The Dressmakers: Silk Is For Seduction Part 10

His gaze came back to her, unreadable. "Sunday it is."

She smiled and said good night, and made herself stroll calmly through the door the hotel porter held open for her.

Clevedon strode briskly back to the coach, under the umbrella Joseph held.

He had to get her out of his mind. He had to regain his sanity.

He made himself speak. "Filthy night," he said.

"Yes, your grace."

"Paris isn't pretty in the rain," Clevedon said.

"No, your grace. The gutters are disgraceful."

"What took us so long?"

"An accident, your grace," Joseph said. "A pair of vehicles collided. It didn't look serious to me, but the drivers were shouting at each other, then others got into it, and there was a bit of a riot. But when the lightning struck, they all scattered. Otherwise we might be boxed in there yet."

The way Noirot had fussed about his poor, drenched footmen, Clevedon had expected to find them slumped on the ground, clutching their chests.

But when he'd looked back, Thomas was talking animatedly over the top of the carriage to Hayes, the coachman. And here was Joseph, full of youthful energy, though it must be close to two o'clock in the morning.

All three servants would have vastly enjoyed watching the Parisians pummel one another. They would have laughed uproariously when the lightning sent the combatants scurrying.

Hayes was a tough old bird who cared only how circ.u.mstances affected his horses, and he'd kept them calm. The footmen were young, and youth cared nothing for a bit of damp.

All of Clevedon's servants were well paid and well dressed and well fed. They were doctored when they were ill and pensioned generously when they retired.

That wasn't the case in every household, he knew, and a shopkeeper would have no way of knowing how well or ill his servants were treated. Being in the service line herself, Noirot was liable to attacks of sympathy.

Even so...

He climbed into the carriage. The door closed after him.

He didn't trust her.

He didn't trust her as far as he could throw her.

She cheated at cards-he was sure of it-or if she didn't cheat, she shaved honesty mighty close.

She said she did not seduce her patron's menfolk, but she'd- "By G.o.d," he muttered. "By G.o.d." Her scent lingered in the carriage, and he could almost taste her still. He could almost feel her skin under his fingertips.

Only a kiss.

He'd gone from desire to madness in a single pulse beat.

He was still... not right.

And no wonder.

They would have to finish it. Then he could put her out of his mind and complete in peace his remaining weeks of freedom.

Chasing a provoking woman about Paris was not part of his plans, and certainly not in his style. He was accustomed to games with women, yes. He liked play as well as foreplay. But it was an altogether different matter, dancing to the tune of an impudent dressmaker who would not stop talking about her curst business-even if she made him want to laugh at the exact instant he wanted to choke her-and even if she kissed like Satan's own mistress, trained specially by Mephistopheles, who'd helped design her body... her perfect b.r.e.a.s.t.s... the smooth arc of her neck... the exquisite curve of her ears...

Her wicked tongue.

Her lying tongue.

What engagement had she with Sylvie Fontenay that would occupy all of Friday and Sat.u.r.day?

Meanwhile, at the Hotel Fontaine "Pack?" Jeffreys repeated. Expecting Marcelline to come back late, she'd napped. She was brightly alert at the moment.

So was Marcelline. She was alert with panic. "We need to leave as early as possible tomorrow. Today, I mean," she said.

It was only two o'clock in the morning on Friday. If they could get seats on a steam packet to London on Sat.u.r.day, they could be home as early as Sunday. The guests at the ball would not be writing their letters until later today, which meant they mightn't be posted until Sat.u.r.day. And the London post was closed on Sundays.

With any luck, she and Jeffreys would be in London before any letters arrived from Paris. That would give Sophy time to devise a way to capitalize on any rumors about Mrs. Noirot and the Duke of Clevedon.

"We haven't a minute to lose," she said. "By Tuesday or Wednesday, the rumors will be flying. We have to manage them."

Jeffreys didn't say, "What rumors?" She was not naive and she was not stupid. She knew Marcelline had attended the ball with the Duke of Clevedon. She'd noticed the torn dress. She'd even raised an eyebrow. But it was an interested eyebrow, not a shocked or censorious one. Jeffreys was no innocent lamb. She'd had dealings with the upper orders, especially its male contingent. That was how she'd ended up as "an unfortunate female."

