Queen of Diamonds (10 page)

The light of welcome had died in her eyes and the sparkle had turned dull and cold when she saw the velvet box he handed her. “I understand perfectly, Lord Harking.” She spoke his name as a curse, reminding both of them of the differences in their stations. “A wealthy gentleman brings an unattached, unprotected woman an expensive gift. What is there to misinterpret?”

“That I meant no insult, and that the necklace is a, ah, gift for my sister. She has few enough jewels of her own. I was hoping you would help me select a fan or a shawl or a dress length to match.” He opened the box to show her the delicate sapphire pendant on a gold chain.

“Oh,” was all she said.

Harry held out a posy of early violets he'd purchased from a street vendor. “These are for you, to thank you for last night. There is nothing wrong in a bouquet, is there?” He stepped back, just in case.

Queenie took the flowers and held them to her burning face, so mortified she wished they were a bush she could hide behind. “I am so sorry. The flowers are lovely, and thoughtful of you. You are too kind. Please forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive.” Lud, he was guilty as hell, and he supposed she was tired of being propositioned. He should be thankful, he supposed, that she had not stuck her needle through his nose. “Will you help me?”

“Help you?”

“Find something for my sister.”

“Oh, to match the necklace. Of course. I think have a roll of fabric that would be perfect if she likes blue. She must, or you would not have purchased sapphires, would you? Will you wait?”

“Of course. Olivia would be thrilled to have one of your gowns. She'd be the envy of the neighborhood, but unfortunately I do not have her measurements, so a dress length will have to do.”

“I can include a copy of the French fashion journal with my designs in it. Perhaps her dressmaker would be able to copy one of the styles.”

“The lending library at home only gets a few London ladies' magazines, late at that, so Olivia would be doubly delighted if you can spare a copy.”

“That will be my pleasure, in return for your paying our admission to the ball last night.”

“What, a few shillings? You underestimate your value tenfold. I am sure Olivia would put a much higher price on just one of your sketches, especially when I tell her how famous you are going to be. I insist on paying a fair price, both for the fabric and the journal.”

“Since you are my very first customer, you will get a special rate,” Queenie firmly insisted. Then their accounts would be even.

Harry had been too busy admiring her to notice anything else. She wore another black gown, a simpler day frock, but still elegant and still clinging to her perfect, slim figure. Blue ribbons trailed from the high waist, and another blue ribbon was threaded through her black curls. She looked as fresh and lovely as the spring violets she still held, even if the beauty mark on the side of her mouth was a bit lower than he recalled. Harry forced himself to look around the shop, the thoroughly empty shop.

She saw him frowning at the vacant space. “It is early still.”

He pulled on his watch chain and consulted the timepiece. Eleven o'clock was not early, not by country standards. “Quite. London ladies pay morning calls after noon.”

Queenie tried not to show her own anxiety. “Yes, well, I shall fetch the material for your sister.” She took the necklace, to match colors, and thrust the violets at him. “Please find a place for these.”

When she left Harry looked around for a suitable spot for the posy. He found glasses on a counter, along with a decanter of what looked like ratafia, but no water. He wandered around, admiring the gowns hanging from hooks and hangers along the walls, picturing Madame Lescartes in each of them. Finally he put the violets in the hand of the mannequin in the window, and bowed to her. “For my lady.”

The dog sneezed.

On her way to the back workroom, where the shelves were not half as full as she wished, Queenie called up the stairs to Hellen. “Hurry and get dressed, and bring the tea tray. Lord Harking has come to purchase some fabric for his sister.”

She thought her friend called down: “I doubt he even has a sister,” but Queenie ignored that. Of course he had a sister. He was looking for his brother-in-law, wasn't he? In the workroom she opened the jewelry box again and could not help admiring the necklace and wondering if Olivia had blue eyes. She was a lucky sister either way, to have such a caring brother.

And Queenie was a fool for thinking he had brought the necklace for her. Her cheeks felt warm all over again, thinking of her buffle-headed blunder. Gracious, he must think her the most vain woman on earth, supposing every man was lusting after her. Well, enough were, or had been. But not Lord Harking, it seemed.

