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Lisburne waited through a fierce silence while the three women digested his summary and while at least one of them tried to work out the implications and consequences, writing out ledger pages in her mind, he had no doubt.
After a time, the duchess glanced at her sisters and said they needed to go into another room to discuss it. They rose as one and went out.
They were gone a very long while.
After half an hour had passed, a bored Longmore went out to take a walk. Clevedon went to the library.
An hour after leaving the breakfast room, the ladies returned. The men were summoned to hear their decision.
The three women moved to stand in front of the chimneypiece, where the afternoon light flowed becomingly over their dresses.
“As the eldest, I’ve been deputed to speak for the others,” the duchess said. “We find your proposal generally satisfactory and have agreed to accept it.”
“All of it?” Lisburne said. “Duchess, there’s one item, I believe, about which you can’t speak for one party. Miss Noirot, do you agree to become my wife?”
“That depends,” she said. “Will the Botticelli still be mine?”
Thanks to Clevedon, Lisburne had to wait a full week for the wedding.
Lisburne had raced to Doctors Commons the same day Leonie had at last consented. He’d waited there for what seemed an eternity, after which he was obliged to pay out a great deal of money for the piece of paper he wanted. Then he had to wait some more.
But special license or no special license, Clevedon wouldn’t allow his sister-in-law to be wed until he plagued Lisburne with lawyers, and the lawyers fought with each other and finally came to a truce, at which point Lisburne signed the marriage settlements.
The Botticelli was to be included as a bridal gift, which made it Leonie’s own property. All provisions were made for offspring and in case of illness and death and bankruptcy and whatnot. She must have pin money and a dower house.
It was all very well, Clevedon said, to promise a girl the moon, but the law was not very protective of women, especially wives, and he was damned if he wouldn’t protect his wife’s sister’s future security, since he’d been unable to protect her virtue.
And then His Grace invited his aunts to the wedding! Which meant that Leonie was obliged to stay at Clevedon House, so as not to shock them.
But the Friday came at last, and they were married at Clevedon House rather quietly, with only what seemed like hundreds of Clevedon’s aunts and thousands of Fairfaxes, and Swanton and Gladys, and all the gentlemen who’d assisted at Vauxhall, because without them as witnesses, Lisburne might have rescued his cousin, but not Maison Noirot’s and the Milliners’ Society’s reputations.
But at last the celebrations were over, and he and Leonie retired to his villa, where the servants made a little party for them, and Polcaire bore up manfully under the prospect of a mistress of the house and the inevitable lady’s maids disturbing his perfectly ordered world.
Then it only remained for Lisburne to bed his bride, which he did at first with feverish impatience and at second at a more leisurely rate. Then, as they lay in bed, quieting, she said, “You never said about the last item.”
He puzzled over this for a moment. “What last item?”
“In the cons column,” she said.
He thought. Ah, yes. The last item had been Dreadful DeLucey, underlined twice.
Dreadful DeLucey.
He smiled.
“You said nothing,” she said.
“Neither did you,” he said. “I covered every other item, but you never asked what I meant to do about that.”
“I forgot,” she said. “I was so busy making sense of all the rest, and so taken up with it that I forgot. And I never thought of it again until today when we stood before the minister, and that seemed an awkward time to bring it up.”
“Yes, well, as to that.” He came up onto his elbow and looked down at her. “I’ve not been altogether honest with you.”
“Not honest? You mean pretending to be stupid when you’re not? Claiming you leave all your business to Uttridge? Leading me out into a dark garden, not to use me in wicked ways, but to propose matrimony? Those sorts of deceptive practices?”
“And you?” he said. “Claiming you’re not literary and know nothing of poetry—”
“I’ve already admitted I’m not to be trusted. But you’re not entirely what you seem, by any means. In fact, sometimes I’ve wondered if you’re a Noirot—because they’re the French edition of the Dreadful DeLuceys, you know. And you—”
“My maternal great-grandmother was Annette DeLucey,” he said. “When my great-grandfather married her, his father threatened to kill him so that he couldn’t inherit. But Annette won her father-in-law over, eventually.”
She sat up. “I knew it!”
“Of course you did. It takes a thief to catch a thief.”
“We’re not thieves, exactly,” she said. She settled back down, and looked up at him. “That is to say, not all of us. But we are rather underhanded and not overly scrupulous . . . no wonder I’ve always felt so comfortable with you!”
“Comfortable!” he said indignantly. “Like an old shoe?”
“Because you understand me,” she said. “And because you use your DeLucey powers for good, mainly, and for very nice naughtiness.”
“Very nice,” he said. “Is that the best you can do?”
She laughed and reached for him in the way that made his heart seem to curl in his chest. “My realm is numbers, sir. If you want me to rise to great literary heights, you must inspire me.”
“Like the muse,” he said as he lowered his face to hers.
“Yes, like the muse,” she said.
“This could take time,” he said. “But as long as you’re not too busy . . .”
Epilogue
But
by special licence or dispensation from the Archbishop of Canterbury, Marriages, especially of persons of quality, are frequently in their own houses, out of canonical hours, in the evening, and often solemnized by others in other churches than where one of the parties lives, and out of time of divine service, &c.
—The Law Dictionary, 1810
Bedford Square
Saturday 15 August
Madame Ecrivier, forewoman of Downes’s dressmaking shop, frowned at the short, round man who’d swaggered into the shop. “I do not comprehend your meaning,” she said.
“I beg you won’t fret yourself, my mamerzelle,” he said. “I only want to see your mistress, if it isn’t too much trouble.”
The man held an official-looking paper. In Madame Ecrivier’s experience, official papers were trouble. Especially when greasy men in red neckerchiefs and too-tight green coats delivered them.
Mrs. Downes paid two men, Farley and Payton, to deal with annoyances of all kinds. As her forewoman debated whether to summon them, another man entered the shop. He was tall and stooped, dressed in black.
“Here, now,” he said. “Otherwise engaged, is she?”
“Don’t know,” said the other man.
“See here, miss,” the tall man said. “We want to see your mistress. Important business. You take my card to her—” He held out a thick, dirty card, which Madame, seeing no alternative, collected with the tips of her fingers. “And tell her we can still settle matters agreeable to all parties.”
Madame hurried from the showroom. She ran into the workroom, and learned none of the seamstresses had seen Farley or Payton all day. She ran up the stairs to Mrs. Downes’s private quarters. The footman told her that the mistress had gone out two hours earlier. To dinner, he believed.
Madame, who’d lived in Paris during terrible times, could put two and two together—in this case men carrying official documents and an employer who’d gone out without informing her forewoman. She made her way to Mrs. Downes’s bedroom. No clothes. No cosmetics. No bandboxes, valises, or trunks.