No one had to tell her how the dress had come to be damaged. Her concern was whether the damage was reparable.

"It's all a matter of interpretation," Marcelline said. "We simply reinterpret. Something like-let me see-'Duke of C captivated by Mrs. Noirot's gown of poussiere silk displayed to magnificent advantage in the course of a waltz,' " Marcelline said, thinking aloud. "No, it wants more detail. 'Gown of poussiere silk, dotted with crimson papillon bows, a black lace pelerine completing the ensemble... met with the approval of one of the highest ranking members of the peerage.' Yes, that could do it."

"I can mend it easily," said Jeffreys. "Everyone will want to see it."

"They will see it, if we manage this properly," Marcelline said. "But that means taking charge of the tale before anyone else gets it. Sophy can give her contact at Foxe's Morning Spectacle an exclusive, early report. She'll tell him the Duke of Clevedon took me to the party as one of his jokes. Or to win a wager."

"Wouldn't a joke be better?" said Jeffreys. "To some people, a wager might sound disreputable."

"You're right. My being there started out as a joke, but the dress captured the other guests' attention-"

"Something ought to be put in about 'the effect of the color arrangement while in motion-' "

"Exactly," said Marcelline. "Then something about a waltz as the perfect showcase for the dress's unique effects. Struck by my appearance, even the Duke of Clevedon danced with me."

"Madame, how I wish I had been there," said Jeffreys. "Any lady who reads a story like that will feel the same. They'll all be wild to see the dress-and the shop it came from-and the women who made it."

"We'll have time enough to work out the details while we're on the boat," Marcelline said. "But we have to catch it first. Pack as if your life depended on it."

And, I've done that more times than I can count, she thought.

"Certainly, madame. But the pa.s.sports?"

"What about them?"

"You recall that the amba.s.sador's secretary told us that before leaving, we must send him our pa.s.sports to be countersigned. Then we must take them to the prefecture of police. Then to-"

"We don't have time," Marcelline said.

"But, madame-"

"It will take all day, even two days," Marcelline said. She ran this gauntlet twice a year, spring and autumn, when she visited Paris. She knew the entire tedious routine by heart. "The different offices are open at different hours. The British amba.s.sador only deigns to put his name to the pa.s.sports between the hours of eleven and one. Then one must wait upon the prefecture of police. After that comes the nonsense with the foreign minister-again who allows only two hours, and demands ten francs to take up his pen. You know it's ridiculous."

They need rules. They make so many.

She could hear Clevedon's low voice, the tone implying a shared joke about the French and their rules. The first night, at the opera, came back in a rush of sensation: her hand on the costly neckcloth, exchanging his pin for hers... the way he'd watched her, so still, like a cat: the panther lying in wait.

She pushed him from her mind. She hadn't time to brood about him.

"I know it's silly, madame, but the secretary said we were liable to be detained if our papers are not perfectly in order."

"You see to the packing," Marcelline said. "Leave the pa.s.sports and the officials to me."

Sat.u.r.day evening "I can't believe it," Jeffreys said as she looked about the tiny cabin. They had been unable to obtain a chief cabin-but then, they were lucky to have been allowed aboard the steam packet at all, considering all the rules they'd disregarded. "You did it."

"Where there's a will, there's a way," said Marcelline. Especially, she thought, when the will belonged to a Noirot. It was amazing how much could be accomplished with a little forgery, a little bribery, a little charm, and a good deal of decollete.

Not amazing, actually, considering that all the officials were men.

While Jeffreys was unaware of some of the details-Marcelline's forgery skills, for instance, had best go unmentioned-she'd caught on to the other methods, and had even a.s.sisted. As the amba.s.sador's secretary had warned, several attempts had been made to detain them. The last bit, with the customs officials, was the most difficult.

"We did it," Marcelline said. "And with time to spare, thanks to your clever gambit with your shoe ties."

"I vow, I was frantic, madame," Jeffreys said. "It would have been horrible to be within sight of the packet and not be allowed aboard."

"And I was about one minute from losing my temper and ruining everything," Marcelline said.

"You were tired, madame. I don't believe you slept a wink, all the way from Paris."

