Beyond Innocence (3 page)

"Mademoiselle," she said in a tone of deep affront, "this must be remedied. No more floor-scrubbing
for you. You are too perfect to suffer a single flaw."

"I—" said
Florence
, but the Frenchwoman did not allow her to explain.

"Such beauty is a grave
responsabilite.
Not only to yourself, but to me.
You, mademoiselle, are going
to be a walking advertisement for the skills of Madame Victoire.
Better than the sandwich board man.
Mr. Worth will eat the crow when he hears of my triumph."

"Mr. Worth?"
Florence
said weakly. If the dressmaker meant who she thought,
Florence
could not, in good conscience, impose on Mr. Mowbry's generosity.

"Yes, yes," said Madame Victoire.
"Mr. Charles Worth, with whom I worked in
Paris
.
That is why you are here, is it not?"

Florence
dried her hands on her much-abused dress. "Actually, I am here on the recommendation of
Mr. Alastair Mowbry. But I'm afraid I cannot afford the services of an associate of Mr. Worth."

"Pah," said Madame Victoire. "Mr. Worth is no associate of me. And you are a friend of Monsieur Mowbry. We will come to the
arrangement."

Florence
's cheeks burned with the heat of the blood that rushed beneath them. She feared Madame Victoire had jumped to the wrong conclusion.

"Forgive me, madame," she said, "but I am not that sort of friend to Mr. Mowbry."

To
Florence
's amazement, Madame Victoire burst into peals of laughter. "But of course you are not,
little
chou
.
I know this because
I
am 'that sort of friend' to him. Granted, he is a gentleman
Of
great strength, but no man is strong enough to require more woman than Amalie Victoire."

This declaration so astonished
Florence
she could not frame a response, appropriate or otherwise. The best she could manage was to close her gaping mouth. Happily, the silence was broken by the entrance
of a noisy little boy. No more than three and dressed in a navy sailor suit, he thundered across the carpet
with what looked like a headless cat.
"Look, maman,"
he cried, seeming more excited than I by the
decapitation. "Kitty got him."
He stopped
in his tracks when he spotted his mother's guest.
Florence
's chest tightened, but once he had seen her, she knew what came next was inevitable. The
boy hesitated, staring up at her with round, bedazzled eyes, shyness and interest at war in his face.
Then, like a child unable to resist a stranger's toy, his shyness broke and he pounded across the room.
For a moment,
Florence
feared he would actually fling his arms around her legs. Fortunately, he settled for grabbing her hand and tugging it.

"Pretty!" he declared with three-year-old directness. "You
come
play!"

Florence
needed a surprising amount of strength to resist his pull.

"Goodness," said Madame Victoire. "He does not usually behave this way with strangers."

If it had been possible,
Florence
would have sunk through the floor. She patted the boy's hand in the
hope he would loosen his grip.

"Children ... like me," she explained.

"Children and cats," Lizzie qualified, as if this were cause for pride.

"Well," said Madame Victoire, her lips twitching with amusement, "perhaps Marie should lock Kitty in
the bedroom before you suffer more attacks."

"Yes,"
Florence
said faintly. "That would probably be wise."

Once Marie had left to secure the cat,
Florence
gathered herself sufficiently to remember Mr. Mowbry's note. Madame Victoire took longer to read it than she expected, the message being two pages instead of one. Whatever the solicitor had written inspired much
raising
of the Frenchwoman's brows. When Madame Victoire had finished, she tapped the missive against her chin. She seemed not to hear the
distant rumble of thunder outside her home.

"Hm," she said in precisely the tone Mr. Mowbry had used.

Her "hm" troubled
Florence
even more than the solicitor's.

He had put something in that letter which he meant to keep from
Florence
, and for a deeper reason than not wanting to raise her hopes. Oh, how she hated trusting her fate to anyone else's hands! Life with her father, dear as he was, had taught her to rely on no one but herself. How could it be otherwise when one's sole guardian was likelier to forget one's name than remember to pay a bill? Short of giving up her dream, however, she did not see what choice she had. She had to trust the lawyer and his friend. She could only pray his hidden agenda was not a danger to her own.

* * *

Edward Burbrooke, earl
of Greystowe was spattered all over with mud. Too tired to ring the bell, he pushed into his
Belgravia
town house and collapsed on the marble bench inside the door. For a
moment, all he could do was stare at his ruined boots.

He straightened when he heard footsteps: Grimby, no doubt, coming to see who'd entered the hall.

"My lord!" he said, obviously shocked by his master's appearance. "You're wet."

Edward snorted at this statement of the obvious and handed the butler his soggy top hat. He should have turned back when it started raining, but the horse had been eager and the park for once uncrowded and Edward's temper too black to miss his daily ride.

