Scandal Wears Satin (30 page)

Longmore left off kissing Sophy and looked deeply into her eyes. “This is too complicated,” he said. “I can’t do this and think at the same time.”

“Then move away,” she said.

“Don’t want to,” he said.

“I know he wanted to break it off then and there,” Clara went on. “But he doesn’t dare. A bird in the hand, you know—but, my God, what shall I do if it all goes wrong, and—”

“Hush!” Marcelline said sharply. “It’s not going to go wrong. Trust us, my dear.”

“Trust you,” Longmore murmured, still gazing so intently into Sophy’s eyes. “What a funny, funny thing to say.”

S
ince it was best for Sophy not to be seen too often in the shop at present, she avoided the showroom. Marcelline was the one who accompanied Lady Clara and her brother downstairs and saw them out—much to the excitement of the customers, no doubt.

Marcelline returned very soon, however, and with a grim look quickly removed the plum dress from the mannequin. She draped the dress over one arm and took hold of Sophy’s arm with her free hand and marched her into the dressing room.

“There’s no need to throw a tantrum,” Sophy said. Marcelline could become temperamental about her designs. “If you say I must wear the blue, I must wear the blue.”

“I know why you want to wear the plum,” Marcelline said. “It’s ravishing. It’ll make Longmore swoon.”

“It might make him do some things,” Sophy said. “But swooning isn’t one of them. He’s the sort of man who tells a girl he l-loves her—and then l-laughs. As though it’s a j-joke.”

To her vexation, she started to cry.

“Oh, my dear love.” Marcelline threw the dress over a chair and wrapped her arms about her sister.

That was all. She simply held her for a time while Sophy cried and cried until she was done.

Then Marcelline led her upstairs to the sitting room and brought out the brandy, the Noirot sisters’ preferred remedy for all sorts of disturbances.

“You work too hard,” Marcelline said after they’d taken their first sips. “You take too much on. Even Leonie says so.”

“But I’ve left you two to manage everything—and you’ve got a husband now! You’re still newlyweds!”

“Leonie and I have sufficient help from Selina Jeffreys and some of the seamstresses,” Marcelline said. “Clevedon and I have no trouble finding all the time we need to be together. Just because one is married doesn’t mean one must be with one’s spouse every waking minute.”

“Still—”

“Still, nothing,” Marcelline said. “You’re overworked. You had quite enough to do, merely looking after our interests. But now you’ve taken on this trouble of Lady Clara’s. And there’s her brother, making love to you at the same time you’re trying to conduct a delicate, elaborate, and risky scheme.”

Sophy met her sister’s gaze over the brandy decanter.

Schemes and dodges and subterfuge and other forms of machination were part of the family inheritance. If there was one thing her sisters understood as well or perhaps even better than they did the art of dressmaking, it was the art of deception.

“And there are my sisters,” Sophy said, “carrying on the business, slaving over dresses and indulging spoiled ladies—while I’m at the Clarendon Hotel pretending to be the Queen of Sheba at my brother-in-law’s expense.”

Marcelline laughed. “
Ma foi
, you can’t be so mad as to let that trouble you! Clevedon’s thrilled to be part of our plot. And do try to remember that he doesn’t care about money. He’s not like us. He never had to think about it, let alone worry about it—and it’s extremely unlikely he ever will. Pray don’t fret about the Clarendon and Madame’s servants and such. My husband’s friends will have won or lost as much at Ascot this week as he’s spent on you. And they won’t have had nearly so much fun doing it.”

A weight lifted.

Sophy grinned at her sister. “It is great fun,” she said. “I get so caught up in worrying about Lady Clara that I forget I’m doing what I was born to do—and it makes a pleasant change from waiting on tiresome women.”

“That’s the only drawback,” Marcelline said with a little sigh. “I love designing clothes. I love making clothes. I don’t even mind the dreary, boring repetitive parts.”

“They’re soothing,” Sophy said. “One doesn’t think. One simply
does
, and takes pleasure in doing it beautifully.”

“I love everything about it,” Marcelline said.

“Except the customers.”

Marcelline laughed. “If only each customer could send a mannequin in her place. Well, not
all
of them. Some are great fun. Lady Clara is a delight—even when she’s arguing with me about things of which she knows nothing. But most of them—really, when one thinks about it . . .” She sat for a moment, staring at the decanter. “There must be a way.”

“My dear, if you’d rather be a duchess, and design dresses in your private castle purely for yourself and your own entertainment, you know Leonie and I can manage the shop.”

“I’d die if I gave it up,” Marcelline said. “Something inside me would shrivel. It’s too bad, but Cousin Emma did something to us. In spite of Mama and Papa and all the others.”

“She inspired us,” Sophy said. “We were meant to be knaves like the rest—and we are. But Cousin Emma made us something more. And now we can’t be less, that’s all.”

Marcelline raised her glass, and Sophy did, too.

“To Cousin Emma,” Marcelline said.

“To Cousin Emma,” Sophy said. They drank.

“And I must wear the blue dress,” Sophy said, “because—”

“Because the other will make Longmore swoon, and we need him to keep his wits about him,” Marcelline said. “And speaking of Longmore . . .” She raised her eyebrows at Sophy.

We make love
, he’d said.

“Yes,” Sophy said. “Yes, I did. That. The thing you explained about.”

“The family matter,” Marcelline said.

“I was waiting for the right time to tell you,” Sophy said. “But there hasn’t been time. Lately we see each other for such short intervals.”

She told her sister now, what had happened on the way to and from Portsmouth.

She knew Marcelline wouldn’t be angry or disapproving. Noirots weren’t like other people. There were rules they didn’t understand and didn’t care about.

