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He’d arrived as late as he decently could. This didn’t improve matters, because Clara had little time for him, there wasn’t another interesting female in the place this night, and he was tired of playing cards with the same people. She’d saved only one dance for him. She hadn’t been sure he’d turn up at all, she said, and the other gentlemen were so pressing.
They certainly did press about her, a greater throng of them than usual. That, he supposed, was as she deserved. She looked very well in the dress Noirot and her women had slaved over. More important, he saw on the London ladies’ faces the same expressions he’d noticed on their Parisian counterparts. He wished Noirot could see those faces.
The time dragged on until at last he could claim his one dance. As he led her out, he told Clara she was the most beautiful girl in the place.
“The dress makes more of a difference than I could have guessed,” she said. “I couldn’t believe Madame Noirot was able to complete it so quickly, after all that had happened.”
“She was determined,” he said.
She glanced up at him and swiftly away and said, “Your dressmaker is a proud creature, I think.”
Proud. Obstinate. Passionate.
“She’s your dressmaker, my dear, not mine,” he said.
“Everyone says she’s yours. She lives in your house, with her family. Have you adopted her?”
“I didn’t know what else to do with them on short notice,” he said.
There was a pause in the conversation as they began to dance. Then Clara said, “I read once, that if one saves someone’s life, the person saved belongs to the rescuer.”
“I beg you won’t start that ridiculous hero talk, too,” he said. “It isn’t as though a man has a choice. If your mother had been trapped in that burning shop, I should have hardly stood by, looking on. Longmore would have done exactly what I did, no matter what he says.”
“Oh, he had something to say,” Clara said. “When he returned to Warford House after visiting you today, he told Mama not to make a fuss over a lot of dictatorial milliners. He said it was just like you to house the provoking creatures. He said they were ridiculous. Their shop had burned down, their child had nearly burnt to death, they had nothing but the clothes on their backs and some rubbishy ledgers, yet all they could think about was making my dress.”
“They’re dictatorial,” he said. “You saw for yourself.”
He’d seen, too: Noirot, as imperious as a queen, ordering Clara about.
So sure of herself. So obstinate. So passionate.
“I daresay everyone is shocked at me for having anything to do with her,” Clara said.
“Everyone is easily shocked,” he said.
“But I wanted the dress,” she said. “In spite of what Harry said, Mama didn’t want to let Mrs. Noirot in the house. But I made a dreadful fuss, and she gave in. I’m a vain creature, it seems.”
“What nonsense,” he said. “It’s long past time you stopped hiding your light under a bushel. Sometimes I wonder whether your mother—”
He broke off, dismayed at what he’d been about to say, and shocked that he’d only thought of it now: that her vain, proud mother had deliberately dressed her daughter like a dowd. She’d done it in hopes of keeping the other men off, because she was saving Clara for Clevedon.
She’d been saving Clara for a man who loved her but didn’t want to be here, didn’t want this life, and ached for something else, though he wasn’t sure what the something else was.
No, he knew what it was.
But it was no use knowing because it was the one thing his power, position, and money couldn’t buy.
“What were you about to observe regarding my mother?” Clara said.
“She’s protective,” he lied. “More than you like, I don’t doubt. But you got what you wanted in the end.”
He didn’t notice the searching gaze Clara sent up at him. His own attention was wandering to the ladies’ dresses floating about them. Nearly all wore the latter stages of court mourning: every shade of white, some black, soft shapes against the stark angles of black and white and grey of the men’s attire.
The air was warm, and thick with scent, recalling another time and place. But this wasn’t like Paris, and the difference wasn’t merely the monochromatic colors.
It was the monochromatic mood.
There was no magic.
In Paris, there had been a kind of magic or perhaps unreality: the absurdity of that ball where Noirot didn’t belong, yet made herself belong, where she was the sun, and everyone else became little planets and moons, orbiting about her.
Magic, indeed. What folly! What a fool he was! The most beautiful girl in London was in his arms. Every man in the place envied him.
Yes, he was a fool. The girl he’d always loved was in his arms, and every other man in the ballroom wanted to be in his shoes.
And all he wanted was to get away.
Library of Clevedon House
Friday 1 May
“We have to get away,” Marcelline told Clevedon.
She’d seen nothing of him since Wednesday night. She had no idea when he’d come home from Almack’s. His private apartments were on the garden front in the main part of the house—the equivalent of streets away.
