Silk Is For Seduction (15 page)

But Clara assured her she simply wanted to look at it, and in a minute or less, three heads were bent over the dress, and a conversation proceeded, in murmurs.

“Thank you,” Noirot said in an undertone.

“You hardly needed me to bring her,” he said, in the same low tone. He was hot, stupidly hot. “You’ll have half the beau monde on your doorstep by tomorrow, thanks to your stunning piece of puffery in the
Morning Spectacle
.”

She looked up at him, eyebrows raised. “I didn’t know you read the
Spectacle
.”

“Saunders does,” he said. “He brought it to me with my coffee.”

“In any event, while I’m happy to accommodate half the beau monde, your bride-to-be is the prize I covet.”

“I promise nothing,” he said. “I’ve only made the introduction—much as I did at the countess’s ball. As you see, I hold no grudges, though you’ve used me abominably.”

“I told you I was using you, practically from the beginning,” she said. “I told you as soon as I was sure I had your full attention.”

She was incorrigible. She was the most hard-hearted, calculating, aggravating . . .

And he was a dog, because he wanted her still, and there was Clara, the innocent, who’d been worried—
worried!—
because he hadn’t written to her for a week.

He had meant to get it over with, to put his life in order, and make his offer of marriage in the park, while it was yet quiet, before the ton descended. But they’d hardly left Warford House when she’d said, “What on earth happened to you, Clevedon? A week without a letter? I thought you’d broken your arm—for when do you
not
write?”

And so he’d told her, shaving very near the truth, and instead of driving to Hyde Park, he’d taken her here.

“I thought it best to tell Clara the truth, though not every everlasting detail,” he said. “I told her that you’d waylaid me at the opera, determined to use me to further your own mercenary ends, that you were the most provoking woman who ever lived, otherwise I should not have taken leave of my senses and dared you to attend the ball with me. And the rest was more or less as you put it in your clever little piece in the
Morning Spectacle
.”

It wasn’t the whole truth, but as much as he could tell without hurting Clara. He’d told it in the way he believed would entertain her, the way of his letters. In any event, what he’d told her was no more or less than the truth from Noirot’s point of view: All she’d ever wanted him for was to get Clara into her shop.

She’d been right, too, drat her: Clara needed her. He had only to look at Noirot and the blonde relative and even the troublesome customer to realize that Clara was ill dressed. He’d be hard put to explain the difference in words—women’s clothes were merely decoration to him—yet he could see that, compared to these women, she looked like a provincial.

He wished he had not been able to see it. The difference made him angry, as though someone had deliberately tried to make a fool of Clara. But it was natural to be angry, he told himself. He’d been protective of her from the moment he’d met her, when she was a little girl, probably younger than Noirot’s daughter.

Her daughter!

“I leave the rest to you,” he said. “I don’t doubt you’ll manage matters with your usual aplomb.”

More audibly he said, “Clara, my dear girl, I did not bring you to shop. You know I loathe shopping with women above all things. At any rate, it’s long past time I took you home. Come away from the fascinating dress. Make Longmore bring you again another day, if you want Mrs. Noirot to dress you.” Then, for the troublesome customer’s benefit as well as to ease his conscience, he added, “I see no reason you should not, as you won’t find a better dressmaker in London—or Paris, for that matter—but do shop without me, pray.”

Chapter Eight

Mrs. Thomas takes this opportunity of observing, that she hopes the inconvenience she has always sustained by the imposition of Milliners coming to her Rooms, under assumed characters, to take her Patterns, will not be repeated.

La Belle Assemblée,

or Bell’s Court and Fashionable Magazine,

Advertisements for November 1807

C
levedon had already handed Clara into the carriage. Resisting the impulse to look back at the shop—as though he’d gain anything by that—he was about to join her, when he felt a tug at the hem of his coat. He whipped round, ready to collar a pickpocket.

At first he saw nothing. Then he looked down.

A pair of enormous blue eyes looked up at him. “Good afternoon, your grace,” said Erroll.

A nursemaid, out of breath, hurried to the carriage. “Miss, you ought not to—oh, do come away.” She took the child’s hand, muttering apologies, and tried to lead her away.

A hard, stubborn look came over Erroll’s face, and she wrenched her hand from the maid’s. “I only wished to say good day to his grace,” she said. “It would be rude to pass by without saying a word.”

“Which you was not passing by, only broke away from me and ran halfway down the street, as you know—”

“Good afternoon, Erroll,” said Clevedon.

She had turned to regard the nursemaid with a baleful eye. At his greeting, though, the thunderclouds vanished, and she beamed upon him a sunshine so pure and clear that, for a moment, he couldn’t bear it.

All those years ago . . . his little sister, Alice, shedding sunshine . . .

“It is a fine day, is it not?” she said. “A fine day to drive in an open carriage. If I had a carriage like that, I should drive in Hyde Park on such a day.”

