be too sure of that,” said Mama. “They’re supposed to know about the wind and that sort of thing. Those steam packets take too many risks, and as I have told Warford any number of times…” She went to repeat one of Papa’s harangues about the steam trade.
When she paused for breath, Clevedon said, “Indeed, I’m glad to be on English ground again, and to breathe English air. I drove here today because I woke up wishing to take a turn round Hyde Park in an open vehicle. If you would be so kind as to give your permission, perhaps I might persuade Clara to join me.”
Mama threw Clara a triumphant glance.
Clara’s heart began to pound.
He can’t be meaning to propose. Not yet.
But why should he not? And why should she be so alarmed? They’d always been meant to marry, had they not?
“I should like it above all things,” Clara said.
“An original design!” Lady Renfrew cried. She pushed the ball gown that lay on the counter at Marcelline. “You assured me it was an original design, your own creation. Then how, pray, did Lady Thornhurst come by precisely the same dress? And now what am I to do? You know I meant to wear the dress to Mrs. Sharpe’s soirée this very night. You cannot expect me to wear it now. Lady Thornhurst will attend—and she’ll recognize it. Everyone will recognize it! I’ll be mortified. And I know there isn’t time to make up another dress. I’ll have to wear the rose, which everyone has seen. But that isn’t the point. The point is, you assured me—”
A clatter behind her made her break off. She turned an indignant look in that direction. But the irritation vanished in an instant, and wonder took its place. “Good heavens! Is that it?”
Clever, clever Sophy. She’d stepped away from the temper tantrum to the other side of the shop. There stood a mannequin, wearing the gown Marcelline had worn to the comtesse’s ball. Sophy had knocked over a nearby footstool accidentally on purpose.
“I beg your pardon?” Marcelline said innocently.
She wasn’t sure what exactly Sophy had done to or with Tom Foxe. Perhaps it was better not to know. What mattered was, the tale—of Mrs. Noirot’s gown and her dancing with the Duke of Clevedon at the most exclusive ball of the Paris Season—had appeared in today’s Morning Spectacle.
Lady Renfrew was a reader, apparently, because she moved away from the counter to the famous poussière gown. When she’d first entered the shop, His Majesty might have been there, telling his favorite sailor jokes, and she wouldn’t have noticed. She’d been in too hysterical a state to heed anything but her own grievances and Marcelline, the ostensible cause of them.
“Is this the gown you wore to the ball in Paris, Mrs. Noirot?” her ladyship said.
Marcelline admitted that it was.
Lady Renfrew stared at it.
Marcelline and Sophy exchanged looks. They knew what the lady was thinking. The highest sticklers of the Fashion Capital of the World had admired this gown. Its designer stood, not in Paris, but a few feet away, behind the counter.
They let Lady Renfrew study it. She had a great deal of money, and she had taste—which was not the case with all of their customers. She was socially ambitious, which they understood perfectly well, for they were, too.
After Marcelline reckoned her ladyship’s meditations upon the wondrous dress had calmed her sufficiently, she said, “Was it precisely like?”
Lady Renfrew turned back to her, still looking slightly dazed. “I beg your pardon.”
“Was the gown Lady Thornhurst wore precisely like this one?” Marcelline ran a loving hand over the beautiful green gown lying rejected upon the counter.
Lady Renfrew returned to the counter. She considered the dress. “Not precisely. Now I think of it, her gown was not so—not so…” She trailed off, gesturing helplessly.
“If your ladyship would pardon me for speaking plainly, I should suggest that the other was not so well made,” Marcelline said. “What you saw was a mere imitation, of inferior construction. I’m sorry to say this is not the first case that has been brought to our attention.”
“There’s shocking skullduggery at work,” Sophy said. “We haven’t yet got to the bottom of it—but that is not your ladyship’s problem. You must have a magnificent gown for the ball tonight—and it must not be in any way like the other lady’s.”
“I shall remake this dress,” Marcelline said. “I shall remake it myself, in private. When I’m done, no one will see the smallest resemblance to the thing Lady Thornhurst wore. I call it a thing, your ladyship, because it would shame any proper modiste to call those abominations dresses.”
The shop bell tinkled.
Neither Marcelline nor Sophy so much as glanced toward the door. Lady Renfrew was their best customer to date. They could not afford to lose her. All their world—their very beings—revolved around her. Or so it must appear.
“I or one of my sisters will personally deliver it to you, at not later than seven o’clock this evening, at which time we shall make any final adjustments you require,” Marcelline continued. “The dress will be perfect.”
“Absolutely perfect,” said Sophy.
Lady Renfrew was not listening. Not being a shopkeeper in danger of losing her most profitable and prestigious customer, she did look over her shoulder at the door. And she froze.
“Well, then, here we are,” said a familiar, deep voice. “You may see for yourself, my dear. And there is the dress itself, by gad.”
And the Duke of Clevedon laughed.
His heart was beating in an embarrassingly erratic way.
He’d opened the door, and tried to keep his attention on Clara, but it was no use. He was talking to her, treating this visit to the shop like the joke he’d made out the entire Noirot Episode to be. Meanwhile, though, he couldn’t stop his gaze from sweeping the shop, dismissing everything until he found what he was looking for.
Noirot stood behind the counter, dealing with an apparently troublesome customer, and she did not at first look toward the door. Neither did the blonde standing nearby, who appeared to be a relative.
He quickly looked away from her, past the gaping customer, and spotted the mannequin wearing the dress. How could he forget that infernal dress? Then he had to laugh, because Noirot had done exactly as she’d promised. She’d taken charge of the gossip before it could take hold, and turned it to her own account.
Saunders had brought him a copy of today’s Morning Spectacle. There it was, impossible to miss on the front page: Noirot’s version of events in all its stunning audacity—and not very unlike the mocking advertisement she’d composed when he’d driven her home from the ball. He remembered the tone of her voice when she’d come to the last bit: Mrs. Noirot alone can claim the distinction of having danced with a duke.
Mrs. Noirot’s dark, silken hair was, as usual, slightly askew and contriving to appear dashing and elegant rather than untidy under a flimsy, fluttery bit of lace apparently