Now it was ten o’clock on Friday morning. The seamstresses had arrived an hour ago and settled down to work on the most urgent orders. Normally, while they worked, Marcelline and one of her sisters would be in the showroom, attending to customers.
But they had no showroom. And after Lady Clara’s triumphant appearance at Almack’s, Marcelline could expect customers, a great many. If Maison Noirot didn’t quickly seize the opportunity, the ton—not noted for being able to keep its mind on any one thing for any length of time—would forget about Lady Clara’s mouth-watering dress.
Her ladyship would have other dresses from Maison Noirot, but the impact would not be quite the same as the first time.
This wasn’t the only reason for getting out, but it was the most practical and mercenary one.
Marcelline had been preparing to write him a note when Halliday reported that his grace was in the library, and had asked to see Mrs. Noirot when convenient.
She’d hurried in and found him bent over a table piled with papers and magazines.
She hadn’t waited to find out what he wanted to talk to her about.
“We can’t stay here,” she said. “I don’t want to seem ungrateful—you know I’m grateful—but this is very disruptive—of my business, my employees, my family. Lucie in particular. The maids. The footmen. She’s starting to think that’s normal. She’s much more difficult to manage than you’d suppose, and I’ll need weeks to undo the damage that’s been done in a few days by all the pampering and catering to her every…”
She trailed off as he lifted his head from his study of the paper in front of him and turned that green gaze on her. Her gaze slid away from those extraordinary eyes and drifted downward over his long, straight nose and paused at his mouth, the sensuous mouth that should have been a woman’s and was so purely male.
The room grew too hot. Her mind skittered from one thought to another, trying to avoid the one subject she couldn’t afford to dwell on. But the dark longing beat in her heart and sent heat lower, and she took a step back.
“And then there’s that,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “There is that.”
“Yes,” she said, and added quickly, “I’ve got Lady Clara, and I should like to keep her. The longer I stay here, the less her mother will love me. I’m not sure how long she can stand up to her mother.”
I’m not sure how much longer I can keep away from you.
He looked away and gave a little sigh.
She wanted to touch him. She wanted to lay the palm of her hand against his cheek. She wanted to step into his arms and lay her head on his chest and listen to his heart beat. She wanted to feel the warmth of his body and its strength. She wanted him inside her. She wanted him.
Last night she’d lain awake, imagining: a light footstep in the darkness…the sound of the door closing…the sound of his breath in and out…the motion of the mattress as his weight settled onto it…silk whispering as he shrugged off his dressing gown…his voice so low…his mouth against her ear…and then his hands on her, drawing up her gown…his hand between her legs…
Stop it stop it stop it.
“I’ve spoken to my sisters, and they agree that we can’t stay,” she went on. “Leonie and I are going out to find a place to move to.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said.
“It’s crucial,” she said. “We must seize the moment. you don’t understand.”
“I understand perfectly,” he said. He pushed toward her across the desk the paper he’d been looking at. “Varley has found you a shop. Shall we go see it?”
One of Clevedon’s many properties, the building stood on St. James’s Street near the corner of Bennet Street. Clevedon told the dressmakers that the previous tenants (a husband and wife) had fallen into dire financial difficulties within months of opening the place. They’d absconded in the dead of night mere days ago, owing three months’ back rent. They must have borrowed or stolen a cart, because they’d taken away most of the shop’s contents and fixtures.
This was a complete lie.
The truth was, Varney had bribed them to move and sweetened the offer by allowing them to take with them everything that wasn’t nailed down.
“What a strange coincidence that this should fall vacant at precisely this time,” Miss Leonie said while Varley unlocked the door.
“It’s about time we had a strange coincidence in our favor,” Miss Sophia said.
While the others filed into the shop, Noirot lingered on the pavement. Clevedon saw her assessing gaze move up over the building, then down and about her to consider the neighborhood. It was certainly prestigious, even though some of the street’s establishments were less than savory. Alongside gentlemen’s clubs like White’s, Boodle’s, and Brooks’s and some of London’s most esteemed shops—Hoby the bootmaker, Lock’s the hatters, and Berry Brothers the wine merchants—stood gaming hells and brothels. These, however, tended to be tucked into narrow passages and courts.
“Well?” he said. “Do you approve?”
Her dark gaze shifted to his face then quickly away. “It was in my plans,” she said. “From Fleet Street to St. James’s. I knew it would happen, but not quite so soon.”
With a small, enigmatic smile, she went in. He followed her.
