“Ouch.” Robert chuckled, his gaze shifting from Clara to Michael. “I can see why you like her.”
“Robert—”
“You see, Lady Clara, we have a plan, Lord Michael and I.”
She looked up at Michael. “A plan?”
Robert went on. “A plan to make Lord Michael as appealing to the fathers of marriageable daughters as any duke of the realm. Two months is not a long time to achieve this—I had thought six months, perhaps a year—but we will certainly put in our best efforts, starting tomorrow.”
Michael winced at the light that sprang into her eyes. A light of hope. “Clara, I do not know—”
“Try,” she whispered. “Please.”
And in that moment, Michael knew he would not fail. Not unless it killed him. Or unless the duke did.
Chapter Nine
Saturday, 6 August 1825
The shop of Madame Adrienne Chenevert, London
Half-past ten in the morning
Clara watched hermother fidget as their modiste, Madame Adrienne Chenevert, slowly went through Wykeham’s list, a slender finger of her left hand trailing down the edge of the paper, her lips pursed as she made notes on a separate piece of foolscap. The modiste’s wild mane of ebony hair seemed to ebb and flow around her face, the thick curls held in place with pins, combs, and feathers. It seemed to be unmoving and undulating at the same time, and Clara found the effect fascinating.
The three women sat around a small table in the front salon of the shop, which smelled of cinnamon and cardamom, a soothing combination, although one that made Clara’s nose twitch. The two broad front windows of the shop were covered by burgundy satin curtains, which had been pulled apart about a foot by lace ties, a space that let in a bit of light from the street outside but made peering in difficult. Most of the shop’s illumination streamed in from short but wide windows near the high ceiling, giving the shop a bit of a golden glow from the morning sun. Clara had always found the shop to be an efficient, comfortable space. The front salon, with its small counter and several plush sitting areas, was for refreshments and consultation, and a tea service with three cups sat on the table between the women.
Fittings took place in an elegantly decorated room adjacent to the salon, where armchairs gave spots for companions, mothers, and chaperones to watch as the clients were fitted with new frocks. It was separated from the front salon by a narrow door draped with another burgundy satin curtain. Clara could hear at least two threads of conversation from behind the curtain, one of which seemed to be Lady Dorothea Timmons—Lady Newbury’s mother—whose shrill voice instructed a seamstress on how to do her job.
Clara knew the shop had to have other areas—a workroom or two and living quarters for the modiste—but she had not seen them. She could not imagine making a living dealing with entitled aristocratic women on a daily basis. Even socializing with them in limited ways made Clara’s skin prickle. She looked again at Madame Adrienne with a new appreciation for her patience and forbearance.
The modiste murmured to herself as she continued to review the list and made more notes, occasionally glancing at Clara, her dark eyes taking in every inch of Clara’s appearance, from the hair that had begun to squirm loose from its bindings to the scuffed day boots on her feet. And, as not all her words or sounds were encouraging, Clara did not find it surprising that her mother fidgeted. Honora Durham did not handle with aplomb displeasure from anyone, especially someone so far below her station.
Madame Adrienne, however, was one of the finest modistes in the city. It did not do for anyone to displeasehereither.
The trailing finger stopped, and her brows furrowed. “This,” she said, her French accent thick and tight this morning. “This is not a good color for Lady Clara.” The words were a pronouncement worthy of royalty. She placed her hands flat on both pages and looked up at the countess. “And overall, these are not colors frequent in this season. And this came from a duke, you say?”
Honora stiffened. “Yes. The Duke of Wykeham.”
“And this is his tailor’s name?”
“Yes.”
“Hm. I will talk to him. Perhaps we can complement without, um, shall we say, embarrassment.”
“Dear God,” Honora muttered.
Madame Adrienne folded the list and returned it to Honora, who tucked it into her reticule. The modiste stood and motioned for Clara to do the same. She circled Clara, looking her up and down, and Clara shivered, despising the feeling of being a horse on the auction block.
Her mother sniffed. “I realize that her figure is—”
The modiste waved a hand. “Her figure is not a problem. I already have her measurements. You did find her earlier gown satisfactory?” She peered at Honora, waiting for a sign. Honora gave a terse nod.
“Although it is now ruined,” Clara muttered.
Madame Adrienne drew in a deep breath. “I have heard. Odious man, Hadleyton. Even his own tailor—” She broke off with a wave of her hand. “If you will send the gown over, I will repair it. At no cost.” She aimed the last three words at Honora, then went on. “No, if we are to please the duke, we must find a way to make”—she pointed to her notes, with more than a touch of disdain in her voice—“thoseflatter instead of distract. This duke, he is blond?”
“Yes,” Clara said. “And a bit of a peacock.”
