here with the dress. Your shop—I read that it burnt to the ground.”
“It did, your ladyship, but I promised the dress.”
“Dress or not, I cannot believe this creature has the effrontery to show her face—”
“You made my dress?” Lady Clara said. “You made it already?”
Marcelline nodded. She set down the parcel on a low table, untied the strings, unwrapped the muslin, and drew the dress out from the tissue paper she and her sisters had carefully tucked among its folds.
She heard three sharp intakes of breath.
“Oh, my goodness,” said Lady Clara. “Oh, my goodness.”
“This is outrageous,” Lady Warford said, though with less assurance than before. “Oh, Clara, how can you bear to take anything from this creature’s hands?”
“I’ve nothing else to wear,” Lady Clara said.
“Nothing else! Nothing else!”
But Lady Clara ignored her mother, and signaled her maid to help her out of her dressing gown. Lady Warford sank onto a chair and glowered over the proceedings as Marcelline and the maid dressed Lady Clara.
Then Lady Clara moved to study herself in the horse-dressing glass.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, my goodness.”
The maid stood, her fist to her mouth.
Lady Warford stared.
Marcelline’s creation comprised a white crape robe over a white satin under-dress. The neckline, cut very low, displayed Lady Clara’s smooth shoulders and bosom to great advantage, and the soft white enhanced the translucency of her complexion. Marcelline had kept the embellishments simple and spare, to better showcase the magnificent cut of the dress and the perfection of the drapery, particularly the graceful folds of the bodice. A few judiciously placed papillon bows adorned the very short, very full sleeves and trimmed the edges of the robe where it opened over the satin under-dress. The robe was delicately embroidered in gold, silver, and black sprigs. The style was not French, but it was just dashing enough to be not completely English.
Most important, though, the dress became the wearer. No, it was more than merely becoming. It made Lady Clara’s beauty almost unbearable.
Lady Clara could see that.
Her maid could see that.
Even her mother could see that.
The dressing room’s silence was profound.
Marcelline let them stare while she studied her handiwork. Thanks to her fanaticism about measurements, the fit was nearly perfect. She wouldn’t have to take the hem up or down. The neckline needed a little work in order to lie perfectly smoothly across the back. The puffs Davis had provided weren’t large enough to support the sleeves properly. But these and a few other very minor matters were easily corrected. Marcelline quickly set about making the adjustments.
When the technical work was done, she guided Davis in adding the finishing touches: a silver and gold wreath set just so to frame the plaited knot of her ladyship’s hair, heavy gold earrings, a gauze scarf. White silk slippers and white kid gloves embroidered in silver and gold silk finished the ensemble.
All of this took nearly an hour, while Lady Warford grew increasingly impatient, muttering about the time. She gave Marcelline scarcely a minute to admire her masterpiece. She’d made them late for dinner, Lady War-ford complained, and swept Lady Clara out of the dressing room without another word.
No thanks, certainly.
Davis admitted gruffly that her mistress looked very well, indeed. Then she ushered Marcelline down the backstairs like a dirty secret, and back to the tradesman’s entrance.
As she stepped out into the night, Marcelline told herself she was very, very happy.
She’d done what had to be done. Lady Clara had never looked so beautiful in all her life, and she knew it and her mother knew it. Everyone at Almack’s would see that. Clevedon, too. He would fall in love with Lady Clara all over again.
And in the midst of her triumph, Marcelline felt a stab, sharp and deep.
She knew what it was. She was a fine liar, but lying to herself wasn’t a useful skill.
The truth was, she wanted to be Lady Clara, or someone like her: one of his kind. She wanted to be the one he fell in love with, and once would be enough.
Never mind, she told herself. Her daughter was alive. Her sisters were alive. They’d start fresh—and after this night, the ton would be beating a path to their door.
Clevedon had hardly arrived at Almack’s before he was calculating how long it would be before he could decently escape. He wouldn’t stay as long as he ought to—at least in Lady Warford’s opinion—but it wasn’t his job to please Lady Warford. He’d come solely on Clara’s account, and he doubted Clara expected him to live in her pocket.
He’d arrived as late as he decently could. This didn’t improve matters, because Clara had little time for him, there wasn’t another interesting female in the place this night, and he was tired of playing cards with the same people. She’d saved only one dance for him. She hadn’t been sure he’d turn up at all, she said, and the other gentlemen were so pressing.
They certainly did press about her, a greater throng of them than usual. That, he supposed, was as she deserved. She looked very well in the dress Noirot and her women had slaved over. More important, he saw on the London ladies’ faces the same expressions he’d noticed on their Parisian counterparts. He wished Noirot could see those faces.
The time dragged on until at last he could claim his one dance. As he led her out, he told Clara she was the most beautiful girl in the place.
“The dress makes more of a difference than I could have guessed,” she said. “I couldn’t believe Madame Noirot was able to complete it so quickly, after all that had happened.”
“She was determined,” he said.
She glanced up at him and swiftly away and said, “Your dressmaker is a proud creature, I think.”
Proud. Obstinate. Passionate.
“She’s your dressmaker, my dear, not mine,” he said.
“Everyone says she’s yours. She lives in your house, with her family. Have you adopted her?”
“I didn’t know what else to do with them on short notice,” he said.
There was a pause in the conversation as they began to dance. Then Clara said, “I read once, that if one saves someone’s life, the person saved belongs to the rescuer.”
“I beg you won’t start that ridiculous hero talk, too,” he said. “It isn’t as though a man has a choice. If your mother had been trapped in that burning shop, I should have hardly stood by, looking on. Longmore would have done exactly what I did, no matter what he says.”
“Oh, he had