At their entrance, Miss Leonie looked up from her conversation with Varley. “I knew it was too good to be true,” she told Noirot. “It’s beyond our means. We haven’t enough business to cover the everyday expenses, let alone the outlay required to make this usable. We should need two lifetimes to repay his grace.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Clevedon began.
“Don’t be absurd,” Noirot said at the same time. “The address alone will increase our business prodigiously. We’ll have a proper space in which to work and display our work. We can hire another half dozen seamstresses, and increase our production accordingly. I have so many ideas, and not enough room and people to execute them.”
“My love, we need customers,” Miss Leonie said. “We should need to double our clientele—”
“Sophy, you must put something in the paper immediately,” Noirot cut in impatiently. “‘Mrs. Noirot begs leave to inform her friends and the public in general that she intends opening showrooms on Wednesday, the 6th instant at her new location, No. 56 St. James’s Street. With a collection of new and elegant millinery and dresses, which will be found to excel, in point of taste and elegance, collections found in any other house in London. Amongst which are sundry articles for ladies’ dress not to be found elsewhere.’ etc. etc.” She waved her hand. “You know what it must be. But more.”
“More, indeed,” Clevedon said. “You must invent a corset, if you haven’t already done so, and be sure to mention it.”
The three women turned to look at him.
“I’ve been reading the fashion periodicals,” he said. “There seems to be something irresistible about a new, unique style of corset.”
It was the subtlest change in expression. If he hadn’t spent so much time with them or paid such close attention to Noirot, he wouldn’t have recognized the slight movement of their eyes, a hint of rapid calculations going on inside their conniving skulls.
“He’s right,” Noirot said. “I’ll invent a corset. But for now, Sophy, for advertising purposes, you’ll invent a name for it. Something exotic. Remember Mrs. Bell’s ‘Circassian’ corset. But Italian. They want Italian corsets.”
“You ought to change the date of opening, too,” Clevedon said. “You can’t afford to lose another day. Make it tomorrow. You won’t have time to paint it exactly as you like, but it was painted only a short time ago for our absconders. With everything cleaned and polished, and with new fixtures, it will look brand-new.”
The younger sisters burst out at the same time:
“We can’t possibly do this!”
“How on earth can we have everything ready in less than twenty-four hours?”
Noirot put up her hand. The sisters subsided. “We’ll need to borrow most of your servants to do it,” she told Clevedon. “And carriages again. We’ll need materials, yes, beyond what we purchased for the emergency.”
“I understand,” he said.
“We can’t do it without your help,” she said.
“I’d planned on helping,” he said. “It’s a small enough sacrifice to have the lot of you out of Clevedon House forthwith.”
That would quiet Lady Warford. And the other cats. For himself, he cared nothing about talk or scandal. But he knew he was making matters very difficult for Clara. He couldn’t do as he pleased without causing her embarrassment at the very least.
In any event, he lacked the moral fortitude to resist temptation. The longer Noirot lived under his roof, the greater the likelihood he’d behave in his usual way.
“A small sacrifice,” Miss Sophia said with a laugh. “Oh, it’s good to be a duke.”
“It’s good to know a duke,” Miss Leonie said. “This place may give Marcelline’s genius scope, but it’s going to be deuced expensive to furnish, never mind the materials.”
Noirot was already beginning a circuit of what he supposed would be the showroom. “The drawers and counters will do,” she said, “but everything must be cleaned and polished within an inch of its life. All else must be purchased. Working our way down from the ceiling—chandeliers, wall sconces, mirrors…”
Clevedon took out his little pocket notebook and started making notes.
They had no trouble dividing responsibilities. Marcelline and her sisters had been at this long enough to know who did what best.
Sophia returned to Clevedon House to compose her deathless prose and supervise the seamstresses. Leonie remained at the shop to accept deliveries and supervise the servants and workmen who, they were told, Halliday had already begun organizing, and would be arriving shortly.
Clevedon was to take Marcelline shopping.
She saw no alternative. She needed him. She’d simply have to suppress her lust and longings and other inconvenient feelings and be stoical. She’d had plenty of practice with that.
“If we’re to get this done by the end of the day, you must come with me,” she told him at the end of her inventory of the place. “I’ve no time to waste while a clerk dithers or tries to sell me something I don’t want. I haven’t time for dickering about prices. I need prompt, preferably obsequious attention. Entering with the Duke of Clevedon is a sure way to get that and more.”
“I assumed I’d come with you,” he said. “Did you not notice how diligently I took notes?”
She had noticed and wondered at it. She held her tongue, though, until they were in his carriage. And then it wasn’t the notebook she asked about.