He wrenched himself back to the present.

She was beautifully dressed, as one might expect. A little straw bonnet, adorned with heaps of ribbons and lace, set off prettily a precise miniature of one of those coat-like dresses women wore. What did they call them? The same as a man’s type of frock coat, wasn’t it?
Redingotes,
that was the term. Erroll’s was pink. A long row of black frog fastenings down the front gave it a vaguely—and on her, comically—military look.

“Yes, miss,” said the maid, “but the gentleman was getting ready to leave, in case you didn’t notice, which he has a lady with him as well.”

“I noticed, Millie,” said Erroll. “I’m not blind. But I can’t speak to the lady, because we haven’t been introduced. Don’t you know
anything
?”

Millie’s face went scarlet. “That’s quite enough, Miss Lu— Miss Er— Miss Noirot. I never heard such impertinence, and I’m sure the lady and the gentleman never did, neither. Come along now. Your mama will be vexed with you for pestering customers.” She tugged at the little gloved hand. Erroll’s countenance changed again: eyes narrowing, mouth tightening into a stubborn line. She refused to budge, and the maid seemed less than eager to try to make her budge.

Clevedon couldn’t blame the servant. While he did not approve of children disobeying those in charge of them, he was not entirely sure what one ought to do in such cases. In any event, it was not his place to interfere.

“Oh, Clevedon, don’t be obtuse,” Clara said. “It’s Miss Noirot—the dressmaker’s daughter, I take it?”

The maid nodded, biting her lip.

“Yes, it is,” he said, and marveled all over again that she was Noirot’s daughter, that Noirot was a mother. Where the devil was the father? How could he abandon . . . but men did that all the time. They carelessly brought children into the world and carelessly treated them. It was none of his concern . . . and perhaps, after all, the poor fellow was dead.

“Well, then, Mrs. Noirot knows you,” Clara said. “She won’t mind your taking her daughter up for a moment, and letting her hold the reins.”

She turned to Millie, who was sending panicked looks at the shop door. “You needn’t be anxious,” Clara said. “Miss Noirot will be perfectly safe. His grace used to let me hold the reins when I was a child. He will not let the carriage run away with her.”

For an instant, the old nightmare returned: the lurid scene his imagination had painted in boyhood, of a carriage overturning into a ditch, his mother and sister screaming, then the dreadful silence.

What was wrong with him? Old ghosts. So stupid.

Clara had always been safe with him. His father’s recklessness had taught him to be careful.

Even so, this child . . .

Erroll’s murderous expression instantly melted into childish eagerness and her eyes widened another degree. “May I, truly, your grace?” she said. “May I hold the reins?”

“Lady Clara says you may, and I dare not contradict her,” he said.

He wasn’t sure what possessed Clara at present. Still, he knew she was fond of children in general and had some notion how to manage them. In her letters she’d described numerous amusing incidents with young cousins.

He was not used to small children—not anymore, at any rate—and this was no ordinary child. But what choice had he now? His best groom, Ford, held the horses and he could be counted on to control the mettlesome pair.

In any event, how was Clevedon to deny the child the treat, when she was trembling with excitement?

He lifted her up—the small, quivering body weighed a shocking nothing—and set her next to Clara. Then he climbed up into his seat, took the child onto his lap, took up the reins, and showed her how to hold them to go straight. She watched and listened avidly. Soon her trembling abated, and before long she had the reins threaded between her little gloved fingers. She looked up, smiling proudly at him, and he smiled back. He couldn’t help it.

“How quick and clever you are,” Clara said. “You got the hang of it in no time at all. I thought you would.”

Erroll turned from him to send her beatific smile upward to Clara—and melt her ladyship’s heart, as was plain enough to see. Not that this was any difficult accomplishment. Clara was soft-hearted, and Erroll, it had become abundantly clear, was a calculating creature. Like her mother.

“How does one make them go?” she said.

He didn’t have time to decide what to answer.

Noirot burst from the shop. “Oh, the wretched child,” she said. “Has she wheedled you into taking her up? She’ll persuade you to drive her to Brighton, if you don’t look out. Come down, Erroll. His grace and her ladyship have business elsewhere.” She put up her hands. Torn between reluctance and relief, Clevedon yielded the girl to her mother.

He ought to feel relieved—he was no longer used to children and found them tedious, in fact. But she . . . ah, well, she was a cunning little minx.

He noticed that Erroll did not fight with her mother as she’d done with the maid. Docile or not, though, Noirot didn’t trust her. She didn’t set her down but carried her back into the shop.

He watched them go, Erroll waving goodbye to him over her mother’s shoulder.

He waved back, smiling, yet he was watching the sway of Noirot’s hips as she moved along, apparently unhampered by her daughter’s weight. To him, the weight was nothing, but Noirot was not the great, hulking fellow he was, nor was she built in the Junoesque mold, like Clara . . . whose presence he belatedly recalled.

