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“My aunt,” he said, turning his gaze to the window. He was an ass sometimes, a great ass.
“If you hit him, the matter is settled, the problem is solved. We didn’t want it settled that way. We wanted him shamed, the way he’d shamed your sister.”
He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. “I know.”
“But you forgot,” she said. “One can’t forget things like that. You very nearly spoiled it.”
“He touched you,” he said.
“For three seconds,” she said.
“He saw your chemise.”
“One inch of it.”
“And your corset.”
“Another inch. And so did everybody else. That was the point.”
“I know,” he said. “But I’m a man in love, and a man in love doesn’t think in a rational manner.”
There was a silence in the carriage.
From outside, the clip-clop of hooves and the clack of wheels were plainly audible. He heard voices in the distance. A bell tolled somewhere.
“Something must be done about you,” he said.
“You already did something,” she said. “Several times. In two different hostelries. Employing a variety of maneuvers.”
We make love.
“I think I have to marry you,” he said.
Sophy felt a sob welling painfully in her chest. She willed it away.
“Two proposals in one night,” she said. “The blaze of diamonds must fry men’s brains.”
“That’s what I like about you,” he said. “So romantic.”
She turned to him. “Well, it’s a joke, isn’t it? On us. And if I don’t make a joke I’ll cry. I’ve cried quite enough tonight.”
“That was make-believe.”
“I don’t really know the difference,” she said.
“And that, strangely enough, is another thing I like about you. In any event, like you or not, my mother wants me to marry you.”
“She wants you to marry Madame, you mean.”
“She finds you passably attractive, although not very intelligent. But she will assume that makes us compatible, since I’m nothing special in the brains department.”
“You can’t marry Madame,” Sophy said. “And you can’t marry me.”
“Then what do you propose we do?” he said.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Well, think,” he said. “You got my sister out of a situation everyone else deemed completely hopeless. Surely you can devise a scheme for us. You must. Don’t you have a cunning plan to make my mother love you?”
“In time, I might lure her to Maison Noirot,” she said. “I might persuade her to tolerate me as her dressmaker. But making her love me is out of the question. Only imagine how she’d feel.”
“Feelings,” he said.
“She’s a woman,” she said. “She’s a mother. Try to put yourself in her place: Clevedon married my sister instead of her daughter. Then you decide to marry me—the sister of the woman who ruined her cherished plans and who is therefore at least indirectly responsible for Clara’s difficulties.”
“Is it so important that my mother love you?” he said.
You don’t understand, she wanted to cry. My family has done nothing but destroy families. For generations. I’m not good. I’m not virtuous. I’m a knave. But I don’t want to be like that.
She said, “Your parents will cut you off. It’s the most powerful weapon they have. Perhaps the only weapon.”
“Then I reckon I’ll have to take up quarters over the shop and let my wife support me,” he said.
“Harry,” she said.
He met her gaze.
“You know that’s absurd,” she said. “You’d hate it. Are you aware that Leonie holds the purse strings? Marcelline and I are not good with money. That is to say, we’re good mainly at spending it.”
He stared at her for a long moment. Then he let out a sigh. “We’re doomed,” he said. “In that case . . .”
He pulled her into his arms.
Chapter Eighteen
In most of the principal streets of the metropolis, shawls, muslins, pieces for ladies’ dresses, and a variety of other goods, are shown with the assistance of mirrors, and at night by chandeliers, aided by the brilliancy which the gaslights afford, in a way almost as dazzling to a stranger, as many of those poetical fictions of which we read in the Arabian nights’ entertainment.
—The book of English trades,
and library of the useful arts, 1818
On Friday, the Spectacle reported all the details of the incident at Lady Bartham’s ball—which did promise to make hers the biggest explosion of the Season’s end—along with lengthy descriptions of the dresses worn by the principals in this drama.
On Saturday, the Spectacle informed its readers that Madame de Veirrion had disappeared from London as mysteriously as she’d appeared. She’d checked out of the Clarendon Hotel on Friday night, apparently, and driven away in a coach and four. And that was the last the Spectacle had been able to discover.
