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“What then?” she said with a careless laugh. “You have fear I will take him from her? And if I do this thing, perhaps it is best for her. If I were the girl betrothed, I would not desire a man who goes so easily to another woman. And this to happen only a few days before the wedding! Ah, well. Perhaps it is a great favor I do for her.”
Clara’s voice—not loud enough to be understood but vehement enough to convey her displeasure—drew their attention thither.
Whatever she was saying was making Adderley stand very stiffly. A dull red darkened his fair skin and he didn’t look so angelic and poetic.
“But there, you see?” said Madame. “Already they quarrel.”
“So it would seem.”
Clara was gesticulating and her chin was up. She started away from Adderley, her walk radiating anger. Adderley went after her. They disappeared through a door.
“To make a jealous scene is not wise,” said Madame. “She makes him angry. So soon before the marriage, this is foolish. This is how to chase the man away.” She shook her head.
“Maybe he’s too dashed eager to be chased away,” Longmore said.
She gave that laugh again, that distinctively Gallic laugh, and followed it with a distinctively Gallic shrug. “C’est la vie. What one loses, another gains, yes?”
If he didn’t know—if he didn’t remind himself he knew—he’d think she was an adventuress, experienced in the ways of men, in the ways of the world. He’d believe she’d had a raft of lovers.
But no, only me.
He knew that. He knew he’d been the first.
And maybe that was the trouble.
Had he created a monster? Had he opened the floodgates? Had he—
Gad, what was he thinking? He was thinking like Sophy.
The attendant who appeared at his elbow ejected Longmore from his lunatic reverie. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” the man said, “but Lord Adderley has asked me to express his regrets to the lady and to you. I am to tell you that her ladyship your sister is unwell, and has expressed a wish to go home.”
Longmore glanced about him. The quarrel with Madame, quiet though it was, was attracting attention.
The performance isn’t over, he told them silently.
Madame was shaking her head. “They are not suited,” she said. “At once I saw this.”
“Did you, indeed?” Longmore said. “And to whom did you think he might be better suited?”
She regarded him with narrowed eyes. “It is strange, Lord Lun-mour, but I myself discover that I am not so well. It is the air in this place, I believe. It oppresses me. Or perhaps it is the company. I think I would prefer to return to my hotel.”
Exclusive to Foxe’s Morning Spectacle
Saturday 13 June
The British Institution’s annual summer exhibition has drawn a number of distinguished visitors. Those attending yesterday, however, might have observed, as well as works of art, a drama unfolding under the paintings. A certain recently engaged couple, mentioned previously in our pages, made their appearance. With them were the lady’s brother and the French lady his lordship has escorted on so many occasions since her arrival in London. We are sorry to report that discord has arisen between the couples. While we will not say the green-eyed monster appeared on the scene, certain visitors might have noticed a frosty atmosphere between the two ladies prior to their early—and separate—departures. The chill in the air might have arisen as a result of one gentleman’s paying more marked attention to his future brother-in-law’s companion than to the lady he is to marry in a matter of days. We would be remiss if we failed to add that, when the future bridegroom departed the scene, it was not his intended who cast a languishing eye after him.
Maison Noirot
Sunday afternoon
“No,” Longmore said. He crumpled the note and threw it into the empty grate.
“I was not asking your permission,” Sophy said.
They stood in the room on the second storey where, he’d discovered, the sisters worked according to their individual talents. Here Her Grace of Clevedon designed her exuberant creations. Here Miss Leonie labored over her ledgers. And here Miss Sophia composed her fashion dramas for the Spectacle and devised schemes for keeping Maison Noirot in the front of Fashionable Society’s mind.
Longmore had found her hard at work. She had ink on her fingers and a spot on her cheek. A curly golden tendril had escaped its pin to dangle against her left eyebrow.
“You have ink on your face,” he said.
“Don’t change the subject,” she said. “That invitation is perfect.”
“It’s a perfect opportunity for you to get into trouble,” he said.
According to the note Longmore had thrown away, Lord Adderley wished to seek Madame’s advice on a private matter. Would she do him the honor of dining with him this evening at the Brunswick Hotel?
“No, he’s saved us trouble,” she said. “Now you can break into his house.”
He stared at her. “Are the ink fumes rotting your brain?” he said. “You never said anything about housebreaking. Why on earth should I do such a thing?”
“To find Incriminating Evidence.”
In his mind’s eye he saw the words writ large and Capitalized.
“Haven’t you found enough?” he said. “All the reports you get from Fenwick and his numerous criminal associates? The gossip Clevedon’s passed on, from the clubs and his aunts? The private financial reports Miss Leonie obtains, I will not ask how. What more do you need?”
“Letters from the physicians attending his wife, who’s locked up in a madhouse against her will,” she said.
“What?”
“It would be useful to find that he already has a wife,” she said. “Preferably well and living in Ireland, but mad will do.”
“That would be useful,” he said. “But it’s highly unlikely. Those sorts of things happen in horrid novels—the mad wife in the attic—the long-lost true heir to the title he’s kept locked in a dungeon for twenty years. Not likely in his case, I’m sorry to say.”
“We need something powerful,” she said. “It’s nothing to Society when a gentleman is up to his ears in debt, or games, or chases women. It’s not enough to counteract Lady Clara’s heinous crime of letting him kiss her in a less than brotherly manner and disarrange her clothing.”
“What about that last bit in the Spectacle dealing with the creditors and the curious coincidence?” he said. “It made my blood boil. It’s sure to put him in bad odor with some of the high sticklers.” He hadn’t known of that interesting detail until it appeared in the scandal sheet.
“That was quite good, but I’d like something stronger,” she said. “Letters from the creditors or the moneylenders. Interesting promises—such as, ‘You’d better marry quickly, my lord, or expect severe bodily harm.’ That sort of thing.”
He had to take a moment to make his mind calm enough to consider what she was saying. She had a way of sweeping one into the raging current of drama that filled her teeming brain.
He quickly sorted matters and said, “Sophy, what kind of idiot would put something like that in writing? And what kind of imbecile would keep it?”
“You’d be amazed,” she said. “Most criminal types don’t have very large brains. They have little squirrel brains that think of nothing but nuts, nuts, nuts and how to get more nuts. The unsavory moneylender, for instance, doesn’t need to be a financial genius. He merely needs to be good at amassing large piles of nuts. Ask Leonie. Now, hers is a great financial mind. But most of them—”
“Sophy.”
“Adderley isn’t very clever, either,” she said.
“Neither am I,” he said. “But I’m perfectly capable of seducing a woman if I put my mind to it—and he—”
“You’re much cleverer than he is,” she said. “I can’t believe he’s so great a moron as to invite a woman to dine with him mere days before his wedding. And to invite her to a hotel he not only can’t afford but one where he
’s sure to be recognized? It grows very clear to me how he got himself into such shocking debt. He’s one of those men who assumes everything will turn out in his favor: the next throw of the dice, the next deal of the cards. In short, he’s a dolt, and he hasn’t a prayer of seducing me. I’m seducing him, remember?”
“No. I never agreed to your seducing anybody.”
She smiled, advanced on him, and took hold of his lapels. “Listen to me,” she said, looking up into his eyes, hers all brilliant blue.
“No,” he said. “You talk mad talk.”
“I’m not Clara,” she said. “I can look after myself.”
“Not always.”
“Always,” she said. “And certainly in this case. Adderley is in far more danger from me than I am from him. I’m going to dine with him, as he asks, at the Brunswick. I’ll keep him there for two hours at the minimum. That ought to give you plenty of time to search his house. It isn’t a big one.”
