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He wasn’t unkind to her. He hadn’t said a cross word to her since Tuesday. But he was remote and unhappy, and she’d heard he was losing shocking amounts at cards. Even allowing for the usual gossipy exaggerations, he was playing more recklessly than was his custom.
Then, on Saturday, at a ball, Lady Gorrell, pretending not to see Clara standing well within hearing range, described in lurid detail the contents of the letter she’d received that day from her sister-in-law in Paris.
Monday
Two sharp knocks at the closed shop door startled the Noirot sisters. It was scarcely nine o’clock in the morning, and while they and their seamstresses usually toiled from nine to nine, the shop itself usually did not open until late in the forenoon. There wasn’t much point in opening the showroom early when few of their customers rose before noon.
The question was whether they’d have any more customers. If they didn’t stop their traitor soon, they wouldn’t have a shop to open.
While Leonie had her suspicions, so far they hadn’t any proof, and various ruses had failed. Early this morning they’d set a trap. If this one worked, they’d discover the culprit by tomorrow. Meanwhile, they could only wait, and seethe, and go about their business in the usual way.
At present that meant Marcelline, Sophy, and Leonie were arranging shawls and lengths of fabric upon the counters in a seemingly careless array meant to entice.
Early hour or not, business was business, and one must put a cheerful face on it.
Leonie went to the door and opened it.
Lady Clara Fairfax, red-faced, sailed over the threshold, a square-jawed maid following close behind. Ignoring Leonie’s greeting, her ladyship made straight for Marcelline. Gliding toward her with a smooth greeting and a smoother curtsey, Marcelline asked in what way she might serve her ladyship.
“You might serve me by telling me the truth,” Lady Clara said. “On Saturday night, I overheard a most astonishing tale—one I could hardly credit—”
She broke off, belatedly remembering the servant at hand. “Davis, wait in the carriage,” she said.
Davis sent a glower round the shop, alighting on each sister in turn, then went out, slamming the door behind her.
Lady Clara took a breath, let it out, and began again. “Mrs. Noirot, I happened to overhear an outrageous story regarding a gentleman of my acquaintance—a gentleman who accompanied me to this shop not a week ago.”
Marcelline did not utter a single one of the sarcastic responses, flippant rejoinders, interruptions, distractions, or violent oaths that came to mind. She was a professional. Her expression became one of polite interest.
“Before you leap to any conclusions,” Lady Clara went on, “let me assure you that I have not come here in a jealous spirit. That would be absurd, in his case. I’m not blind, and I know— That is, I have brothers, and they think they’re more discreet than they are. Oh.” She took out a handkerchief, and dabbed her eyes. “Oh.”
This was an alarming turn of events. Anger, outrage—perfectly usual and understandable.
Tears— Oh, Gemini!
“My dear—my lady.” Marcelline took her by the elbow and led her to a chair. “Sophy, bring her ladyship a glass of wine.”
“No,” Lady Clara said. “I do not need wine.”
“Brandy, then,” said Marcelline.
“Well, perhaps,” said Lady Clara.
Sophy went out.
Lady Clara gave a little sob, then stiffened, visibly composing herself. “I don’t cry. I never cry. I’m not like that. But he’s the dearest friend I have.” Her blue gaze lifted to Marcelline. “I can’t let you hurt him,” she said.
Noirots were born unencumbered with consciences. Even if she’d owned one, Marcelline had not done anything so very wrong as to cause it to trouble her.
She told herself she was untroubled, but she couldn’t make herself believe it. After all, this was an agreeable young lady, who had not treated Marcelline or her sisters other than politely—which was far from the case with most of their customers. Furthermore, it was clear she truly loved Clevedon, and it was very true that Marcelline felt sorry for her on this count, though she knew that was completely absurd. Lady Clara was the daughter of a marquess. She was on the brink of marrying a duke, and looking forward to an income of at least one hundred thousand pounds a year, perhaps double that. Marcelline’s shop, along with their upstairs living quarters, would easily fit into his London townhouse’s servant quarters, and still leave room for his army of servants.
Meanwhile, the Noirots were on the brink of being destroyed by an incompetent competitor.
While Marcelline tried to harden her heart, Leonie—the least sentimental of three unsentimental siblings—said, “Pray, put your mind at rest, my lady. None of us wish to hurt any gentleman except in the pocketbook. In that regard, naturally, we should like to do as much damage as possible.”
Lady Clara looked over at her. “That is not what I heard.”
“I daresay not,” said Leonie. “But I don’t think that anyone in your circle quite understands the degree to which we are mercenary.”
