that he’d like to bed us both. At the same time.”
“He what?”
Her sister shrugged, seeming nonchalant despite the shocking nature of her revelation. “Heath is a man who craves variety—as many men do, sweet sister. If he surmises he’s claimed his father’s bride, he’ll play our game to see how long he can get away with it. What advantage would he have if he revealed our deception to his father?”
“All right then!” Camille rasped. “What about the masked ball next month at Lord Herrington’s? We can dress in identical costumes and—”
“Each return home with the other’s husband? A fine idea! I like it!” Colette clapped her hands gleefully.
“This gives us time to compare notes about our behaviors in the bedroom—”
“And our masks will hide any telltale facial expressions,” Colette added.
“And in the meantime we can also match our voices and gestures and—”
“You’re a genius, Camille. I knew you’d figure out a way, you naughty little thing!” Colette added in a low voice. Her gaze lingered below the waistline of Camille’s opera drawers. “I bet your puss is wet just from thinking about this! Isn’t it?”
Camille nipped her lip and stepped quickly into the dress she was trying on. She would not admit, even to her twin, that her drawers still felt clammy and clingy from watching Heath’s performance through the doorway. It didn’t help that the bedsprings above them, in Rubio Palladino’s apartment, groaned in a suggestive rhythm.
“See there! You want it again right now!” Colette crowed. “Why do I suspect you’ll come sneaking up to spy on us every morning?”
“Don’t be absurd! Daisy will catch on—” Camille stopped to ponder another aspect of this deception, while her sister smoothed the back of the completed gown and then came around in front of her to inspect its ruffled bodice. “And what benefit will you receive from this, Colette?” she asked quietly. “Rutledge is every bit the bore in the bedroom you’ve seen at the table each evening. And once his clothes come off, well…you’ll be missing Heath’s fit, muscled body, I assure you!”
Colette smirked. With practiced hands she tugged at each strip of lace, neck to bosom, to be sure it was stitched securely. “I’ll take my satisfaction from watching you scurry to get dressed and coifed before we come to the shop each morning, Camille. And I’ll eat my meals on time. And who knows?” she asked airily. “Perhaps I’ll catch up on my reading or even engage in intelligent conversation. I’ve done precious little to keep my mind alive these past three years. Why, if it weren’t for tallying the books here at the shop, my brain would’ve wasted away long ago!”
“Lucky for us our husbands don’t think we have brains! Or at least not enough to carry out a deception such as this one!”
They laughed together, a happy sound that rang in the rafters of the salon as they grasped hands. “It will be so much fun to—”
“And a good mornin’ to you, sir!” came Alice’s call from the sidewalk outside. “Might I help ya find somethin’?”
Camille covered a giggle as she looked at Colette. There was no mistaking the flirtation in their seamstress’s voice: it was a sure bet the fellow was dapper and handsome, for Alice didn’t waste her time on any other sort.
“Thank you, my dear, but I’d just stopped to admire your…tart.” The man’s rich, redolent voice camouflaged a suggestive undercurrent.
“Oh, this here’s no ordinary tart,” their seamstress replied coyly. “It’s so creamy and sweet and delicious. Such a shame you’ll not be havin’ a taste, as I can see how badly you’d like to!”
The twins stepped apart, composing their expressions as Alice entered. Sure enough, the young blonde had the flushed lips and mussed hair of a young hoyden who’d been quickly bedded while away on her morning errands. Alice bustled to the small table in Camille’s studio and set the fresh tart on it, filling the room with the rich scents of vanilla and cinnamon.
“Shall we celebrate our auspicious new beginnings over breakfast?” Colette proposed with a wave of her hand.
“I—why, yes! We shall!” Camille took small china plates and forks from her cabinet. “We’d like you to join us, Alice. You can pass along Rubio’s latest prophecies—”
“And don’t deny you were there!” Colette teased. “We heard the bedsprings!”
“And fill us in on that dapper man you addressed outside the shop.”
Alice dropped into the nearest chair at the table, looking from one twin to the other. “Whatever could ya mean? I merely passed the time o’ day with—”
“Dish it up!” Colette insisted. She was watching their shopgirl, eager to devour the thick wedge of custard tart Camille had cut for her, as well. “If it weren’t for your gossip, we’d know precious little about the goings-on in the neighborhood.”
“And aren’t we thankful that our clients want so many new gowns for the summer season, we’ll be swamped for weeks?” Camille chimed in. No sense in letting their seamstress believe they’d discussed anything but business in her absence. “At least you, Alice, have the freedom to sally about town flirting with whomever you choose! We married women must maintain our decorum, as befits the Bentley name and station.”
Alice smiled wryly before devouring a hefty forkful of tart. “Which explains why ya kept your maiden name for the shop, eh? Am I mistaken, or does LeChaud Soeurs translate to mean ‘sisters in heat’?”
Colette nearly choked on her custard. “Nice try, Alice. I believe we were quizzing you, about that man you spoke to outside.”
“And can we help it if our father’s name was Gaston LeChaud? He was our English mother’s choice—a legendary ladies’ man—not ours,” Camille added pointedly.
Alice rolled her large brown eyes over another mouthful of custard. “Well, then, I’ll confess to ya that our mystery man, he had the blackest o’ black hair, swept back from an exotic face—high cheekbones and chiseled lips like a statue’s. A wicked thin mustache, too. And ya heard how he flirted with me! What else is there to know?”
“And he was just passing by the shop? Staring at your tart?”
“Well, actually…I had the impression he was waitin’ for someone,” Alice mused. She folded a stray lock of straw-colored hair behind her ear as she saw him again in her mind’s eye. “Were it rainin’, I would’ve thought he’d stepped beneath the shop’s awnin’ to stay dry.”
“Well, if that’s the best gossip you’ve got, I must get to my drawings. And while I do that, please make the final alterations on the gowns for Lady Etheridge.” Camille put on her own gown again, vaguely unsettled by her shopgirl’s words. Yet what did it matter if a man had been standing in front of the shop? Gentlemen often stopped in to surprise their wives and mistresses, knowing a new gown from LeChaud Soeurs carried a certain cachet because its designer hailed from Paris.
When the front bell tinkled and the door shut with a firm whump, they all three jumped. Colette smoothed the front of her dress and fixed a businesslike
