no one there will be wearing our dresses.”
“Good,” Marcelline said. “You could use a proper night’s sleep.”
What Sophy could use was some big hands on her body, leading her into temptation.
One of these days, she promised herself. But they wouldn’t be Longmore’s hands. Nothing but horrible consequences there.
She told herself she had enough difficult matters to deal with, and she ought to deal with the ones that weren’t completely impossible.
All she needed to know about Longmore was whether he’d bring the boy back or force her to take drastic measures.
She cheered herself up by devising the measures.
More than two hours after making off with Fenwick, Longmore returned to the rear entrance of the dressmakers’ shop. He told the maidservant Mary who answered the door to tell Sophy Noirot that he’d brought back her “young ruffian.”
The maid led them into a room on the ground floor. It was more Spartan in appearance than the parlor upstairs, being reserved, the numerous cupboards and drawers told him, for more commercial uses.
Though this wasn’t a room customers would enter, it was as scrupulously clean as every other part of the shop he’d seen.
Fenwick kept looking the floor as though he’d never seen one before.
He’d probably never seen a clean one before.
They had only a few minutes to wonder what was in the cupboards and drawers before Sophy appeared.
She’d completely shed her Lady Gladys persona.
Fenwick didn’t recognize her at all. For a long time he stood uncharacteristically silent, staring at her.
“Yes, it’s the same lady,” Longmore said impatiently. “As I mentioned, she has a hundred names, and becomes a hundred different people. And this,” he told her, “is your dear Fenwick.”
“What did you do to him?” she said.
“We removed some layers of dirt,” he said.
“It looks as though you removed some layers of skin as well,” she said.
Fenwick found his tongue. “His worship made me have a baff,” he said. “I told him I had one last week. I fink they rubbed my face off.”
“Bath,” Longmore said. “Not baff. Think, not fink. You put your tongue between your teeth, as I showed you.”
“Think,” Fenwick said with exaggerated care.
“My head got tired, translating from whatever language it is he speaks,” Longmore told her.
“I had pie,” Fenwick said. “A meat pie big as my head.” He gestured with his hands. “We went to some shop and he found me these fings.”
Longmore looked at him.
The boy put his tongue between his teeth. “Things.”
“We called on a dealer in readymade clothing near the baths,” Longmore said. “I know you mean to stitch him into wildly gorgeous livery, but it made no sense to have him scrubbed clean, only to put him back into those—what he was wearing.”
She looked up at him. Her eyes wore a softer expression than usual.
Was that approval? Good gad.
He’d inched forward another step.
“Fenwick and I talked the matter over at length,” he said. “We concluded that he was likely to be happier in your service than anywhere else I could think to place him. He’ll have a roof over his head, regular meals, unusually fine clothing, and a place to sleep where he’s unlikely to be robbed or assaulted or dragged off to jail or the workhouse.”
“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” she said.
“Perhaps not, but you would have used more adjectives,” Longmore said. “In any event, I couldn’t ascertain his real name or where he came from or who he belongs to, if anybody. It’s more than possible he truly doesn’t know.”
London’s streets teemed with abandoned children who weren’t sure what parents were, let alone whether they had any.
“I daresay you can ferret out his deep, dark secrets,” Longmore went on.
Her sisters entered before she could answer.
Fenwick stared at them.
Longmore couldn’t blame him. One Noirot woman was stunning enough, with all the lace and the great ballooning sleeves and skirts, and ruffles and ribbons. Three of them, in all the colors of the rainbow, all rustling as they moved, made for a hallucinatory experience.
“This is Fenwick,” Sophy said.
All three women regarded the boy with the same expression of polite interest.
Longmore wondered what was going on in their heads. No, the truth was, he only wondered what was going on in her head.
Fenwick said, “I had a bath.”
“With soap,” Longmore said. “Well, do you mean to keep him or not?”
The Duchess of Clevedon smiled. “I think he’ll do very well.”
Miss Leonie said, in her usual brisk way, “Yes, come along, Fenwick. Our maidservant Mary will take charge of you for now. We’re rather busy today. But we’ll talk later, after closing time.” She put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and steered him through the interior door.
“How very good of you to have him cleaned and re-upholstered,” said the duchess, still smiling.
“I thought it would be easier to simply take him to the baths and let them do a thorough job with him,” he said. “But now he’s yours, and I shan’t keep you any longer from your customers.”
He bowed, and was turning to leave when he heard the noise. The room wasn’t far from the back door, which someone seemed to be trying to batter down.
He remembered Dowdy’s hired ruffians.
He remembered Fenwick talking about his friends. Young thieves usually traveled in packs led by an older criminal.
He blocked Sophy from going out ahead of him, strode quickly down the short passage, and flung open the door.
His brother Valentine stood with fist upraised, about to thump on the door again.
“What the devil?” said Longmore. “Does everybody know about this door?”
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Valentine said. “I tried your house, then White’s, then I went to Clevedon House—but they hadn’t seen you and he wasn’t in and nobody knew where he’d gone. Then I thought maybe
