Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (15 page)

Lenore frowned. “Eversleigh's brother?” When Agatha nodded, she said, “Jack told me he was killed at Waterloo.”

“Hougoumont,” Agatha supplied. “Gloriously tragic. Typical of Ricky, really.”

When her hostess did not immediately continue, Lenore hesitantly asked, “What I wasn't clear about was why Jack thought that was the reason Eversleigh had to wed.”

“Now that,” said Agatha, helping herself to a dish of mussels in white wine, “is a typical piece of Eversleigh organisation.” She glanced shrewdly at Lenore before adding, “Always felt you were one young woman I did not need to beat about the bush with, so I'll tell you simply. Eversleigh never intended to marry. Something of a cold fish, Jason, not given to the warmer emotions. At least,” she amended, considering her point, “that's what he thinks. Deeply cynical and all that. He and Ricky had a…a pact, so that Ricky was to be the one to marry and his son would ultimately inherit the title.”

“And Waterloo dashed that plan?”

“Indeed, yes.” Agatha nodded portentously. “And rather more besides.” She paused pensively, then shook herself and looked at Lenore. “Jason and Ricky were very close, so Hougoumont smashed more than Jason's plans for a fancy-free future. Even I would not care to mention Hougoumont in Jason's hearing.”

“I understand.” Lenore stared unseeing at the slice of turbot on her plate.

“Mind you,” Agatha continued, waving her fork to dispel the sudden gloom, “I'm beginning to wonder if that wasn't an example of the Almighty moving in strange ways.”

Lenore looked up. “How so?”

“Well, I dare say Ricky would have made an acceptable duke—he was trained to it, as was Jason. And the family would have accepted his sons to succeed him.” Pushing a mussel about on her plate, Agatha grimaced. “It's just that we would all prefer Eversleigh—that is, Jason—to be succeeded by his own son. Particularly, if
you
were there to ensure said son did not take after his father in absolutely all respects.” Agatha waved her knife at Lenore. “Jason's plan was well enough, but he was always one to assume others could perform any task as well as he. But Ricky could never have been as decisive as Jason—no, nor as commanding. He simply wasn't as powerful, as unshakeably strong. And, when it comes to ruling a very large family, and very large estates, it's precisely that quality which makes all the difference.”

Lenore raised her brows to indicate her interest but made no other reply. As she had hoped, Agatha rambled on, giving her a sketchy outline of the family estates together with an abbreviated history of the Montgomerys, refreshing her memory of Eversleigh's aunts and their numerous offspring. By the time Agatha waved her upstairs for an early night, Lenore's head was spinning with the effort to store all the information her hostess had let fall.

She rose early the next morning, still attuned to country hours. Trencher was there, bubbling with suppressed excitement at the thought of her mistress's visit to Lafarge's famous salon. As she allowed herself to be gowned in the gold muslin, the most acceptable dress she possessed, Lenore viewed her maid's affliction with a lenient eye, aware that no such emotion had yet touched her. Breakfast was served on a tray in her room, as was Agatha's habit. Afterwards, Lenore strolled in the small gardens behind the house, waiting for her hostess, trying to quell the trepidatious flutter of her nerves and the strange yearning for Eversleigh's large figure to appear, to lend her strength for the coming ordeal—her first crucial step into his fashionable world.

 

A
GATHA'S CARRIAGE
pulled up outside a plain door wedged between two shops on Bruton Street. Above the door hung a simple sign—“Mme Lafarge, Modiste”.

Handed down from the carriage, Agatha shook out her skirts and eyed the door shrewdly. “Lafarge only makes for a select few. Hideously expensive, so I've heard.”

Joining her hostess on the pavement, Lenore turned to stare. “Isn't she your dressmaker?”

“Heavens, no! I might be well-to-do but I'm not
that
rich.” Agatha straightened her straight back and headed for the door. “No—Eversleigh arranged it.”

Of course. Lenore's lips tightened momentarily. She permitted herself a frown, then shrugged and followed her mentor up the steep stairs beyond the plain door.

Madame Lafarge was waiting in the large salon on the first floor. The room was elegantly furnished, gilt chairs upholstered in satin damask set in a tight circle facing outwards from the centre of the floor. Mirrors were discreetly placed around the walls, interspersed with wall hangings in a soothing shade of pale green. Madame herself proved to be a small, severely neat, black-haired Frenchwoman who stared unblinkingly at Lenore throughout the introductions.

