Though she longed desperately get off the vessel as well, Marcelline decided to wait. She fended off the packet’s servants, eager to help her with her belongings, telling them to come back later. While she felt a good deal better, she didn’t feel quite herself. Too, Jeffreys was still weak from her own far worse bout with sickness. It made no sense to endure the pushing and hurrying and ill temper—and above all, the whiny children.
Marcelline wanted her own child. Lucie was no angel, but she did not whine. And when her mama surprised her by returning home a week early, that mama would be smiling and happy.
She
would
be smiling and happy, Marcelline assured herself, once the crowd dissipated, and she could have a moment’s peace, to sort herself out.
Clevedon must be long gone by now. He wouldn’t have to shove people out of his way. His servants could do that for him—not that it would be necessary. Clevedon appeared, and people simply made way for him.
“Make way, make way!”
She looked up. A tall, burly footman was bearing down on her, another footman behind him. The livery was all too familiar.
The first one elbowed an indignant packet servant aside, strode to her, and bowed. “His grace’s compliments, Mrs. Noirot, and would you be so good as to let him see you and Miss Jeffreys home. He understands Miss Jeffreys was dire ill, and he dislikes to leave her to the public conveyances, let alone being jostled by this infern—this crowd. If you ladies would come with us, me and Joseph will take you along to the Customs officers and then in a trice we’ll have you in the carriage, which is only around the corner.”
Even as he spoke, he was collecting their things, hoisting one portmanteau under one arm and another under the other. His counterpart made easy work of the remaining bags, ignoring the protests of the packet servants they’d displaced and deprived of their tips.
It all happened so quickly that Marcelline had no time even to decide whether to object. She’d hardly taken in what they were about when Thomas and Joseph marched away with her luggage.
T
he drive to the shop on Fleet Street, silent for the most part, seemed interminable.
The first thing Jeffreys did when she settled into her seat, next to Marcelline and opposite the duke, was thank him for sending Saunders to look after her when she was ill.
He shrugged. “Saunders dotes on playing physician,” he said. “He likes nothing better than to make disgusting potions to cure the effects of overindulgence. It’s his subtle way of punishing us, no doubt, for getting wine stains on our linen.”
“He was very kind,” Jeffreys said.
“That would make for a change,” said Clevedon. “He isn’t, usually.”
And that was all he said, all the way from the Tower to Jeffreys’s lodgings.
From there it was an easy walk to the shop. The drive was not so easy.
Marcelline’s mind was working as always, looking for a way to turn matters to her account. He’d said . . . what had he said before he slammed out of his cabin?
He’d said something about paying the dressmaking bills. That it suited him very well.
But he’d been so angry, and he hadn’t come back.
His valet had appeared, though, with a bottle of wine and assorted cold meats and cheese that must have cost a king’s ransom in bribes.
A woman could, too easily, get used to such luxury.
She couldn’t afford to get used to it.
“I can’t decide,” she said, “whether you’re exercising forbearance or merely indulging your curiosity to see my lair.”
“Why should I do either?” he said. Seeming to make himself perfectly at ease, he stretched out his long legs, as he hadn’t been able to do when Jeffreys shared the seat with her. He rested one arm along the back of the richly appointed seat and looked out of the louvered panel, open at present to let him see out while shielding him from others trying to look in. Not that it was any secret who he was, when the crest emblazoned on the door shouted his identity to all the world.
The late afternoon light traced the smoothly sculpted lines of his profile.
Longing welled up. To touch his beautiful face. To feel that arm curl about her shoulders. To tuck herself into that big, warm body.
She crushed it. “Or perhaps you took pity on us,” she said.
“It was your maid or seamstress or whatever she is upon whom I took pity,” he said. “You can take care of yourself, I’ve no doubt. But Saunders told me the girl was prodigious ill. For a time, he said, he wasn’t sure she’d survive the voyage. She did not look well just now.” He paused briefly. “She doesn’t lodge with you?”
“She did, but that was only temporary. I can hardly lodge my seamstresses. For one thing, it isn’t good for them to do nothing but eat, drink, and live nothing but shop. For another, there isn’t room. Not that I should want half a dozen seamstresses about all day and all night. The working hours can be trying enough, what with their little jealousies and—”
“Half a dozen?” he said. He leaned forward.
“Half a dozen?”
H
e was too astonished to pretend he wasn’t.
Yes, of course she’d babbled that advertisement for the corner of Fleet Street at Chancery Lane, and it was the direction she’d given the coachman. That didn’t mean her shop wasn’t squeezed into a passage or a cellar.
“Half a dozen girls at present,” she said. “But I’ll certainly be hiring more in the near future. As it is, we’re shorthanded.”
“Half a— Devil take you, what is wrong with you?”
“You’ve already pointed out any number of my character flaws,” she said. “To which do you now refer?”
