been adopted from fashions current in Bath among the grandmother set. The analogy is fitting, since so many drink the waters for their health, and this shade of white makes you look bilious. Let me show you the shade of white you ought to wear. Sophy, fetch a hand mirror. Leonie, the soft white organdy.”
“I did not come here to buy a dress,” Lady Clara said.
“You came because you want to bring the gentleman back from wherever it is he’s gone to,” said Marcelline. “We’re going to show you how to do it.”
We have seen some robes of white crape prepared for the change of mourning; the corsages drooped, and retained in the centre of the bosom, and at the sides by knots of black satin riband, with a jet lozenge in the centre of each.
La Belle Assemblèe, fashions for the month of April 1835
Warford House Tuesday afternoon
Her ladyship is at home, your grace, but she is engaged,” Timms the butler said.
“Engaged?” Clevedon repeated. “Isn’t this Tuesday?”
The Warfords were not at home to visitors on Tuesdays. That was why he’d called today rather than yesterday or tomorrow. On Tuesday he need not make his way through the scrum of Clara’s beaux, the infatuated puppies who swarmed about her at social events. Whenever he approached, he was disagreeably aware of casting a pall over the activities, whatever they were: fellows composing odes to her eyes and such, he supposed. Squabbling over who had which dance. And competing, no doubt, in point of fashion—which was amusing, since Clara didn’t care about fashion. She could not tell one lapel from another, let alone evaluate the quality of a waistcoat.
Still, he might have mistaken the day. He had drunk more than agreed with him last night, and his head still ached. Perhaps it would be better to come back on the correct day. Maybe the damned sun wouldn’t be shining so brightly then.
After confirming that this was indeed Tuesday, Timms apologetically led Clevedon to the small drawing room to wait while he sent a footman to inform Lady Clara of his grace’s arrival.
Unaccustomed to be made to wait when he called anywhere, least of all at Warford House, Clevedon grew restive.
It was exceedingly odd, Clara being engaged on a Tuesday afternoon. He was sure he’d told her—on Saturday, wasn’t it?—he’d take her for a drive today.
He needed to settle this marriage business today. Already a week had passed since he’d decided to put his life in order and make his formal offer. After that, they’d put all in train for a wedding at the earliest opportunity.
The trip to the dressmaker’s had thrown him off balance. Seeing Noirot again…and the child…
He’d been unable to collect his thoughts, let alone remember what he’d meant to say to Clara. The time hadn’t felt…right. He and Clara needed to get used to each other again, he’d told himself. Hadn’t Longmore said so?
But now it seemed they’d have to get used to each other after they were married. Now a formal—and short—engagement seemed the best way to put an end to speculation and gossip.
He’d heard rumors of a mad tale that had traveled from Paris, and would, he knew, reach Warford House before long. Last week he’d confided in Clara—to a point. He knew she was too sensible a girl to fret over idle gossip. In her letters, hadn’t she ridiculed one after another piece of scandal making the London rounds? Her mother, though, was another matter altogether.
When Lady Warford heard the rumors, she’d throw one of her fits. She’d say nothing to Clevedon directly. Instead, she’d harass her family, carrying on about the shame of Clara’s being ignored in favor of a dressmaker, a milliner, a common shopkeeper! She’d grow more and more hysterical until one of the men took Clevedon to task.
In Paris, only last month, he’d borne one awkward visit from Longmore—instigated, no doubt, by Lady Warford. Clevedon doubted his friend was any more eager than he to repeat the experience.
He had nothing to feel anxious or guilty about, he told himself. He’d done nothing improper since he’d returned to London. Before that didn’t count.
Dreams, however torrid, were nothing to feel in the least uneasy about. Fantasies were nothing more than that. Men had fantasies regarding women, all sorts of women, suitable and unsuitable. They had them all the time, waking and sleeping.
As to the discontent: That would stop after he was married.
But his mind, not shy in the least, shied away from contemplating his wedding night.
Where the devil was the footman? Why hadn’t Timms gone himself? What on earth was Clara about? With whom was she engaged on a Tuesday? Had he not told her he would come? He was sure he had…but his mind strayed from time to time—and how could he recollect now, with this vile headache?
He realized he was pacing. He stopped, and told himself he was out of sorts. This was not a suitable humor for a casual call, let alone a momentous one.
She had something else to do. He must have forgotten to tell her about driving today. Or she’d forgotten.
He’d see her tomorrow night at Almack’s. When he did, he’d make an appointment to speak to her.
No, he ought to speak to her father first. That was the proper way to go about it. He’d return another day, when Lord Warford was at home. On Tuesdays his lordship customarily visited one of his charities.
Clevedon left the drawing room. Having run tame in this house since boyhood, he knew every inch of it. Best to slip out quietly, before he ran into other family members.
He strode to the antechamber nearby, where he knew he’d find his hat, gloves, and walking stick.
He entered, and his heart began to beat very hard.
It happened before he was fully conscious of what had set it going.
A bonnet. An absurd conglomeration of ribbons and flowers and feathers, it sat on the table where the servants customarily put visitors’ hats and such.
He stared at it for a moment, then started for the door. But there was something…in the air.
He paused at the door. Then he turned back and walked to the bonnet. He picked it up, and brought it close to his face. The scent, the familiar, tormenting scent swam about him, as light and as inescapable as a gossamer net: the faint scent of jasmine, mingled with the scent of her hair and her skin.
Noirot.
He set the bonnet down.
He stepped out into the corridor.
A maid passed, carrying a heap of clothing.
He started in the direction she’d come from.
He
