Silk Is For Seduction - Loretta Chase [87]
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,” Longmore 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