell, as heavy and immense as an elephant.
Lady Warford was nearly as tall as Clara, and obviously had been as beautiful once. She by no means looked like the battle-ax she was well known to be. Though a degree bulkier than her daughter, the marchioness was a handsome woman of middle age.
Battle she did, though, going promptly on the attack. “You!” said her ladyship. “How dare you show your face here!”
“Mama, please,” Lady Clara said, her gaze darting to the parcel Marcelline carried. “Good heavens, I couldn’t believe it when they said you were here with the dress. Your shop—I read that it burnt to the ground.”
“It did, your ladyship, but I promised the dress.”
“Dress or not, I cannot believe this creature has the effrontery to show her face—”
“You made my dress?” Lady Clara said. “You made it already?”
Marcelline nodded. She set down the parcel on a low table, untied the strings, unwrapped the muslin, and drew the dress out from the tissue paper she and her sisters had carefully tucked among its folds.
She heard three sharp intakes of breath.
“Oh, my goodness,” said Lady Clara. “Oh, my goodness.”
“This is outrageous,” Lady Warford said, though with less assurance than before. “Oh, Clara, how can you bear to take anything from this creature’s hands?”
“I’ve nothing else to wear,” Lady Clara said.
“Nothing else! Nothing else!”
But Lady Clara ignored her mother, and signaled her maid to help her out of her dressing gown. Lady Warford sank onto a chair and glowered over the proceedings as Marcelline and the maid dressed Lady Clara.
Then Lady Clara moved to study herself in the horse-dressing glass.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, my goodness.”
The maid stood, her fist to her mouth.
Lady Warford stared.
Marcelline’s creation comprised a white crape robe over a white satin under-dress. The neckline, cut very low, displayed Lady Clara’s smooth shoulders and bosom to great advantage, and the soft white enhanced the translucency of her complexion. Marcelline had kept the embellishments simple and spare, to better showcase the magnificent cut of the dress and the perfection of the drapery, particularly the graceful folds of the bodice. A few judiciously placed papillon bows adorned the very short, very full sleeves and trimmed the edges of the robe where it opened over the satin under-dress. The robe was delicately embroidered in gold, silver, and black sprigs. The style was not French, but it was just dashing enough to be not completely English.
Most important, though, the dress became the wearer. No, it was more than merely becoming. It made Lady Clara’s beauty almost unbearable.
Lady Clara could see that.
Her maid could see that.
Even her mother could see that.
The dressing room’s silence was profound.
Marcelline let them stare while she studied her handiwork. Thanks to her fanaticism about measurements, the fit was nearly perfect. She wouldn’t have to take the hem up or down. The neckline needed a little work in order to lie perfectly smoothly across the back. The puffs Davis had provided weren’t large enough to support the sleeves properly. But these and a few other very minor matters were easily corrected. Marcelline quickly set about making the adjustments.
When the technical work was done, she guided Davis in adding the finishing touches: a silver and gold wreath set just so to frame the plaited knot of her ladyship’s hair, heavy gold earrings, a gauze scarf. White silk slippers and white kid gloves embroidered in silver and gold silk finished the ensemble.
All of this took nearly an hour, while Lady Warford grew increasingly impatient, muttering about the time. She gave Marcelline scarcely a minute to admire her masterpiece. She’d made them late for dinner, Lady War-ford complained, and swept Lady Clara out of the dressing room without another word.
No thanks, certainly.
Davis admitted gruffly that her mistress looked very well, indeed. Then she ushered Marcelline down the backstairs like a dirty secret, and back to the tradesman’s entrance.
As she stepped out into the night, Marcelline told herself she was very, very happy.
She’d done what had to be done. Lady Clara had never looked so beautiful in all her life, and she knew it and her mother knew it. Everyone at Almack’s would see that. Clevedon, too. He would fall in love with Lady Clara all over again.
And in the midst of her triumph, Marcelline felt a stab, sharp and deep.
She knew what it was. She was a fine liar, but lying to herself wasn’t a useful skill.
The truth was, she wanted to be Lady Clara, or someone like her: one of his kind. She wanted to be the one he fell in love with, and once would be enough.
Never mind, she told herself. Her daughter was alive. Her sisters were alive. They’d start fresh—and after this night, the ton would be beating a path to their door.
Clevedon had hardly arrived at Almack’s before he was calculating how long it would be before he could decently escape. He wouldn’t stay as long as he ought to—at least in Lady Warford’s opinion—but it wasn’t his job to please Lady Warford. He’d come solely on Clara’s account, and he doubted Clara expected him to live in her pocket.