These completed, she reached for Lenore's hand. “Walk for me, Miss Lester,” she commanded in heavily accented English, drawing Lenore clear of the chairs. “To the windows and back.”

Lenore blinked, but when Agatha nodded, complied, hesitantly at first, then with more confidence as she returned to where Madame waited.

“
Eh bien
. I see now what
monsieur le duc
means.” Stepping close, Madame peered up into Lenore's eyes. “Yes—greens and golds, with nothing pink, white or pale blue.
M'moiselle
is twenty-four, yes?”

Dumbly, Lenore nodded.

“
Tre`s bien
. We do not, then, need to be cramped in our choice.” The little modiste's face relaxed into a smile of approval. Her eyes narrowed as she walked slowly around Lenore before nodding decisively. “A
merveille
—we will do very well, I am thinking.”

Taking this to mean Madame had found that elusive something in her, Lenore felt some of her tension evaporate.

Abruptly, Madame clapped her hands. To Lenore's surprise, a young girl put her head around one of the wallhangings. A torrent of orders delivered in staccato French greeted her. With a mute nod, the girl disappeared. A bare minute later, the wallhanging was pushed aside to admit a procession of six girls, each carrying a semi-completed outfit.

Under Madame's supervision, Lenore tried on the garments. Madame fitted them expertly, extolling the virtues of each and the use to which she expected each to be put, gesticulating freely to embellish her words. The ground was littered with pins but her advice could not be faulted. Agatha sat regally on one of the chairs, actively interested in all that went on.

It was not until she was trying on the third outfit, a delicate amber morning gown, that the truth dawned on Lenore. She was unusually tall and slender yet the dresses needed only marginal adjustments. Her head came up; she stiffened.

“Be still,
m'moiselle
,” hissed Madame Lafarge from behind her.

Lenore obeyed but immediately asked, “For whom were these dresses made, Madame?”

Lafarge peered around to stare up at her face. “Why—for you, Miss Lester.”

Lenore returned her stare, recalling that Madame had not even bothered to take her measurements. “But…how?”

Lafarge's black eyes blinked up at her. “
Monsieur le duc
gave me an…” Her hands came up to describe her meaning. “An understanding of your comportment and your
taille
, you understand? From that, I was able to fashion these. As you see, his memory was not greatly at fault.”

A shiver travelled Lenore's spine but she was unsure of the emotion behind it. Agatha had been right—Eversleigh was far too used to organising all as he wished. The idea that her wardrobe would bear the imprint of his hand, rather than hers, was far too much for her to swallow.

Parading before the glass and admiring the way the long amber skirts swirled about her, Lenore made up her mind. “I should like to see these other gowns you've made up.”

Besides the three gowns she had already tried on, a green muslin walking dress, a teal carriage dress and the amber creation, Lafarge had made up three evening gowns. Trying on the first of these, Lenore felt a definite qualm. Studying her reflection, the way the fine silk clung to her body, emphasising her height, her slimness and the soft swell of her breasts, she wondered if she would ever have the courage to actually wear the gown. The neckline was cut low, barely avoiding the indecorous. Aside from the tiny puffed sleeves, her arms were entirely bare; she could already feel gooseflesh prickling her skin. The other two gowns were in similar vein.

“You wish to view the rest as well?”

Turning, Lenore stared at Lafarge. “Madame, what, exactly, has His Grace ordered?”

Lafarge spread her hands. “A wardrobe of the very finest—all the materials to be the very best as suited to your station. Dresses, gowns, coats, cloaks, nightgowns, petticoats, chemises, peignoirs.” Lafarge ticked the items off on her fingers, then spread them wide. “Everything,
m'moiselle
, that you might need.”

Even Agatha looked stunned.

Lenore had had enough. “Have any of these items been made up?”

Sensing that her hopes for the soon-to-be duchess were teetering on some invisible precipice, Lafarge hurriedly summoned her girls with all the items thus far created on His Grace of Eversleigh's orders.

Lenore ran her fingers over the delicate materials. As she held up a chemise, a peculiar thrill went through her. The garment was all but transparent.