On Sunday, the Spectacle reported that Lord Adderley had been barred from all of his clubs.
On Monday, the Spectacle announced that Lord Adderley had departed London in the dead of night. His creditors, it said, were in pursuit.
On Tuesday, Sophy sat at her writing table in the sisters’ shared work area. She was composing a description of the dress Lady Bartham would wear to Almack’s on the following evening. Though the piece wouldn’t appear in the Spectacle until Thursday, she was trying to get some of this work done in advance, during lulls in the shop. With the increase in titled customers and the flurry of end-of-Season events, she had more dresses to describe than previously.
Thanks to Madame de Veirrion, Maison Noirot would squeak through Quarter Day intact.
Sophy had got to the headdress when Mary Parmenter told her she was needed in the private consulting room.
When Sophy entered the room, she found Lord Longmore, Lady Clara, and Lady Warford all studying the plum dress. At her entrance, they turned simultaneously toward the door, and three pairs of eyes fixed on her.
Sophy didn’t take a step back. She didn’t let her eyes widen. She didn’t exclaim. She showed only her politely interested dressmaker’s face.
Lady Warford frowned, then gave a little gasp. “Madame de Veirrion?” she said. “But I thought . . .” She trailed off as her gaze moved downward and she took in Sophy’s attire. It was elegant and stylish, as a dressmaker’s clothing ought to be. However, as a dressmaker’s clothing ought to be, it was nothing like the attire a great lady like Madame de Veirrion would wear.
Sophy curtseyed. It was the Noirot curtsey. It wasn’t necessary, but she did it anyway, perhaps to irritate Lord Longmore, who’d had his way with her on the way to the hotel on Thursday night, then at the hotel, and then had left and busied himself with forgetting she existed, apparently.
“Yes, it’s Madame,” Longmore said. “But it isn’t. It’s one of those dreadful Noirot women, Mother. This one is Sophia—the one who allowed herself to be assaulted the other night, in order to save Clara from a miserable marriage.”
Sophy’s heart sped up. She said nothing. She tried to look nothing, too, though it was very difficult, when she was discovering what it was like to have one’s heart in one’s mouth.
Lady Warford was looking from her daughter to her son to Sophy.
“It was a cunning scheme, which Miss Noirot devised,” he continued. “She did it because Clara is their favorite client and they didn’t want to lose her. And because they rather love her, it seems.” He paused briefly. “I rather love Miss Noirot. But I’m in a difficulty. She won’t marry me unless you love her.”
“Marry!” One word. One pained cry from his mother.
“She won’t marry me unless you love her,” he said. “I wish you’d make the effort.”
Lady Warford closed her eyes and swayed a little.
“Perhaps you’d better sit down, M
other,” Lady Clara said.
Lady Warford opened her eyes. “Nonsense. I’m perfectly well.” Her chin went up. “A dressmaker. Another dressmaker.” She looked about her, and Sophy saw the lost look in her eyes.
“My lady,” she began.
“Perhaps, after all, I will sit down,” Lady Warford said.
Longmore drew a chair forward for her. She sat. After a moment she said, “That scene at Lady Bartham’s ball. It was . . . arranged?”
“All arranged, to the last detail,” Longmore said. “Arranged by Miss Noirot. It was all her own plan. She devised it while we were bringing Clara back from Portsmouth. That was Miss Noirot’s doing, too. Without her, I should never have found Clara.”
“Oh, Harry,” Lady Warford said.
“She won’t marry me unless you love her,” he said. “You liked her well enough before.”
“Oh, please,” Sophy said. “That was different. I was a lady. With a great fortune. Money cures a host of ills, as you know very well. It’s bad of you to harrow your mother’s feelings.”
She turned to the mother. “My lady, perhaps you’d like a restorative.” Without waiting for consent, she went for the brandy, which was kept in a cupboard in case of sudden swoons or fits, no uncommon occurrence in a shop catering to ladies. As she poured, she said, “I cannot think what was in Lord Longmore’s mind to subject you to such a shock. With no preparation, I daresay.”
