Page 11
Another minute passed, and another.
Was that the sound of whispering behind the screen?
Suspicion wriggled in Steven’s gut. “I am going back there.”
Fletcher turned a surprised look his way. “There are ladies back there.”
“Patrons?”
“Well, no. They said the shop was at our disposal. The ladies who work here.”
His suspicion amplifying, Steven raised his voice to call, “I am coming back there.”
As Fletcher started across the room to join him, Steven pushed the curtain aside.
To the sight of the most unfortunate looking woman he had ever seen. She froze, her foot up on a stool as she worked to secure her stocking, then let out a startled squeak as she dropped the hem of her gown over her leg. She glared at Steven from beneath a dark brow that cut across her entire forehead, impossibly large. One of her eyes squinted closed, a large, hairy mole beneath it. From under her cap, morose black curls hung in frizzy, limp disarray. Her face was painted, both overly white and with too much rouge on her cheeks and lips, and the form beneath her gown appeared quite lumpy.
“Messieurs, whatever are you doing?” demanded a heavily French-accented voice.
Steven turned to find another capped, black-haired woman, equally lumpy, painted, and as unfortunate looking as the first. They could only be sisters. “Ah, we seek Madame Dentelle.”
“We are aware, monsieur, but our mother is out, and my sister was standing in for a lady, being fitted in her gown, and has only now redonned her own. You nearly saw her in her undress, monsieur.”
Heat raced up the back of Steven’s neck. “I, ah, apologize greatly, mademoiselle.”
“We will wait out front,” Fletcher added from behind Steven.
Wincing at his error, Steven pivoted.
The dull gleam of iron caught his gaze…shoved into a corner and draped by a thick, rough cloth, but definitely a leather tool pouch, tools protruding from the top. Large tools of a sort Steven had never known anyone to use for sewing. He strode over and reached for the edge of the cloth, hoping he wasn’t about to be further embarrassed.
“What do you do, monsieur?” one of the women demanded.
Steven yanked, revealing a hammer, chisels, glazing knife, and various other tools he suspected strongly were employed in the repair of windows. “What is this?”
The first of the two he’d seen, the one with the mole directly below her squinted eye, rushed over. “Oh, monsieur, those belong to my beau.” She drew her shoulders back, chin up, and added with pride, “He is a tradesman, monsieur. Very skilled.”
“Very skilled, is he?” Steven looked up at Fletcher, who had come closer. “Window repair, is it?”
“La, I know not, monsieur.” The woman giggled, making the hairs sticking out of her mole waggle at Steven like grasping fingers. “He does not care to speak of his work with me. I am for other pursuits.” She smacked her lips.
“Oh, Esme, what will you have these English think of us, saying such things about your beau,” the other sister cried.
“I do not mind what they think, so long as they know I am not a woman no English wants.” Esme tossed her curls, flinging more perfumed air Steven’s way.
Which Steven endeavored to ignore, his mind racing. “Your beau, does he ever look at your appointment books?”
The two sisters exchanged a look.
“Why would he, monsieur?”
“That would make our mère quite cross, monsieur.”
Steven could read the guilt on their faces, even through the haze of perfume and layers of paint.
“But you do let him, do you not?” Fletcher asked in a kind tone, apparently agreeing with Steven’s assessment.
“Oui, monsieur, she does.”
