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“Yes,” he said. “There is that.”
“Yes,” she said, and added quickly, “I’ve got Lady Clara, and I should like to keep her. The longer I stay here, the less her mother will love me. I’m not sure how long she can stand up to her mother.”
I’m not sure how much longer I can keep away from you.
He looked away and gave a little sigh.
She wanted to touch him. She wanted to lay the palm of her hand against his cheek. She wanted to step into his arms and lay her head on his chest and listen to his heart beat. She wanted to feel the warmth of his body and its strength. She wanted him inside her. She wanted him.
Last night she’d lain awake, imagining: a light footstep in the darkness ... the sound of the door closing ... the sound of his breath in and out ... the motion of the mattress as his weight settled onto it ... silk whispering as he shrugged off his dressing gown ... his voice so low ... his mouth against her ear ... and then his hands on her, drawing up her gown ... his hand between her legs ...
Stop it stop it stop it.
“I’ve spoken to my sisters, and they agree that we can’t stay,” she went on. “Leonie and I are going out to find a place to move to.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said.
“It’s crucial,” she said. “We must seize the moment. You don’t understand.”
“I understand perfectly,” he said. He pushed toward her across the desk the paper he’d been looking at. “Varley has found you a shop. Shall we go see it?”
One of Clevedon’s many properties, the building stood on St. James’s Street near the corner of Bennet Street. Clevedon told the dressmakers that the previous tenants (a husband and wife) had fallen into dire financial difficulties within months of opening the place. They’d absconded in the dead of night mere days ago, owing three months’ back rent. They must have borrowed or stolen a cart, because they’d taken away most of the shop’s contents and fixtures.
This was a complete lie.
The truth was, Varney had bribed them to move and sweetened the offer by allowing them to take with them everything that wasn’t nailed down.
“What a strange coincidence that this should fall vacant at precisely this time,” Miss Leonie said while Varley unlocked the door.
“It’s about time we had a strange coincidence in our favor,” Miss Sophia said.
While the others filed into the shop, Noirot lingered on the pavement. Clevedon saw her assessing gaze move up over the building, then down and about her to consider the neighborhood. It was certainly prestigious, even though some of the street’s establishments were less than savory. Alongside gentlemen’s clubs like White’s, Boodle’s, and Brooks’s and some of London’s most esteemed shops—Hoby the bootmaker, Lock’s the hatters, and Berry Brothers the wine merchants—stood gaming hells and brothels. These, however, tended to be tucked into narrow passages and courts.
“Well?” he said. “Do you approve?”
Her dark gaze shifted to his face then quickly away. “It was in my plans,” she said. “From Fleet Street to St. James’s. I knew it would happen, but not quite so soon.”
With a small, enigmatic smile, she went in. He followed her.
At their entrance, Miss Leonie looked up from her conversation with Varley. “I knew it was too good to be true,” she told Noirot. “It’s beyond our means. We haven’t enough business to cover the everyday expenses, let alone the outlay required to make this usable. We should need two lifetimes to repay his grace.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Clevedon began.
“Don’t be absurd,” Noirot said at the same time. “The address alone will increase our business prodigiously. We’ll have a proper space in which to work and display our work. We can hire another half dozen seamstresses, and increase our production accordingly. I have so many ideas, and not enough room and people to execute them.”
“My love, we need customers,” Miss Leonie said. “We should need to double our clientele—”
“Sophy, you must put something in the paper immediately,” Noirot cut in impatiently. “ ‘Mrs. Noirot begs leave to inform her friends and the public in general that she intends opening showrooms on Wednesday, the 6th instant at her new location, No. 56 St. James’s Street. With a collection of new and elegant millinery and dresses, which will be found to excel, in point of taste and elegance, collections found in any other house in London. Amongst which are sundry articles for ladies’ dress not to be found elsewhere.’ etc. etc.” She waved her hand. “You know what it must be. But more.”
“More, indeed,” Clevedon said. “You must invent a corset, if you haven’t already done so, and be sure to mention it.”
The three women turned to look at him.
“I’ve been reading the fashion periodicals,” he said. “There seems to be something irresistible about a new, unique style of corset.”
It was the subtlest change in expression. If he hadn’t spent so much time with them or paid such close attention to Noirot, he wouldn’t have recognized the slight movement of their eyes, a hint of rapid calculations going on inside their conniving skulls.
“He’s right,” Noirot said. “I’ll invent a corset. But for now, Sophy, for advertising purposes, you’ll invent a name for it. Something exotic. Remember Mrs. Bell’s ‘Circassian’ corset. But Italian. They want Italian corsets.”
