And Then Comes Marriage (12 page)

To her discomfort, she realized that Cabot had noticed her sensual tendency and, if the glint in his beautiful eyes meant anything, had drawn some conclusion from it.

He nodded toward the missive. “If it please you, madam, my master has requested that I abide for your reply.”

“Oh! Of course!” Miranda opened the envelope then and there, for she was already perishing from curiosity. Merely the way Cabot spoke of his master, with the most peculiar hint of pride of possession in his tone—

“Oh!” The stationery was emblazoned at the top with a looping elegant
L
—a symbol every woman in London knew as well as she knew her own initials! “But—I don’t understand—” She peered at the beautiful script. “Lementeur wishes to see
me
?”

Stunned, she looked up at Cabot in shock. Really, so very attractive.…

“But I have never even met him! Why ever should he wish to see me?” She drew back. “You cannot be in earnest. Is this some sort of jest?”

Cabot blinked at her, clearly set back by her doubt. Indeed, most women would likely shop first and ask questions later.

“Mrs. Talbot, I assure you that this is nothing of the sort. A mutual friend, who prefers not to be named, has asked Lementeur to assist you as you move past your mourning period. Many ladies find it difficult to keep up with the latest modes whilst in bereavement. It was merely meant as a kindness, I pledge to you.”

“Oh.” Miranda nodded, ashamed now of her suspicion. Mr. Worthington knew many people in London, did he not? What a lovely gesture. She had no doubt that it was Poll who had directed the famous Lementeur to pay her such attentions. “That is very kind.”

She did most desperately need new gowns. The very plain one she wore at that moment had been ordered for her by her sister-in-law after Gideon’s burial, of course without the slightest consultation with Miranda.

Abruptly, Miranda wanted to burn it, to burn them all. How presumptuous of Constance, to use Miranda’s money to purchase unwanted gowns for her! If she wished gowns, she would buy them herself! Furthermore, she could afford to treat herself to Lementeur, if she wished!

She lifted her chin. “I shall be there, just as Mr. Lementeur has requested, this afternoon at three o’clock.”

Cabot narrowed his eyes slightly and his lips twitched. A smile? Surely not. No more would a marble statue of a Greek god smile. He bowed yet again.

“Madam, it will be my genuine pleasure to see you then.”

Miranda saw him out, then closed the door and leaned against it, running her fingertips over the invitation once more.

Lementeur.

Oh, Mr. Worthington, you are a darling!

Then she looked down at her gown, one of a nauseating array of bland-to-blander half mourning dresses that were all she owned, other than her black widow’s weeds. Was there perhaps one of them in which she could manage to appear before the great arbiter of style himself?

Best to start at once!

She was halfway up the stairs, skirts in hand, desperately cataloging her lackluster wardrobe in her mind, when Twigg called for her.

“Madam, what should I say to the gentleman in the parlor?”

Miranda frowned. “What gentleman? Oh! Oh, dear! I completely forgot about Mr. Seymour!”

Again.

Chapter Ten

“Thank you for interrupting your very busy schedule to meet with me, Mrs. Talbot.”

Miranda examined that gracious statement with wary care. This odd little man seemed to know a great deal about her.

The great Lementeur smiled gently at her. “It must be difficult to return to Society after such a long mourning absence.”

“Ah. Well, yes, I suppose.” Horrified, Miranda realized she was blushing, just thinking about her “busy” schedule!

Identical shoulders, identical hands, identical parts all about—

She turned slightly away, pretending to examine the mad collage of drawings on the wall of the surprisingly tiny cluttered office. The showroom in the front of the shop was spacious and elegant. This wee chamber felt like a closet.

Then her vision focused properly on the sketches papering the wall floor-to-ceiling and she realized that she stood in a privileged place where genius was born. In wonder, she let her fingertips trail over a drawing, tracing the curving high waistline of a screamingly modish riding habit.