“I thought . . . Noirot, you’re the damndest woman. Your dogged pursuit of me led me to believe you were in desperate straits.”
“How on earth did you come by that idea?” she said. “I told you I was the greatest modiste in the world. You’ve seen my work.”
“I imagined a dark little shop in a basement, drat you,” he said. “I did wonder how you contrived to make such extravagant-looking dresses in such a place.”
“I’m sure you didn’t wonder about it overlong,” she said. “You were mainly occupied with bedding me.”
“Yes, but I’m done with that now.”
He was. He truly was. He’d had enough of her. He’d had enough of himself, chasing her. Like a puppy, like the veriest schoolboy.
“I’m very glad to hear it,” she said.
“It’s only Clara I’m thinking of,” he said. “Much as it pains me to contribute to your vainglory, it was clear, even to me, that the women of Paris were besotted with your work. You’re the most aggravating woman I’ve ever met, but you make yourself agreeable to women, I noticed, and that and beautiful, fashionable clothes are what matter, I daresay. I should not hold a grudge, merely because I long to shake you until your teeth rattle.”
Her weary face lit up, her eyes most brilliantly of all. “I knew it,” she said. “I knew you’d see.”
“Still, I don’t trust you.”
Something flickered in her eyes, but she said nothing, only waited, her attention riveted.
She was riveted on him—for her business. He was merely the means to an end.
But he scorned to hold grudges, especially on such a petty account—his vanity, of all things!
“I wanted to see the place for myself,” he said. “To make sure it truly existed, for one thing—and to see what sort of place it was. For all I knew, you were toiling alone in a dark room in a cellar.”
“Good grief, what a mind a man has,” she said. “How could you imagine I should produce such creations in— But never mind. Maison Noirot is an elegant shop. Everything is of the first stare, exceedingly neat and clean and airy. It’s much more neat and elegant, I promise you, than the den of that dull-witted incompetent—but no, I will not foul the air with her name.”
He was done with her. He needed to be done with her. But now, when she spoke of her shop, she was so animated. So passionate.
“I smell a rival,” he said.
She sat straighter. “Certainly not. I have no rivals, your grace. I am the greatest modiste in the world.” She leaned forward to look out of the door window. “We’re nearly there. You’ll soon see for yourself.”
It wasn’t as soon as it might have been, the street being a tangle of carriages, riders, and pedestrians. But eventually they came to the place, and there it was, a handsome modern shop, with a bow window and the name in gold lettering over the door: Noirot.
The carriage stopped. The door opened. The steps were folded down.
Clevedon stepped out first, and put out his hand to steady her.
As she took his hand, he heard a cry behind him.
She looked up, looked past him, and the light he’d seen in her face before was nothing to this. Her countenance was the sun, shedding happiness and setting the world aglow.
“Mama!” the voice cried.
Noirot practically leapt from the last step, past him, forgetting him entirely.
She crouched down on the pavement and opened her arms, and a little girl, a little dark-haired girl, ran into them.
“Mama!” the child cried. “You’re home!”
The Dress-Maker must be an expert anatomist; and must, if judiciously chosen, have a name of French termination; she must know how to hide all defects in the proportions of the body, and must be able to mould the shape by the stays, that, while she corrects the body, she may not interfere with the pleasures of the palate.
The Book of English Trades,
and Library of the Useful Arts
, 1818
A
child.
She had a child.
A little girl with dark, curling hair who ran at her, laughing. Noirot’s arms went around her and tightened to hold her close. “My love, my love,” she said, and the way she said it made a knot in his chest.
He was distantly aware of other feminine voices, but his attention was locked upon the scene: Noirot crouched on the pavement, crushing the little girl to her, and the child, whose face he could see so clearly over her mother’s shoulder, eyes closed, her face alight and dawn-rosy, her happiness radiating in almost visible waves.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, oblivious to all else about him: the busy street, the people detouring round the mother and child on the pavement. He scarcely noticed his own servants, carrying her things into the place, then returning to the carriage. He was only dimly aware of the two women who had come out of the shop behind the little girl.
He stood and watched the mother and child because he couldn’t turn away, because he didn’t understand and scarcely believed what his senses told him.
After some time, some very short time perhaps, Noirot rose and, taking her daughter’s hand, started toward the shop. The child said, “Who is that, Mama?”
Noirot turned around and saw him standing, like a man at the window of a peepshow, entranced by a foreign world, unable to look away.
He collected his wits and took a step toward them. “Mrs. Noirot, perhaps you’d be so kind as to make me known to the young lady.”
The child looked up at him, eyes wide. They were not her mother’s eyes, but b1ue, vividly blue. They seemed vaguely familiar, and he tried to remember where he might have seen those eyes before. But where could that have been? Anywhere. Nowhere. It didn’t signify.
