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The Warfords were not at home to visitors on Tuesdays. That was why he’d called today rather than yesterday or tomorrow. On Tuesday he need not make his way through the scrum of Clara’s beaux, the infatuated puppies who swarmed about her at social events. Whenever he approached, he was disagreeably aware of casting a pall over the activities, whatever they were: fellows composing odes to her eyes and such, he supposed. Squabbling over who had which dance. And competing, no doubt, in point of fashion—which was amusing, since Clara didn’t care about fashion. She could not tell one lapel from another, let alone evaluate the quality of a waistcoat.
Still, he might have mistaken the day. He had drunk more than agreed with him last night, and his head still ached. Perhaps it would be better to come back on the correct day. Maybe the damned sun wouldn’t be shining so brightly then.
After confirming that this was indeed Tuesday, Timms apologetically led Clevedon to the small drawing room to wait while he sent a footman to inform Lady Clara of his grace’s arrival.
Unaccustomed to be made to wait when he called anywhere, least of all at Warford House, Clevedon grew restive.
It was exceedingly odd, Clara being engaged on a Tuesday afternoon. He was sure he’d told her—on Saturday, wasn’t it?—he’d take her for a drive today.
He needed to settle this marriage business today. Already a week had passed since he’d decided to put his life in order and make his formal offer. After that, they’d put all in train for a wedding at the earliest opportunity.
The trip to the dressmaker’s had thrown him off balance. Seeing Noirot again . . . and the child . . .
He’d been unable to collect his thoughts, let alone remember what he’d meant to say to Clara. The time hadn’t felt . . . right. He and Clara needed to get used to each other again, he’d told himself. Hadn’t Longmore said so?
But now it seemed they’d have to get used to each other after they were married. Now a formal—and short—engagement seemed the best way to put an end to speculation and gossip.
He’d heard rumors of a mad tale that had traveled from Paris, and would, he knew, reach Warford House before long. Last week he’d confided in Clara—to a point. He knew she was too sensible a girl to fret over idle gossip. In her letters, hadn’t she ridiculed one after another piece of scandal making the London rounds? Her mother, though, was another matter altogether.
When Lady Warford heard the rumors, she’d throw one of her fits. She’d say nothing to Clevedon directly. Instead, she’d harass her family, carrying on about the shame of Clara’s being ignored in favor of a dressmaker, a milliner, a common shopkeeper! She’d grow more and more hysterical until one of the men took Clevedon to task.
In Paris, only last month, he’d borne one awkward visit from Longmore—instigated, no doubt, by Lady Warford. Clevedon doubted his friend was any more eager than he to repeat the experience.
He had nothing to feel anxious or guilty about, he told himself. He’d done nothing improper since he’d returned to London. Before that didn’t count.
Dreams, however torrid, were nothing to feel in the least uneasy about. Fantasies were nothing more than that. Men had fantasies regarding women, all sorts of women, suitable and unsuitable. They had them all the time, waking and sleeping.
As to the discontent: That would stop after he was married.
But his mind, not shy in the least, shied away from contemplating his wedding night.
Where the devil was the footman? Why hadn’t Timms gone himself? What on earth was Clara about? With whom was she engaged on a Tuesday? Had he not told her he would come? He was sure he had . . . but his mind strayed from time to time—and how could he recollect now, with this vile headache?
He realized he was pacing. He stopped, and told himself he was out of sorts. This was not a suitable humor for a casual call, let alone a momentous one.
She had something else to do. He must have forgotten to tell her about driving today. Or she’d forgotten.
He’d see her tomorrow night at Almack’s. When he did, he’d make an appointment to speak to her.
No, he ought to speak to her father first. That was the proper way to go about it. He’d return another day, when Lord Warford was at home. On Tuesdays his lordship customarily visited one of his charities.
Clevedon left the drawing room. Having run tame in this house since boyhood, he knew every inch of it. Best to slip out quietly, before he ran into other family members.
He strode to the antechamber nearby, where he knew he’d find his hat, gloves, and walking stick.
He entered, and his heart began to beat very hard.
It happened before he was fully conscious of what had set it going.
A bonnet. An absurd conglomeration of ribbons and flowers and feathers, it sat on the table where the servants customarily put visitors’ hats and such.
He stared at it for a moment, then started for the door.
But there was something . . . in the air.
He paused at the door. Then he turned back and walked to the bonnet. He picked it up, and brought it close to his face. The scent, the familiar, tormenting scent swam about him, as light and as inescapable as a gossamer net: the faint scent of jasmine, mingled with the scent of her hair and her skin.
Noirot.
He set the bonnet down.
He stepped out into the corridor.
A maid passed, carrying a heap of clothing.
He started in the direction she’d come from.
He heard an anguished cry.
Clara.
He ran toward the sound.
He pulled open the door to the music room. Bright sunlight burst upon him, blinding him for a moment and making lightning bolts in his head.
“Clara, are you—”
“Clevedon! What on earth—”
But Clara was gaping at him, astonished, and his gaze shot to the other woman.
Noirot stood, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted. She closed it promptly, and her face closed down into her playing-cards look.
“What are you about?” he said. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“Look at her,” Clara cried. “That’s my favorite dress—the one I was wearing when Lord Herringstone composed an ode to my eyes.”
Look at her. At Noirot. Look at her.
He looked, his gaze sliding down from the slightly disordered coiffure, loose strands of dark, silken hair clinging to her neck . . . down over her dark, brilliant eyes . . . down over her dangerous mouth while he remembered the taste of her, the feel of her mouth against his . . . down over the firm bosom while he remembered the velvet of her skin under his hand and against his mouth . . . and down at last to the dress she was holding.
Clara crossed to her and snatched the dress away.
“She says we must give it away,” Lady Clara said. “She objects to everything. Nothing is right—even this, my favorite.”
“The dress is jade green,” Noirot said. “Your eyes are blue and very beautiful, and that’s what prompted Lord Herringstone to compose an ode. Had you been wearing a more suitable color, you would have inspired him to compose an epic. Very few women can wear this color successfully. You may not wear very many shades of green. I should recommend against it—”
“That woman—Lady Renfrew—you made her a beautiful dress, exactly this color.”
“It was not exactly this color,” Noirot said. “It was an entirely different shade of green—and one that would suit you no better. It would seem that your ladyship cannot distinguish hues. Whether it was your governess or your painting master, whoever failed to train your eye ought to be pilloried. You must give me the dress, my lady.”
“Oh, you are horrible, cruel! You’ve taken all my favorite things!”
Noirot pulled the dress away from her and threw it on the floor and kicked it aside.
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Clara clapped her hand over her mouth.
Noirot folded her arms.
A dangerous glint came into Clara’s blue eyes.
Noirot regarded her with the same cool lack of expression she would have bestowed on a promising hand of cards.
The fool! She could not treat a marquess’s daughter like a temperamental child, even if she was behaving like one. Noirot would lose any hope of a commission—she’d lose Clara forever—and she’d be lucky if Lady Warford didn’t have her driven from London.
“If I may interpose a—”