If Queenie was disappointed, she refused to dwell on it, finding just the right shade of blue watered silk to match the blue gems. Any woman would feel beautiful in a gown of that fabric. Queenie had even saved a dress length for herself, for when she had time to make a new gown, and when she had established her signature style in black.

Now she cut the fabric carefully, adding extra yardage since she had no idea if Olivia was built on the same generous proportions as her brother. She folded the cloth and wrapped it and the fashion journal in silver tissue, tied with a silver ribbon, with a black silk rosebud tucked in the bow. She put the jewel box on top and went back to the showroom, the crowded, noisy, busy showroom.

Half the women from the ladies' retiring chamber last night seemed to be in the front room of her shop, exclaiming over the unfinished gowns, looking through her sketches, fingering the fabric samples, and petting her dog.

Because they could not pet Lord Harking.

He was too busy acting as store clerk.

Chapter Ten

“Here she is, ladies, the finest dress designer in all of London, soon to be the most famous. Madame Denise Lescartes.” Lord Harking bowed deeply in Queenie's direction.

She would have been mortified at his grandiose act, making her the center of attraction, if she was not so amazed. Not only was her shop filled with courtesans, but they were laughing and smiling, not the least irritated at the wait. Hellen was pouring ratafia, and handing 'round a plate of biscuits that had somehow appeared.

Lord Harking wasted no time in consulting a list in his hand. “I believe Miss Sophy Patterson is first to consult with Madame, with the raspberry-colored—What did you say that gown was made of?”

“Lutestring,” Queenie and Miss Patterson both answered at once.

“Of course, lutestring, whatever that is. It sounds musical, perfect for the opera Miss Patterson is going to attend in two nights with her beau. I mentioned that such haste would be more expensive, but we all agreed the gown was worth the cost.”

Queenie wondered how they could agree when Lord Harking did not even know the price of the gown. No matter, the first of her sample gowns appeared sold, but for a few alterations and hemming. How could she take Miss Patterson back for the fitting, though, when so many other sales were waiting to be made? She looked at the eager young woman, at the raspberry gown, at the dozen more demi-reps, then at Lord Harking.

“Go,” Harry said, smiling at her. “The ladies and I shall manage. We'll send for more wine and biscuits and discuss fashions.”

Miss Patterson giggled.

Queenie shook her head, but she started to lead the young woman back to the fitting room, with the raspberry gown over her arm. Two of the other women were starting to argue, however.

“I wanted that gown.”

“I saw it first.”

“But my gentleman likes me in pink.”

“Well, I don't have a gentleman, so I need to look prettier more than you do.”

Harry was laughing. “My dears, you are sounding like my sister Olivia's children. Surely Madame Denise can make up another similar gown for…” He consulted his list. “Margaret, who did arrive later than Miss Katherine Rigby. Shall I make an appointment for you, Maggie-mine?”

Queenie stepped back toward where he was standing, with another page filled with dates and times. Softly, so the other women could not hear, she asked, “You will do this? For me?”

“But of course. Think nothing of it. I am used to children bickering, and acting as arbitrator when one of my tenants' pigs gets into another's garden or an unmarked calf strays over a boundary. This is more fun. And I do have a small favor to ask in return.”

“Anything!”

He smiled again, and Queenie could hear two females sigh at the sight. Or maybe that was one harlot and herself.

He whispered, “We shall talk about it later, after you become a great success.”

“Thanks to you.”

She led Miss Patterson to the back room, where the courtesan confided that her lover was paying the bill, and he was rich and generous and forty years older than she was. The perfect gentleman, Queenie agreed with a mumble, her mouth full of pins.

Miss Patterson's beau might have been a baboon, for all the attention Queenie paid her chatter. She would be able to hire seamstresses, an assistant to help take measurements, perhaps a clerk and an errand boy. She was truly going to see her dream come true.

No, she could never have dreamt of such a success, so fast. And she could never have come this far without her own perfect gentleman. She smiled at the image of Lord Harking surrounded by straw damsels, and dropped half the pins. Then she dropped the rest when she realized he might find one he fancied. He really was not
her
gentleman. Some of her excitement faded.

He was here in her shop for now, though, Queenie told herself, and she did not want anything more from him. Of course not.