Noirot looked from the girl to him and back to the girl, who said, “Who is it, Mama? Is it the king?”
“No, it isn’t the king.”
The child tipped her head to one side, looking past him at the carriage. “That is a very grand carriage,” she said. “I should like to drive about in that carriage.”
“I don’t doubt that,” said her mother. “Your grace, may I present my daughter, Miss Lucie Cordelia Noirot.”
“I beg your pardon, Mama,” the child said. “That isn’t my name, you know.”
Noirot looked at her. “Is it not?”
“My name is Erroll now. E-R-R-O-L-L.”
“I see.” Noirot began again. “Your grace, may I present my daughter—” She broke off and looked enquiringly at the child. “You’re still my daughter, I take it?”
“Yes,” said Erroll. “Of course, Mama.”
“I’m relieved to hear it. I had quite grown used to you. Your grace, may I present my daughter Erroll. Erroll, His Grace, the Duke of Clevedon.”
“Miss . . . erm . . . Erroll,” he said. He bowed gravely.
“Your grace,” the girl said. She curtseyed. It was nothing half so stunning as her mother’s style of curtsey, but it was gracefully done nonetheless. He wondered at it and at her remarkable self-possession.
Then he recalled whose daughter she was, and wondered why he wondered.
Then he recalled who it was who had a child.
A child, Noirot had a child!
How had she failed to mention such a thing? But what was wrong with him that he was so shocked? She was
Mrs.
Noirot—and while the title “Mrs.” was used, cavalierly enough, by unwed shopkeepers, actresses, and whores alike, he needn’t have assumed she wasn’t a married woman, with a family and . . . a husband . . . who did not seem to be in evidence. Dead? Or perhaps there was no husband, merely a scoundrel who’d fathered and abandoned this child.
“Do you ever take children for a drive in that carriage?” Erroll said, calling him back to the moment. “Not
little
children, I mean, but proper grown-up girls who would sit quietly—not climbing about and spoiling the cushions or putting sticky fingers on the glass. Not them, but well-behaved girls who keep their hands folded in their laps and only look out of the window.” The great blue eyes regarded him steadily.
“I—”
“No, he does not,” her mother said. “His grace has many claims on his time. In fact, I am sure he has an appointment elsewhere any minute now.”
“Do I?”
Noirot gave him a warning look.
“Yes, of course,” he said. He took out his pocket watch and stared at it. He had no idea where the hands pointed. He was too conscious of the little girl with the great blue eyes watching him so intently. “I nearly forgot.”
He put the watch away. “Well, Erroll, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Yes, I’m glad to meet you, too,” she said. “Please come again, when you’re not so busy.”
He made a polite, non-committal answer, and took his leave.
He climbed into his coach and sat. As the vehicle started to move, he looked out through the louvered panel. That was when he finally took notice of the other two women, a blonde and a redhead. Even through the wooden slats, at this distance, he discerned the family resemblance, most especially in the way they carried themselves.
He had mistaken her. He’d formed an idea that was entirely wrong.
Her shop was not a little hole-in-corner place but a proper, handsome establishment. She had a family. She had a child.
She was not to be trusted. Of that he was quite, quite sure.
As to everything else—he’d misjudged, misunderstood, and now he was at sea again, and it was a rough sea, indeed.
“W
ell done,” Sophy said, when the shop door had closed behind them. “I know you, of course, and I should never underestimate you—”
“But my dear,” said Leonie, “you could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw the crest on the carriage door.”
“And then to see him spring out of the carriage—”
“—the prints don’t half do him justice—”
“—to see him hand you out—”
“—I thought for a minute I was dreaming—”
“—It was very like a vision—”
“I saw it first, Mama,” Lucie/Erroll cut into her aunts’ chatter. “I was sitting in the window, reading my lessons, when I heard a noise, and I looked out—and I thought the king was passing by.”
“The king, with a paltry two footmen?” Marcelline said. “I think not.”
“Oh, yes. It might have been, Mama. Everyone knows King William doesn’t like to make a show. I’m sorry, too, because they say the old king, the one before this one . . .” She frowned.
“King George the Fourth,” Leonie prompted.
“Yes, that one,” Lucie said. “Everyone says he was vastly more splendid, and you always knew who it was when he went by. But a duke is grand, too. I thought he was very handsome, like the prince in the fairy tale. We did not expect you so soon, but I’m glad you came early. Was it very agreeable to travel in that fine carriage? I collect the seat cushions were thick and soft.”
“They were, indeed,” Marcelline said. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted two women approaching the shop. It would not do for Lucie to be interrogating her about the Duke of Clevedon in front of customers, but it wasn’t easy to distract her daughter from a fascinating object, especially a large, expensive fascinating object. “I shall tell you all about it down to the last detail, but I’m perishing for a cup of tea. Shall we go upstairs, and will you make Mama a cup of tea?”