Watching her client closely, Lafarge murmured, “All was created at
monsieur le duc
's express orders,
m'moiselle
.”

Lenore believed her but did not understand. Eversleigh had ordered a wardrobe that tantalised—for her. She frowned, laying aside the chemise to pick up a peignoir with a matching nightgown. As the long folds unravelled, her breathing seized. Slowly, deliberately, she turned so that Agatha was granted a full view of the gown. “Surely this is not what other women of the
ton
wear?”

Agatha's face was a study. Not knowing whether to be scandalised or delighted, she grimaced. “Well—yes and no. But if Eversleigh's ordered them, best take 'em.” When Lenore hesitated, she added, “You can argue the point with him later.”

When I'm wearing them? Lenore quelled another distracting shiver.

“They are not, perhaps, what I would create for all my young ladies, but, if you will permit the liberty,
m'moiselle
, few of my young ladies could appear to advantage in these. And,” Lafarge added, a little hesitantly, “
Monsieur le duc
was very definite—he was very clear what he wished to see on you,
m'moiselle
.”

Lenore had gathered as much but was still unclear as to his motives. Leaving such imponderables aside, she wondered what to do. As Agatha had noted, Eversleigh's organisational habits left very little room for manoeuvre. More than half the items were at least partly made up; Lafarge must have had her workrooms operating around the clock. Idly fingering a delicate silk chemise, Lenore made her decision. “Madame, did His Grace give permission for me to add to this collection?”

Lafarge brightened perceptibly. “But yes.” She spread her hands. “Anything you wished for you were to have, provided it was in a suitable style.”

The caveat did not surprise her. Lenore nodded. “Very well. In that case, I wish to double the order.”

“
Comment
?” Lafarge's eyes grew round.

“For every article His Grace ordered, I wish to order another,” Lenore explained. “In a different style, in a different colour and in a different material.”

Agatha burst out laughing. “Oh,
well done
, my dear,” she gasped, once she had caught her breath. “An entirely fitting reaction. I had wondered how you would manage it, but that, at least, should set him back on his heels.”

“Quite,” Lenore agreed, pleased to have Agatha's support. “I could hardly be so insensitive as to not appreciate his gift, but neither will I be dictated to in the matter of my own wardrobe.”

“Bravo!” Clapping her hands, Agatha raised them to Lenore in salute. “Heavens! But this will take an age. Are you free, Madame?”

“I am entirely at your service, my lady.” Shaking her head at the incomprehensible ways of the English, Madame summoned her assistants. Far be it from her to complain.

The following hours were filled with lists, pattern cards and fabrics. As she argued the rival merits of bronzed sarcenet over topaz silk, and cherry trim over magenta, Lenore felt some of Trencher's excitement trip her. Agatha encouraged her to air her views. In the end, Lafarge paused to say, “You 'ave natural taste,
m'moiselle
. Strive to retain it and you will never be anything but elegant.”

Lenore beamed like a schoolgirl. The appellation “elegant” was precisely what she was aiming for. It seemed only fitting if she was to be Eversleigh's bride.

At last, having duplicated the long list approved by His Grace, they paused to refresh themselves with tiny cups of tea and thinly sliced cucumber sandwiches.

Suddenly, Lafarge set her cup aside. “
Tiens
! Fool that I am—I forgot the bridal gown.”

She clapped her hands, issued a stream of orders and the repast was cleared. The curtains at the back of the shop parted to permit her senior assistant to enter, reverently carrying a gown of stiff ivory silk covered in tiny seed pearls.

Lenore simply stared.

“That's Georgiana's wedding gown—or part of it, if m'memory serves.” Agatha looked at Lafarge.

The modiste nodded. “
Monsieur le duc
's mama?
Mais oui
. He asked for the gown to be re-made in a modern style. It is exquisite, no?”

All Lenore could do was nod, eyes fixed on the scintillating gown. As she climbed into it, she shivered. The gown was unexpectedly heavy. Lafarge had exercised her own refined taste in its design; the high neckline with its upstanding collar and long tightly fitting sleeves met with Lenore's immediate approval. The long skirts fell from just below her breasts straight to the floor, the long line imparting a regal elegance most suitable for a ducal bride.