“A design I recently created for the Duke of York’s … er … dear friend,” Lementeur commented from the vicinity of her elbow. “Shall I have one made up for you as well? In a fiery russet, perhaps. I shall change the collar for you, I think. It is a blessing to have such a long, elegant neck, is it not?”

Miranda, realizing that she was being a tiny bit rude, ignoring her host for his drawings, snatched her hand away and turned back to face the great dressmaker. “You are too kind, Mr. Lementeur.”

His face crinkled into a gleeful smile and he chuckled. “Darling creature, Lementeur isn’t my name. It is my calling!
Le Menteur.
”

Miranda’s French was little better than schoolroom level. She frowned. “The … Liar?”

He bowed, sweeping a ridiculously low, pointed-toe pose that should have looked silly but didn’t, instead calling to mind a hat feathered in plumes swept to his side. “At your service, my dear.” He straightened and spread his hands to include the hundreds of sketches. “Now, how shall we lie today? You may choose anything you like.”

Her eyes roamed around the room filled with beauty and style and something else—a depth of understanding of women, of their dreams, of what they loved and needed.

For her?

Abruptly, Miranda found herself blinking back tears. Horrified, she pressed her gloved fingertips to her leaking eyes. “I’m so sorry—I don’t know what’s come over me—”

Warm fingers tugged gently at her hands and she found herself gazing into sympathetic eyes.

“My sweet, you need a cup of tea.” He shoved her gently into a deep soft chair. “Sit.”

Suddenly Miranda was perishing for a cup of tea.

And a friend.

An hour later, she was laughing delightedly at the exquisite double entendres which Button—as he insisted she address him—dropped as easily as flower petals into every sentence.

Several new sketches had emerged from their consultation, though Miranda knew she could not afford them all.

“Nonsense, my darling. I charge in indirect proportion to my affection for my clients—and I am fast becoming fond of you. Each Season brings me a new muse. You, I think, shall be one of my finest creations.”

“I?” The offer took Miranda’s breath away. “Button, that is … so alarming!”

Her frank assessment of his generosity surprised a new bout of hilarity from them both. Miranda felt drunk—intoxicated by silk and velvet and tea and friendship.

At last, she knew she could take up no more of his valuable time. As she made her good-byes, however, he stopped her with a warm touch to her wrist and a suddenly serious expression.

“My dear, this is very important. In one month, I shall unveil you at the Marquis of Wyndham’s Midsummer Ball.”

Miranda’s jaw dropped.

Button dismissed her astonishment with a wave of his hand. “The marchioness is a dear friend and shall not mind extending an invitation.” He pressed her hand intently. “Here is the point. Under no circumstances shall you discuss our arrangement with anyone.”

Miranda nodded, a little perplexed. “Of course, if that is what you wish.”

Button narrowed his eyes at her. “No one is to know, pet. Not even your …
dearest friends.
”

A tiny chill went through Miranda. Yes, this odd, endearing little man definitely knew all too much about her.

*   *   *

After placing Mrs. Talbot into Cabot’s care to be returned to her carriage, Button strolled meditatively back into his office with his hands behind his back. “Most illuminating.”

He bent to move aside an armful of silks in various lemony hues draping off a viewing stand. “Indeed, I see what you mean,” he said thoughtfully into the space beneath. “She doesn’t quite match one’s idea of an evil seductress.”

“I know.” Attie crawled out of the glorious silken tent and stood, pushing her tangled hair out of her face. “But she wants both of them! Why would she do that? Why would she make them fight over her if she isn’t an evil seductress?”

Button frowned, considering the problem. “Perhaps she likes them both and cannot choose between? They are very much alike, after all.”

Attie scowled. “Everyone says that. It isn’t true, you know. They’re not very much alike at all.”

“How so?”

“Well,” Attie shrugged. “Cas is … well, he’s Cas! And Poll is Poll! That’s as much as saying Ellie and I are just alike, just because we’re sisters!”