By the time she came back into the front room, every one of her partially finished gowns was bespoken. Even the mannequin in the window had been divested of her frock, one of Queenie's favorites.

Someone, she hoped Hellen and not the efficient Lord Harking, had protected the mannequin's modesty with a draped length of white muslin from the stack of samples. The same someone—heavens, had Lord Harking been dressing a female figure in front of the barques of frailty and anyone who passed by?—had placed the violets in the mannequin's hand. Now the figure looked like she'd just come from bed, wrapped in a sheet, holding her lover's token. That was
not
the image Queenie wished her shop to convey, so she'd have to create something new for the window, as soon as she had the time.

The orders had to come first, of course, especially since half of them were paid for already, with bank drafts and cash carefully piled in a drawer. Lord Harking had another list of receipts and balances due, and an appointments calendar that was filled into the next week. Queenie's head was spinning, but she kept fitting and pinning and listening to her new clients. Many were no older than herself, talking about their lovers and their longings to be more beautiful, more desired, more popular so they could demand higher prices. Which was what Queenie was doing with her gowns, so she understood. Her sympathetic ear won her as many future orders as her designs. Having a friendly aristocrat in the showroom did not hurt, either.

By three o'clock there was nothing left in the shop to sell, and Queenie was exhausted, but thrilled. She agreed when Lord Harking declared the store closed for the day. She did not agree to go to Gunter's for ices to celebrate.

“Oh, no. I have to go to the placement agencies and interview new employees. I already have far more work than I can accomplish myself. And the new fashion journal comes out next week, so I am expecting even more orders.”

“I will help,” Hellen said, “if you are still willing to pay me a salary so I can give it to my mum. I am not much for sewing, but I watched Lord Harking make appointments and keep accounts. At least I knew how long a fitting would take, and how much you had planned to charge. Harry said your prices were too low, so he raised them.”

So Queenie was even more ahead of her goals. “If you will be my assistant I will pay you a fine salary, and provide your wardrobe too. It would be perfect.” And a respectable, honest living for Hellen, thank goodness.

“Too bad you cannot make Harry your manager. I've never seen the like, him taking charge that way, keeping the women from scratching each other's eyes out, or leaving.”

“And sending out for biscuits was brilliant too. I do not know how I can thank you, my lord.”

“Well, you can call me Harry for a start. Everyone does. Then I may call you Denise.”

She'd been calling him Harry in her head, but this gentleman was too honorable, too straightforward for her lies. She could not give him the truth, but now loathed having an assumed name. “I think it better that we not be so familiar.” It was safer, too.

“Ah, then I shall just have to call you
chérie
.”

That was not safer.

Queenie quickly fetched the package for his sister from the counter. “And I shall call you my hero for this day.”

He blushed, as he often did when embarrassed, Queenie realized. She found it endearing. She doubted if five other men in all of London ever turned red, except when they had too much to drink. “I truly do not know what I would have done without you.”

“You would have managed, I am certain. But I am no hero, merely an organized type of chap. I can tell you to the newest chick how many hens I have, how many bales of hay and sacks of wool. I enjoy keeping records and making order out of chaos.”

Since he was grinning, nibbling on the last of the biscuits, Queenie said, “I can see you do. Are you certain you do not want a job?”

“If I did not have Harking Hall to manage, I might consider your offer. I like to be useful. In fact, this afternoon was the most pleasure I have had since coming to London except…” He was looking at her lips, where Queenie was licking a crumb from the macaroon she had eaten.

…Except the kiss. So he had not forgotten it either. She hurriedly placed the ribbon-tied package in his hands, an indication that he should leave. “Oh, but I owe you that favor. I am certain I owe you far more, but what can I do for you? If you get your sister's measurements I shall make her a fine gown. Or trim a bonnet to match the silk. Unless she sent you to purchase corsets and stockings and nightclothes, which I can understand you might not wish to do. I would be happy to complete your errands for you.”

“No, it is nothing like that. I have but one mission in London, and am hoping to succeed tonight. If not I might consider hiring Bow Street. But the favor I am asking is for your company—and yours too, Hellen, and Browne's if he wishes—to the opera tomorrow night. I seldom get the chance to hear fine music, so I like to indulge myself when in Town. I just do not care to go on my own.”