She only listened and smiled now and again, and when Sophy had finished, she shrugged a perfect French shrug, which also happened to be a perfect Noirot shrug. “It was bound to happen sooner or later,” she said. “Purity and virtue don’t agree with Noirots, do they? And you’re all of three and twenty. It’s remarkable you kept your virtue for so long.”

“Lack of opportunity, probably,” Sophy said.

“You barely have time to sleep,” Marcelline said. “Where is there time for love affairs? Yet we manage to make the time when we have to.”

“I’m not sure I had to,” Sophy said.

“I am,” Marcelline said. “I know it’s damned inconvenient, and I don’t blame you for crying, considering what an extremely difficult and complicated situation it is with him.”

“Difficult and complicated? Impossible, you mean.”

“It does seem rather impossible, I’ll admit.” Marcelline smiled. “But my dear love—
ma soeur chérie —
I really must commend you on your excellent
taste
.”

Warford House

Thursday 18 June

“P
ray listen to this, Mama,” Lady Clara said. She gave the
Spectacle
a little shake, cleared her throat, and began, “ ‘It would seem that the rift which had opened a few days ago between a certain lord and a young French widow has been bridged, and all is billing and cooing once more. The couple dined at the Clarendon Hotel last night with the duke and duchess who had introduced them, as our readers will recollect, last week at the Queen’s Theater. Madame wore a dress of pink
velours epinglé
, the corsage draped in folds across the bosom, the back close-fitting. Very short, full sleeves cut open in front to display . . .’ ”

When she got to the “billing and cooing” part, Lord Adderley left his chair and walked to the chimneypiece, where he stared at Lady Warford’s collection of Murano glass flowers. He paid no attention to the rest of the recital, which consisted of every last pestilential detail of what Madame wore and what the duchess wore.

He’d dutifully called today as he did every day but Tuesday, when the family was not at home to callers. It was rather like going daily to have a tooth pulled, he thought. He wasn’t sure he could endure much more of it: Clara’s incessant prattling and her mother’s icily patronizing politeness.

“Billing and cooing, indeed,” Lady Warford said. “I shouldn’t be surprised if Longmore broke Tom Foxe’s jaw for his impudence.”

“Harry’s more likely to laugh,” Clara said. “But it’s interesting, isn’t it, Lord Adderley, that all is mended between them.”

“I can’t help but believe the engagement for dinner must have been made previously,” he said. “No doubt the lady didn’t wish to inconvenience her friends. The duke and duchess are friends of long standing, I believe.”

“Then my brother obviously took advantage of the opportunity to make up to Madame,” Clara said. “He can be winning when he wants to be.”

“If Longmore wishes to be winning, one can only conclude that he’s decided to fix the lady’s interest,” Lady Warford said. “I had a feeling it would come to this, from the moment I saw him with her in the theater. Ah, well, it might have been worse, I’m sure.”

A barmaid or a ballet dancer.

“I think you’ll like her, Mama,” Clara said. “She seems good-natured. At least she won’t make a disagreeable daughter-in-law.”

“Daughter-in-law?” Adderley said. “Have you got them to the altar already?”

“I believe it’s only a matter of time,” Clara said.

“But you seemed to take her in dislike the other day,” he said.

“That was before you told me that Harry had hurt her feelings. I know how provoking my brother can be.”

“Shockingly tactless,” Lady Warford said. “Unfortunately, Longmore can be tactless quite fluently in several languages.”

“In any event, Lady Bartham will ask to introduce her to Mama tonight, and it seems we must like it or lump it.”

“I see no alternative but to agree to know the lady,” Lady Warford said. “One can never be sure with Longmore, but in the event he turns out to entertain serious feelings about this young woman, I prefer to begin the acquaintance amiably. And if it all comes to nothing—” Lady Warford made a dismissive gesture. “No harm done. The Season is nearly over, and one needn’t see her again until next year. By then, who knows what will happen?”

“Indeed,” Lord Adderley said. “Who knows?” He came away from the chimneypiece. “I had better not trespass on your time. I know you ladies will wish to rest and prepare for the ball this evening.”

They didn’t try to keep him.

He made his farewell with great politeness if not great warmth. As he was leaving the room, as glad to be gone as he knew they were to see him go, he heard Clara say, “I can’t wait to see what Madame de Veirrion will be wearing.”

He swallowed a smile and went out.

Billing and cooing, was she?

The wicked little coquette.

Let the
Spectacle
print what it wished. Let them think what they liked.

He knew the truth about her.

Countess of Bartham’s ball

Thursday night

L
ongmore watched Lady Bartham approach. “Whatever you do,” he said in an undertone, “do
not
treat my mother to that curtsey.”

“But what curtsey is this?” Madame said.

“You know the one I mean,” he said. “The ballet dancer dying swan Queen Mab curtsey.”

“This is absurd,” she said. “Why should I do these things?”

He hadn’t time to answer because Lady Bartham was upon them, all smiles. A moment later she was leading Madame to meet his mother.

He let them go ahead, while he watched everybody watching Madame. The blue dress had been pretty enough in the shop. Now it was breathtaking, Delicate silver embroidery made a twining pattern over the top layer of blue crepe, which floated upon the satin layer beneath. Gossamer lace fluttered and brilliants sparkled in the sleeves. Under the chandeliers, it was like watching sunlight shimmering on a blue sea.

The dress was cut low, the better to display the eleven tons of diamonds she wore—and which, with any luck, no one would discover had been charged to the Duke of Clevedon’s account at Rundell and Bridge.

Longmore glanced about the room, casually taking note of Lord Adderley, lounging near the refreshment room, wearing a self-satisfied smirk.

“M
y dear Lady Warford, may I present Madame de Veirrion,” Lady Bartham said.