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Paris
15 April
Seduction was a game Clevedon very much enjoyed. He relished the pursuit as much—and lately, more—than the conquest. Chasing Madame Noirot promised to be a more amusing game than usual.
That would make for a change and a pleasant finish to his sojourn abroad. He wasn’t looking forward to returning to England and his responsibilities, but it was time. Paris had begun to lose its luster, and without Longmore’s entertaining company, he foresaw no joy in wandering the Continent again.
He’d planned to go to Longchamp, in any event, to observe, in order to write Clara an entertaining account of it. He still owed her an account of the opera—but never mind. Longchamp would provide richer fodder for his wit.
The annual promenade in the Champs Élysées and the Bois de Boulogne occurred on the Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday of the week preceding Easter. The weather, which had promised so well earlier in the week, had turned, bringing a chill wind. Nonetheless, all of Paris’s haut ton appeared, all dressed in the latest fashions, and showing off their fine horses and carriages. These went up the road on one side and down on the other. The center belonged to royal carriages and others of the highest ranks. But a great many attending, of both high and lower degree, traversed the parade on foot, as Clevedon had chosen to do, the better to study and eavesdrop on the audience as well as the participants.
He’d forgotten how dense a crowd it was, far greater than Hyde Park at the fashionable hour. For a time he wondered how the devil he was supposed to find Madame Noirot. Everyone and her grandmother came to Longchamp.
Mere minutes later, he was wondering how it would have been possible to miss her.
She made a commotion, exactly as she’d done at the opera. Only more so. All he had to do was turn his gaze in the direction where the accidents happened, and there she was.
People craned their necks to see her. Men drove their carriages into other carriages. Those on foot walked into lamp posts and each other.
And she was enjoying herself thoroughly, of that he had no doubt.
This time, because he viewed her from a distance, undistracted by the brilliant dark eyes and beckoning voice, he could take in the complete picture: the dress, the hat . . . and the way she walked. From a distance, he could pay attention to the ensemble: the straw bonnet trimmed with pale green ribbons and white lace, and the lilac coat that opened below the waist to display a pale green fluttery concoction underneath.
He watched one fellow after another approach her. She would pause briefly, smile, say a few words, then walk on, leaving the men staring after her, all wearing the same dazed expression.
He supposed that was what he’d looked like last night, after she’d taken her leave of him.
He made his way through the crowd to her side. “Madame Noirot.”
“Ah, there you are,” she said. “Exactly the man I wished to see.”
“I should hope so,” he said, “considering you invited me.”
“Was it an invitation?” she said. “I thought it was a broad hint.”
“I wonder if you hinted the same to everyone at the Italian Opera. They all seem to be here.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I only wanted you. They’re here because it’s the place to be seen. Longchamp. Passion Week. Everyone comes on holy pilgrimage to see and be seen. And here am I, on display.”
“A pretty display it is,” he said. “And exceedingly modish it must be, judging by the envious expressions on the women’s faces. The men are dazzled, naturally—but they’re no use to you, I daresay.”
“It’s a delicate balance,” she said. “I must be agreeable to the men, who pay the bills. But it’s the ladies who wear my clothes. They won’t be eager to patronize my shop if they see me as a rival for the attentions of their beaux.”
“Yet you dropped me a broad hint to come today and seek you out in this mob,” he said.
“So I did,” she said. “I want you to pay some bills.”
It was, yet again, the last thing he expected. This time he was not amused. His body tensed, and his temperature climbed and it had nothing to do with desire. “Whose bills?”
“The ladies of your family,” she said.
He could hardly believe his ears. He said, his jaw taut, “My aunts owe you money, and you came to Paris to dun me?”
“Their ladyships your aunts have never set foot in my shop,” she said. “That’s the problem. Well, one of the problems. But they’re not the main issue. The main issue is your wife.”
“I don’t have a wife,” he said.
“But you will,” she said. “And I ought to be the one to dress her. I hope that’s obvious to you by now.”
He needed a moment to take this in. Then he needed another moment to tamp down his outrage. “Are you telling me you came all the way to Paris to persuade me to let you dress the future Duchess of Clevedon?”
“Certainly not. I come to Paris twice a year, for two reasons.” She held up one gloved index finger. “One, to attract the attention of the correspondents who supply the ladies’ magazines with the latest fashion news from Paris. It was an admiring description of a promenade dress I wore last spring that drew Mrs. Sharp to Maison Noirot. She in turn recommended us to her dear friend Lady Renfrew. By degrees, their friends will soon join our illustrious clientele.”
“And the second reason?” he said impatiently. “You needn’t put up your fingers. I am perfectly able to count.”
“The second reason is inspiration,” she said. “Fashion’s heart beats in Paris. I go where the fashionable people go, and they give me ideas.”
“I see,” he said, though he didn’t, really. But this was his payment, he told himself, for consorting with a shopkeeper, a vulgar, money-grubbing person. He could have bedded Madame St. Pierre last night—and he was running out of time for bedding anybody—but he’d spoiled his chance by chasing this—this creature. “I am merely incidental.”
“I’d hoped you’d be intelligent enough not to take it that way,” she said. “My great desire is to be of service to you.”
He narrowed his eyes. She thought she could play
him for a fool. Because she’d lured him across an opera house and into the Longchamp mob, she imagined she’d enslaved him.
She wouldn’t be the first or the last woman to let her imagination run away with her in that way.
“I only ask you to consider,” she said. “Do you want your lady wife to be the best-dressed woman in London? Do you want her to be a leader of fashion? Do you want her to stop wearing those unfortunate dresses? Of course you do.”
“I don’t give a damn what Clara wears,” he said tautly. “I like her for herself.”
“That’s sweet,” she said, “but you fail to consider her position. People ought to look up to and admire the Duchess of Clevedon, and people, generally, judge the book by the cover. If that were not the case, we’d all go about in tunics and blankets and animal hides, as our ancestors did. And it’s silly for you of all men to make out that clothes are not important. Only look at you.”
He was all but dancing with rage. How dare she speak of Clara in that way? How dare she patronize him? He wanted to pick her up and—and—
Devil confound her. He couldn’t remember when last he’d let a woman—a shopkeeper, no less—ignite his temper.
He said, “Look about you. I’m in Paris. Where fashion’s heart beats, as you said.”
“And do you wear any old thing in London?” she said.
He was so busy trying not to strangle her that he couldn’t think of a proper retort. All he could do was glare at her.
“It’s no use scowling at me,” she said. “If I were easily intimidated, I should never have got into this business in the first place.”
“Madame Noirot,” he said, “you seem to have mistaken me for someone else. A fool, I believe. Good day.” He started to turn away.
“Yes, yes.” She gave a lazy wave of her hand. “You’re going to storm off. Go ahead. I’ll see you at Frascati’s, I daresay.”
Chapter Three
HOTEL FRASCATI, No. 108, rue de Richelieu. This is a gaming-house, which may be considered the second in Paris in point of respectability, as the company is select. Ladies are admitted.