“Yes, yes!” Lucie jumped up and down. “I’ll send Millie to the pastry shop. We’re so glad you’re home, and we shall have a party, a wonderful party, with cakes!”
H
ours later, when Lucie was safely abed, the sisters gathered in the workroom.
There they drank champagne, to celebrate Marcelline’s return—with her quarry, no less—and while they drank, Marcelline described her experiences with the Duke of Clevedon in all their lurid detail. Though her sisters were virgins, so far as she knew—and she couldn’t imagine why they wouldn’t tell her if they were not—they were by no means innocent. In any case, one could hardly expect them to help her deal with the complications if they did not fully understand what had happened.
“I’m truly sorry,” she said. “I had promised I wouldn’t bollix it up—”
“So you did,” said Leonie. “Yet none of us expected him to be quite so . . . quite so—”
“Everyone said he was handsome,” said Sophy. “But really, he’s beautiful. He took my breath away.” She patted Marcelline’s hand. “I’m so sorry you had to restrain yourself. I’m not sure I could have done it.”
“It’s not his beauty,” Marcelline said.
Both sisters eyed her skeptically.
“It’s his curst ducal-ness,” she said. “Those fellows are the very devil to manage. They’re not merely accustomed to having their way: The alternative simply doesn’t enter their heads. They don’t think the way normal people do. Then, too, he can
think
. He’s quicker-witted than I had allowed for. But what sort of excuse is that? I should have adjusted my methods, but for reasons that still elude me, I didn’t. The fact is, I played it very ill, and now Sophy must turn my error to account.”
She went on to explain the advertisements she and Jeffreys had devised immediately after the comtesse’s party—a lifetime ago, it seemed . . . before the storm . . . when he’d looked after her . . .
His hands, his hands . . .
“I’ll plant a story in the
Morning Spectacle
,” Sophy said. “But it may be too late to make tomorrow’s edition. Confound it, you haven’t left us much time.”
“I came as quickly as I could. We were nearly shipwrecked!”
“Sophy, do be reasonable,” said Leonie. “And only think, if the storm delayed their packet, others were delayed as well. The mail will be late. That gives you as much as an extra day, if you’ll only be quick about it.”
“We can’t rely on the mail’s arriving late,” Sophy said. “I’ll have to find Tom Foxe tonight. But that might answer very well: a late-night summons . . . a story whispered in the dark. I’ll wear a disguise, and let him think I’m Lady So-and-So. He won’t be able to resist. We’ll have the front of the paper, a prime spot.”
“The ladies will flock to see the dress,” said Leonie. “We may even see some as early as tomorrow afternoon. I know for a fact that the Countess of Bartham reads the
Spectacle
devotedly.”
“The dress had better be on display, then,” Marcelline said. “It needs repairs. Jeffreys was able to clean it before the packet sailed, but she was too sick afterward to stitch the bodice. And I lost at least one papillon bow. What else?” She rubbed her head.
“We’re perfectly capable of seeing for ourselves what needs to be done,” Leonie said. “I’ll work on it while Sophy goes out to her clandestine meeting with Tom. You’d better go to bed.”
“You’ll want to be rested,” Sophy said. “We’ve got a—”
She broke off, and Marcelline looked up in time to catch the look Leonie sent Sophy.
“What?” Marcelline said. “What are you not telling me?”
“Really, Sophy, you might learn to curb your dramatic impulses,” Leonie said. “You can see she’s weary.”
“I did not
say
—”
“What haven’t you told me?” Marcelline said.
There was a pause. Her two younger sisters exchanged reproachful looks. Then Sophy said, “Someone is stealing your designs and giving them to Horrible Hortense.”
Marcelline looked to Leonie for confirmation.
“It’s true,” Leonie said. “We’ve a spy in our midst.”
O
n Monday night, Lady Clara Fairfax received a note from the Duke of Clevedon, informing her of his return to London and of his wish to call on her on Tuesday afternoon, if convenient.
The family were not usually at home to callers on Tuesday, but the usual rules did not apply to the Duke of Clevedon. For one thing, as her father’s former ward, his grace was considered a part of the family; for another, he was no better at following rules than her brothers were. Papa had forbidden Clevedon and Harry to go abroad three years ago, citing the raging cholera epidemic. They went anyway, leaving Papa no alternative but to shrug and say Clevedon needed to sow his wild oats, and since Longmore was bound to do damage somewhere, it might as well be in another country.
The Tuesday appointment was not, in short, inconvenient to anybody else, and Lady Clara told herself it wasn’t inconvenient to her, either. She had missed Clevedon, truly, especially when Longmore was behaving in a particularly obnoxious manner and in dire need of one of the duke’s crushing setdowns—or, better yet, his powerful left fist.