Silk Is For Seduction - Loretta Chase [89]
“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.