Queenie was not sure, not sure she should go anywhere with the man she was coming to care for far more than she ought.

Harry misunderstood her hesitation. “I promise this will not be like the Cyprian's Ball where you were exposed to all manner of rude behavior. I shall hire a private box for us, and no one will treat either of you with disrespect, not while you are in my care. Besides, you can get a chance to show off more of your creations.”

Everyone would think Queenie was his mistress. They already did, after last night. This afternoon in the shop would have confirmed the suspicions, and her customers would not have kept his presence there a secret. A peer of the realm acting as a shop clerk was just too delicious an
on dit
not to share. And why else would he have done it, if not to please his inamorata?

Far more conversant with the London gossip mills, Lord Harking must know what was being said, Queenie decided. He must not care.

So Queenie decided not to care, either. She knew the truth, and that was what mattered, not what a bunch of strangers thought. If her notoriety cost her business among the
haute monde
, so be it. To her own surprise she liked her new customers. They treated her with respect, which
tonnish
females might not do, and they paid on time. They appreciated her skills, and they truly did need to look their best to be successful. Society's daughters had their dowries and their fathers' names to barter. They could do without one of Madame Denise's designs.

Queenie had little to lose by going to the opera with Harry, then, except for the hours she could spend sewing, and more of her heart. She was not strong enough to deny herself one more memory to cherish when he left.

She let herself touch his hand, as lightly as a feather, as briefly as a sigh. “That is the favor you wish, to take us to hear wonderful music, in the grandest theater in the city, with the grandest escorts, while finding new customers?”

“As I said, the opera is far more enjoyable when it is shared.”

“I cannot speak for Mr. Browne, of course, but I would be delighted. Hellen?”

Hellen's pirouette around Parfait spoke for itself.

“Then we are pleased to accept your offer, my lord.”

“No, it is my pleasure,
chérie
.”

* * *

Queenie was right about Lord Harking's notoriety. The next day's scandal sheets made much of the stand-offish viscount standing in for a store clerk. One cartoon pictured him as a ringmaster in tail coat and top hat, long whip in hand, putting pretty girls through their paces around a dress shop. It was obviously Harking, with his broad chest and shoulders, and dark circles painted on his cheeks. He would hate that, she knew, being held to public ridicule, and wondered if he would change his mind about escorting her to the opera. She could not blame him.

She should not be going out for the evening anyway, not with so many orders to fill and gowns to complete. That same cartoon had shown the name of her shop, and brought more shoppers, who became buyers when they saw her designs. She did not cry off the engagement, however.

Instead she visited employment agencies, leaving Hellen to make appointments and excuses.

Harry visited brothels.

Queenie came away satisfied.

He came away disgusted.

She found three ideal employees.

He found no trace of Sir John Martin.

She needed only a messenger boy.

He needed a bath. And a drink.

* * *

Queenie made certain that the three women she hired were not snobbish. Their needlework was excellent, but she needed their characters to be generous, also. Her current clients were what they were, and their money was as good as a gentlewoman's, better at times. Queenie would have the courtesans treated with the same courtesy a countess would receive, the same respect she herself demanded.

The women were happy to have the positions. They would have sewn sequins on Satan's red suit if it paid as well. At Madame Denise's they worked with wondrous fabrics, elegant, exciting designs, and were treated like valuable assistants, not slaves. Besides, without their skills at sewing, two of the females might have found themselves in the same position as the women they sewed for: on their backs.

In less than a day most of the sample gowns were completed, new orders were cut from Queenie's patterns, and measurements were taken for more. The window mannequin was dressed in Queenie's gown from the Cyprian's Ball, turned sideways to show the nearly bare back. She held a sprig of silk forget-me-nots in her hand to replace the violets, which were in Queenie's bedroom.

The shop was truly in business now, except for a boy to deliver the finished goods, to fetch biscuits for the customers, a mid-day meal for the workers, and thread when they ran out. He could sweep and wash the windows, Queenie thought, saving her from a hundred other little tasks that needed doing. The personnel agency she used did not have such a creature, and none of her seamstresses knew of any.