He turned away hastily and gathered the reins. A moment later, they were on their way.

C
lara had watched those swaying hips, too, and she’d watched him watching them.

She’d felt the atmosphere change when she and Clevedon entered the shop. She’d felt him tense, in the way of a hound scenting quarry. When the dressmaker had approached, the tension between them was palpable.

“A fetching little girl,” she said. That was the only thing she could safely say. The child was adorable. Clevedon’s? But no, she’d discerned no resemblance at all, and the Angier looks were distinctive.

“I dare not come again,” he said. “Next time Miss Noirot will wish to drive. And I’ll have you to thank. I shouldn’t have taken her up—I’m sure her mother wasn’t pleased. But she could hardly rebuke me. Shopkeepers must consider their livelihood before their own feelings.”

“Mrs. Noirot didn’t seem angry. She seemed amused, rather.”

“That’s her way. It’s her business to make herself pleasing. I told you how she had the ladies at the ball eating out of her hand. But never mind. It doesn’t signify. I have no reason to come again, in any event. You’ll persuade Longmore or one of your other brothers to bring you. Or come on your own, with Davis.”

Davis was Clara’s bulldog of a maid.

“Or with Mama,” she said.

“What a nonsensical thing to say!” he said. “Your mother would never approve of this shop. It’s too fashionable, and she seems determined that you should wear the most—” He broke off, his expression taut.

“Determined I should wear the most what?” Clara said.

“Nothing,” he said. “I slept ill last night, and I’ve spent too long in a dressmaker’s shop. Women’s chatter has addled my wits. What were you three conspiring about, by the way?”

“Clevedon.”

“You three were bent over the green dress you admired, talking in whispers,” he said.

She glanced up at his face. He was looking straight ahead, his handsome face set in hard lines.

What a state he was in!—a contained fury that made the air about him seem to thrum even while he appeared outwardly calm.

Clevedon wasn’t like this—not the Clevedon she knew, the man she’d recognized when he’d entered the drawing room and smiled in his old, fond way. This was a stranger.

She looked away, to gaze blankly at the passing scene while she tried to form an answer. She hardly knew what the other two women had been saying about the green dress. She’d been trying to hear what he was saying to Mrs. Noirot. She’d been trying to watch them without appearing to do so.

“I didn’t quite understand,” she said. “It was a beautiful dress, I thought, but they seemed to be discussing how to remake it.” She tried desperately to remember what exactly they’d said, but she had only half-listened, and now her mind was whirling.

She was not naïve. She knew Clevedon had affairs. Longmore did, too. But she’d never seen her brother in a state anything like Clevedon’s when Mrs. Noirot approached them. She’d been trying to make sense of that, when he snapped about Mama and . . . what Clara wore?

“I think . . .” She thought frantically. “I received the impression that something was wrong with the dress, but not wrong with the dress.”

“Clara, that makes no sense.”

Really, he could be as irritating as any of her brothers. She said goodbye to her patience. “If it’s so important to you, you’d better ask Mrs. Noirot,” she said. “What did you mean about Mama and what I wear?”

“Damnation,” he said.

“You told me I ought to shop there, but you said I must not take Mama.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I should not have said that.”

“Oh, come, Clevedon. When did you ever mince words with me? What makes you so missish all of a sudden?”

“Missish?”

“So delicate. One of the things I have always liked about you is your refusing to treat me like an imbecile female. In your letters, you speak your mind. Or so I thought. Well, perhaps you don’t tell me everything.”

“Good God, certainly not. And I shall not tell you where to have your dresses made. It’s of no concern to me.”

“You may be sure that I shall take care not to ask you to accompany me to a dressmaker ever again,” she said. “It puts you in the vilest temper.”

Some hours later

“T
he little wretch!” Marcelline said, when they were closing up the shop that evening. “I knew she wouldn’t forget his fine carriage or his fine self.”

“My dear, she can’t help it,” said Sophy. “It’s in her blood. She can spot a mark at fifty paces.”

“He didn’t seem to mind,” said Leonie. She’d come out into the showroom in time to see Clevedon and Lady Clara leave.

All three sisters had had time to observe Lucie/Erroll’s antics through the shop windows. It was clear in an instant that Millie had lost control of her, but it had taken Marcelline precious minutes to extract herself from Lady Renfrew and go out to collect her wayward child.

Sitting on his lap, the schemer, and holding the ribbons! She’d be expecting to drive her own carriage next.

“Of course he didn’t mind,” Marcelline said. “She was at her winsome best, and even the Duke of Clevedon can’t help but succumb.” Meanwhile, she, more cynical and calculating than he could ever be, had not been able to steel her heart against the sweet, indulgent smile he bestowed upon her daughter.

“She made sure to shed some winsomeness on Lady Clara, I noticed,” said Sophy.

“Yes,” Marcelline said.