“I suppose you are right. Looking alike is one thing. Feeling alike—no one can feel precisely like anyone else, can they?” Button returned to his chair and thoughtfully stirred his tea.

This was Attie’s favorite part—Button’s thinking pose! She scrambled into the opposite chair so recently vacated by Mrs. Talbot and waited.

Presently the ringing of the spoon slowed, then stopped. Button absently took a sip of his tea. Then he grimaced. “It is cold.”

Attie hopped up, ready for action. “I’ll call Cabot, shall I?”

“No need for that, Miss Atalanta.” Cabot backed into the office with another full tea tray, this time graced with iced gingerbread and chocolates.

“Ah!” Button brightened. “Cabot, you’re a wonder!”

Attie watched as Cabot served the tea. Did Button ever notice that Cabot took special care with everything he gave his master? The handle of the teacup was spun to just the right angle for Button to grasp. The two chocolates precisely and beautifully placed across a mint leaf on the saucer he gave Button were the orange and cherry ones, for people who knew Button well knew that he most preferred fruity sweets.

Did Button ever notice the way Cabot looked at him when he thought Button couldn’t see? It was a little bit like Button was a chocolate on a mint leaf.

Attie took the teacup handed her by Cabot, then hid her smile behind the first sip. It was awfully sweet—Cabot, not the tea—and Attie didn’t understand why it was that Button never seemed to notice.

Button took a sip of fresh, steaming tea and smacked his lips. “Excellent! Whatever would I do without you, Cabot?”

“Melt into a multicolored puddle of mismanaged creativity, without a doubt.” Cabot’s tone was completely without expression.

“Most definitely.” Button smiled sweetly. “I cannot think without my tea.”

What wasn’t so sweet was the blank desolation that crossed Cabot’s perfectly symmetrical features when he turned away to take away the cold tea.

Which was why Attie could never bear to give Cabot any bit of bother.

Poor Cabot.

When Cabot had left the room, Button turned to Attie. “I believe your plan will work rather beautifully—this time. I applaud your personal growth and maturity in not resorting to firearms.”

Attie smirked. “That was last year. I was just a child then.”

*   *   *

Nearly a week has passed since that day in the alley. My two suitors—I should say three, for it would not be right to forget Mr. Seymour, even in my diary, except that I do always tend to forget Mr. Seymour—attend me daily. They have worked out some sort of schedule between them, for they never overlap in their calls.

Poor Mr. Seymour, however, does not appear to be in on the plan. A Worthington here, a Worthington there … they seem to pop up out of the woodwork just when he has a monologue in full steam, casting his opinion upon the waters of politics and tittle-tattle.

I swear I never saw such a man for gossip.

I find him by turns endearing and boring. Although I do not wish to be unkind, I cannot seem to attend to the words he is saying. I am all the while thinking of my identical Mr. Worthingtons.

Mr. Poll Worthington, my “old” friend, he of the clever books and easy charm, is my constant companion of the mornings. During hours that most of Society is asleep, he and I sit just a bit too close together on my settee, laughing and talking.

And that is all we do. Since my terribly embarrassing error, I have determined that I shall not kiss any gentleman who does not love me exclusively, and I him.

It is hard not to kiss Mr. Poll Worthington.

Mr. Cas Worthington, on the other hand, calls upon me in the afternoons. He chooses no regular time, instead seeming to prefer to stop in at whatever time suits him the best. He insists on calling me Mira, which is a bit disconcerting, as it constantly puts me in mind of my—of the past.

I am, of course, quite cool to him and his shameless teasing, especially when poor Mr. Seymour is present. I fear Mr. Cas Worthington is not kind to poor Mr. Seymour, although it is true that Mr. Seymour often brings it upon himself.…

*   *   *

Castor Worthington strolled into Miranda’s drawing room as if he owned it. “Hello, Mira, my pet. Heigh-ho, Seymour.”