one day at her salon, and the story goes that she gave him a bloody nose for his impudence—which could argue virtue—or the appearance of it.’
Marcus was fascinated. ‘She’s so tiny, how in the world did she tap his claret?’
‘With a poker, apparently. Poor fool wasn’t expecting it, it’s said. She led him on for a bit and then, when he was least expecting it, planted him a facer as good as the Game Chicken could have done—except that he don’t use a poker! I’d look out if I were you, Angmering, if you’ve any notion of furthering your own acquaintance with her. Don’t want your looks ruined for nothing!’
‘Well, thanks for the warning, Gronow. Always best to know what might by lying in wait for you, eh?’
‘All’s fair in love and war, they say.’
‘And no real notion of who might be running her? If anyone? Could the money she spent to set up her business have been some sort of a final pay-off for her, do you think?’
‘No idea, old fellow, none at all. If I hear anything I’ll be sure to let you know.’
A mystery woman indeed then, Madame Félice. And strong-minded, too. One might have guessed at her possessing a fiery temper with hair that colour—and such a determined little chin: he particularly admired the chin.
Marcus rode back to where his sister sat, talking to Sharnbrook—and there was a fellow worth knowing. He had to commend Sophia for her common-sense and good judgement in bringing him to heel.
Now, if he could only persuade Madame—if she were free that was—that he, Marcus, would be as good a bet as any to set up house with, then he could be as happy as Sophia without the shackles of marriage to trouble him. All that remained necessary for him was to find some means of promoting his friendship with her, and that was going to be difficult.
In the normal course of events there were a thousand ways in which he could contrive to meet a woman. If she were in society there was the park, or the ballrooms of mutual friends, or he could make a polite afternoon call. Likewise if she were in the demi-monde there were any number of recognised haunts where she might be found.
But Madame Félice was different. She belonged to neither one or the other of these two groups. She had her own legitimate business, and possibly also a circle of friends—but these would certainly not be the friends of Marcus, Lord Angmering, a member of high society, of the ton. Not that he associated much with the ton himself.
Come to think of it, he had become, except for his brief visits to London, a bit of a solitary. So he would have to devise some ploy, some trick, to further his acquaintance with Madame—which would itself serve to add a little spice to a life which he freely acknowledged had lately been rather dull.
So the afternoon found him sauntering along Bond Street trying to look innocent, although the good Lord alone could explain why he should, seeing that he was bent on seducing a woman who, for all he knew, was truly innocent. Except that in the world which Marcus inhabited, women in occupations like Madame’s were rarely so. Gronow had hesitated to pass any judgement on her which was, in itself, remarkable, but that proved nothing.
In his musings he had finally reached Madame’s salon with its little bow-window, a large hat on a cream-coloured shawl chastely displayed inside it—an indication of Madame’s character? He sincerely hoped not.
Now to go in—but what to say? He could scarcely ask her to make him a pretty little toilette. On the other hand, what about a shirt? Would it be beyond Madame’s talents to design a shirt for him? He could always claim that his present tailor was not sufficiently up to scratch for a man who hoped to make a good show at his sister’s wedding.
Yes, that was it.
It wasn’t a very convincing notion but it would have to do.
Marcus pushed the shop door open and walked in.
Louise had had a trying day. Her forewoman had contracted a light fever, and had consequently been unable to come in to work: her best cutter had thrown a fit of the tantrums on being asked to create something which she did not care for, so that Louise had been compelled to do it herself to prove that the design was not only feasible, but beautiful. This had finally brought obedience from the cutter, but having been proved wrong she had sulked for the rest of the day.
Now, to cap everything, the assistant who manned the shop counter had come in all of a fluster.
‘Madame, there’s a man outside who says he wants you to make him a shirt. I told him that you only design for ladies, but he won’t take no for an answer, won’t go away, and demands to speak to you.’
‘Does he, indeed? Does this man possess a name?’
‘Oh, I’m sure he does, but he hasn’t given it.’
Louise heaved a great sigh. Whatever next would turn up to ruin her day?
‘Very well, Charlotte. Remain here while I go and dispose of him.’
A man wanting her to make him a shirt! Whoever had heard of such a thing—and whoever could he be?
She walked determinedly into the shop—to stare at Marcus.
As seemed always to be the case, the mere sight of him was sufficient to deprive her of all common-sense.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said foolishly. And then, to recover herself a little, ‘I might have guessed.’
He smiled at her and, yes, he really did look rather splendid today—even more so than when she had first met him. Not that he was in the least bit conventionally handsome, his face was too strong for that—and his answer to her was almost what she would have expected from him.
‘Might you, indeed? Am I so eccentric?’ he asked her, his expression comically quizzical.
‘To want me to make you a shirt, yes. Surely you must have an excellent tailor.’
‘Quite so, but I wished to further my acquaintance with you, and this was the only way I could think of doing so, seeing that we are unlikely to meet socially, and I haven’t the slightest idea where you live—other than it might be over your salon. As a matter of interest could you possibly make me—or create, I believe is the ladies’ word—a shirt which would past muster in the best houses?’
Louise began to laugh. His expression was so charmingly impudent when he came out with this piece of flim-flam that it quite undid her determination to be severe with him. She would let him down as lightly as possible.
‘Now I know that you are funning. I suppose that I might be able to do what you have just suggested—but are you really informing me that this whole light-minded conversation with me and my assistant was solely for the purpose of getting to know me better? And, if so, to what end, m’lord? I cannot believe it to be an honest one, given the difference in our rank.’
Now this was plain speaking, was it not? And he should surely not have expected anything else from her, not with hair that colour, and with her determined little chin. He would match it with plain speaking of his own.
‘You cannot know, madame, what an extraordinary effect you have had on me. Or perhaps you can, because I find it difficult to believe that you have never attracted a man’s instant admiration before.’