This morning there'd been a limerick in the
Illustrated Times:

There was a young viscount of G
--------
Who couldn't keep off of his
knees.

The footman was there, with his hands in his hair
,
And his a
--------
hanging out in the breeze.

Everyone who knew Freddie would recognize the scandal to
whom
it referred. Edward wished he
could strangle the supposed wit
who'd
sent it in, not to mention the editor who'd printed it. That being impractical, he'd vented his frustration on the turf in
Hyde Park
.

The plop of water from his hat told Edward the butler was still there.

"Sir?" said Grimby. "Shall I call Mr. Lewis to pull your
bootsr

"Yes," said Edward, "and have him draw a hot bath."

The knocker sounded just as Grimby disappeared into the servants' hall. Edward heaved to his feet
with a weary laugh. Hell, he thought, I can open a blasted door.

The individual behind it, caught digging in his pocket for a card, was so surprised he could only gawk.

"Mr. Mowbry?" Edward said, recognizing the broad, bearded figure of his
London
solicitor. The man
had been his father's lawyer: then a member of a larger firm, now striking out on his own. He was, so
far as Edward knew, utterly reliable. But Edward could not imagine why he was calling on him at home.

"My lord," said Mowbry, recovering his composure. "Forgive me for arriving unannounced, but an opportunity has arisen of which I thought you'd want to be apprised."

"An investment opportunity?"

If a man could squirm without moving, Mowbry did so.
"No, your lordship.
The opportunity regards Viscount Burbrooke."

A chill joined the water that had run down Edward's neck. After this morning's nastiness in the
Times,
he did not want to think what Mowbry's business might entail. He pushed the door ajar. "Come inside. We'll talk in the library." He was halfway there when he noticed he was tracking mud across the cabbage roses of the Brussels carpet. "Blast," he muttered, and stood where he was while Lewis, his valet, rushed towards him in consternation.

This was not how he'd intended to spend his day.

* * *

"A vicar's daughter?"
Edward said.

"Yes," Mowbry confirmed, sipping his tea with quiet relish. He and Edward sat by the fire Lewis had insisted on building, any differences in rank leveled by their mutual enjoyment of the warmth.

Edward propped his slippers on the fender.
"Fresh from the country?"

"As fresh as can be, but gently bred and exceedingly good-natured.
What novel writers like to call a womanly
Little
soul."

Edward balanced his saucer on his thigh.
"How womanly?"

Mowbry's white-flecked whiskers lifted in a smile. "Imagine, my lord, if a dewy English rose were to wear Delilah's form. Miss Fairleigh is poor, it is true, but more than enough of a beauty to be considered
a catch. Were young Lord Burbrooke to display a partiality to her, no one would think it amiss. And, sir, if you'll forgive me for speaking frankly, I doubt she'd understand the gossip surrounding your brother even if she heard it,"

Edward's brows rose. Such innocence was hard to conceive. More to the point, if she were that innocent, would she be able to bring a skittish stallion like Freddie to stud? Still— he rubbed one finger across his lips—the matter was worth investigating. A girl in Miss Fairleigh's position would have few options beyond marriage. Seamstressing or working as a governess could not match the security of wedded life. Certainly, she could do worse than a kind young man like Freddie, who neither drank nor gambled nor cursed in die presence of ladies. As clever Mr. Mowbry had divined, Edward was determined that
Freddie
marry
. In fairness, however, he could not wish Freddie to be the sole beneficiary of the match.

Of course, if Mowbry had exaggerated Florence Fairleigh's charms, the entire matter might be moot.
He came to a decision.

"I shall wish to look her over," he said.
"Without her knowledge."

The solicitor set his cup and saucer on the tea table. "If you would be amenable to a short ride, my lord,
I believe I could arrange for you to see her today."

Edward narrowed his eyes. The lawyer seemed to have been expecting the request. His expression was mild, and suspiciously complacent. Edward could not be certain, but he thought he'd just been managed.

* * *

If Edward had
known what he was going to see, he never would have called for his carriage. The
oddities began when Mowbry directed him to the servants' entrance of the house. A tiny housemaid,
quiet as a nun, glided before him through the basement and up the back stairs, which were so narrow
his elbows brushed the walls at every turn. On the second floor, they passed a large, well-lighted room where four women bent over sewing machines. Their feet worked busily on the treadles while their
hands fed lengths of cloth beneath the needles. Three more machines stood empty. All were black and painted with yellow roses.

This house, he concluded, must be a dressmaker's establishment.

"Almost there," whispered his diminutive guide. Her accent was French and very pretty, but Edward
had no time to consider why she was whispering because she soon led him into a small room. The presence of a secretaire and settee suggested it was sometimes used as a sitting room, but for now the space was cramped with bolts of cloth.