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“Kidding,” he said. “I think you’ll find Madame Marie Rambert far superior to the usual dressmaker.”

Octavia turned back to the marchioness. “Will you come with us, dear marchioness, to keep me fashionable? We shall make a party, shall we?”

An odd change passed over the marchioness’s face from mild amusement to an unexpected frown of displeasure at what Harriet could not be sure. Once again Wynford had arranged matters for a purpose she could not fathom.

* * * *

Octavia and Madame Rambert held differing opinions on what constituted an appropriate gown for a maiden of twenty years making her first appearance at a major ball. The elegant little shop on one of the newer squares was designed so that gentlemen might wait in comfort on gilt chairs in a green damasked outer room while Madame Rambert dressed their ladies in an inner sanctum behind rose velvet curtains. Madame Rambert might have more experience dressing highfliers than debutantes, but she rejected out of hand Octavia’s first three choices—a lemon-colored Turkish satin, a straw-colored gros de Naples, and citrus-yellow velvet.

For the first time in Harriet’s encounters with her, the marchioness appeared ill at ease. There was no fellow feeling between the two French women but rather a palpable dislike. As Madame Rambert offered her choices for Octavia to consider, Octavia appealed to the marchioness for an opinion, but she never spoke. She simply shrugged or raised one dark brow.

They had reached something of an impasse with Octavia standing on a dais in her shift and pantaloons and Madame Rambert, with the help of one of her assistants, holding up a bolt of fine white tulle draped with Haitian blue satin ribbon and Persian rose trim. Harriet thought the girl looked extraordinarily pretty.

Octavia stared at her reflection with evident dismay, blinking away tears. “Why must debutantes always wear white? There must be something else,” she wailed.

She turned to the marchioness. “You would not be so conventional, would you, dear madam?”

The marchioness lifted one black brow in a wry arch. “A bit of frippe does not disguise stale bread.”

The little assistant gasped, and Madame Rambert spun toward the marchioness, whipping the blue satin ribbon off Octavia’s shoulders. “Frippe,” she muttered, striding through the rose velvet curtains. “Stale bread.”

With Madame Rambert out of the room, the marchioness spoke openly. “Be bold, my dear, and you will attract a bold lover, one who will act before Christmas.”

Octavia turned to Harriet. “Oh dear, Miss Swanley. I do not mean to offend Madame Rambert, but I must be distinctive. My guide says so. Miss Throckmorton is always in gold, and everyone notices her.”

“Do you have your book with you?” Harriet asked. “What does it say?”

Octavia jumped down from the dais, pulled the book from her reticule, flipped the pages, and pointed to a marked passage. For a moment, Harriet thought the girl would not release the precious book, but with sudden resolution she thrust it into Harriet’s hands. Carefully, Harriet took it up and began to read, leafing through the short chapters, surprised at the good sense in many of the passages. The book was an obvious antidote to the dashing Frenchwoman’s influence, if only Harriet could prevent Octavia from misreading its advice. She wanted to ask how Octavia had come by the book, but the question could wait until they were alone.

She looked up from a page on the distinction in one’s attire and smiled. “Very sound advice here. Do you have a favorite color, Octavia? Poppy, lilac, primrose?”

Octavia shook her head.

“Hmm,” Harriet said. “But you don’t want to repeat Miss Throckmorton or to be mistaken for her.”

“Never.” The wounded look was back in the girl’s eyes. “I just want to look different.”

“Let’s ask Madame if she has something different.” Harriet hoped Madame Rambert had been listening behind the curtain. She understood Octavia’s desire to be transformed, to be other than one’s old self, the hurt self that had felt the sting of rejection.

Madame Rambert returned, stiff with offended dignity and briskly businesslike. “We try again. You want gold. You shall have gold, but not like King Midas.” She produced a bolt of pale, poppy-colored India muslin dotted with sprigs of gold and draped the fabric over Octavia’s shoulder, layering over it a deeper velvet poppy for a trim. Her assistant held a gold braid against the velvet.

Octavia stared entranced. “What do you think?” she asked the marchioness. “Will your Captain Fanshaw like it?”

The marchioness laughed, but she did not meet Harriet’s eye. “All the gentlemen will notice you in such a gown, dear cousin.”

Harriet had no knowledge of a Captain Fanshaw in the Luxboroughs’ circle, and the idea that the marchioness had already suggested a husband candidate of her choosing to Octavia made Harriet think more of Wynford’s distrust of his French cousin.

“What do you know of Captain Fanshaw, Miss Davenham?” she asked.

Octavia continued to admire her reflection in the glass. “I know he is handsome, and I hear that he is brave, and amiable, and will be at Lady Hardwicke’s ball. Apparently, he has no fortune, but as I have sufficient, his lack is no matter.” She gave a little toss of her head, and at Madame Rambert’s signal, stepped down from the dais.

Again, the marchioness avoided Harriet’s gaze. Harriet had to give the Frenchwoman credit for cleverly steering Octavia toward the unknown captain. It was just the right touch to caution the girl against a man of no fortune, allowing Octavia’s natural rebellion to see the romance in that. He might be an entirely respectable gentleman, but somehow Harriet doubted that anyone invited to the notorious Lady Hardwicke’s ball would be quite the thing.

Octavia accepted the proposed gown, and the shop assistants helped her into her clothes while Harriet stepped through the velvet curtains to the outer room to arrange when and where the gown was to be delivered and who would pay for it.

She started at finding Wynford in one of the gilt chairs. He wore a grim expression and a startling robin’s-egg blue waistcoat. He raised a finger to his lips for silence. Harriet nodded, wondering how much he had already heard.

Madame Rambert bustled out from behind the curtains. She bowed to Wynford, but her mind was clearly on the marchioness. Harriet sensed that she was controlling her tongue with difficulty. She remained tight-lipped until Octavia and the marchioness emerged, all smiles, and greeted Wynford, and he escorted them out of the shop.