"A wink here and there," Marcelline said. The French roads were improving, but they remained far from smooth. Between the jolting of the carriage and the plotting how to get through the next phase of bureaucracy and Clevedon's thrusting himself into her overworked brain when she most needed to be logical, her fitful dozes had provided precious little rest. She'd made herself eat, but they hadn't time to wait for a proper meal. They'd s.n.a.t.c.hed what they could, and it wasn't the best she'd ever eaten. Dyspepsia did not aid the thinking process.

Jeffreys had come to her rescue, however. She'd broken a shoe tie accidentally on purpose, and burst into tears. Two officials had a.s.sisted her with the repairs. It was hard to say whether her pretty ankles had softened their hearts or they'd feared another weeping fit or they were feeling hurried and hara.s.sed, too, thanks to the tumult behind them of another late arrival. Whatever the reason was, the men had waved them on.

Had Marcelline brought Frances Pritchett with her, they'd still be in Paris.

She examined her pendant watch. "We should depart soon," she said. "I'm going up to take a turn about the deck."

"I should have thought you'd want to fall into bed," Jeffreys said. "I certainly do, and I had a great deal more sleep than you did."

"I need to breathe the salt air and calm myself first," Marcelline said. "It's very pretty at night, watching the lights of the town retreat. You ought to come. We arrived from London in broad day. It's so different at night."

Jeffreys gave a little shiver. "You're a better sea traveler than I," she said. "I hope to be asleep before we set sail. I was sick most of the way coming here. I should rather not be sick on the way back."

"Poor girl," Marcelline said. "I'd forgotten. It was dreadful for you."

"It was worth it, madame," Jeffreys said firmly. "And I should do it again. I shall pray, in fact, to do it again." She laughed. "But you go, and enjoy yourself."

Marcelline left her, and made her way to the deck. The officers and crew were preparing to set out, and the pa.s.sengers were settling down after the flurry of finding their places and seeing about their belongings. There was a good deal of noise, and a great many people. Night had fallen but the stars were out en ma.s.se, along with a bright half moon.

She had no trouble making out the tall figure at the rail, and even before he turned, and the moonlight and starlight traced his features, her heart was racing.

Chapter Six.

Between the first week in April, and the last in November, Steam-Packets run daily, weather permitting, from their Moorings off the Tower of London to Calais, in about twelve hours; and likewise from Calais to London, in about the same time. Carriages, horses, and luggage, conveyed by Steam-Packets, are shipped and relanded free of expense.

Mariana Starke, Travels in Europe, 1833 She stood completely still, but for the feathers and lace of her bonnet shuddering in the wind. Outwardly Clevedon was as still as she was, while his heart leapt with an excitement growing all too familiar.

He strode toward her. "Surprise," he said.

Her eyes narrowed. They were deeply shadowed, and he doubted that was merely the moonlight's effect. She was fatigued, and no wonder. He was amazed at the speed with which she'd quit Paris. She couldn't have slept at all after the party. Then, to reach Calais so soon, she couldn't have stopped for more than the change of horses on the way.

He wondered how she'd done it. Getting all her papers signed in the middle of the night must have cost a fortune in bribes-paid, no doubt, from the money she'd won at roulette and cards.

Even he, for all his great rank, had not had an easy time getting through officialdom, and he'd set out hours after she did, when the bureaucrats were awake at least, though not all of the offices had been open.

Had he not been the Duke of Clevedon, and furthermore, had he not thrown his full ducal weight about, the packet would have sailed an hour ago, and he'd be in Calais watching it retreat across the Channel while he cursed himself for a fool.

He was a fool, and he was cursing himself now, but to little effect.

In any event, she was angry enough for the two of them.

"Surprise?" she said. "There's an understatement. Have you taken leave of your senses?"

Yes.

"I was worried about you," he said. "When you left Paris so suddenly, I thought a catastrophe had occurred. Or a murder. Have you murdered anybody, by the way? Not that I would dream of criticizing, but-"

"I left Paris to get away from you," she said.

"Well, that didn't work."

"How in blazes did you do it?" she said. "How did you know? How did you-but no, I won't ask how you got through French officialdom. You're a duke, and they haven't cut off any n.o.ble heads this age. Still, one would have thought they'd learned how useless aristos are, not remotely worth indulging."

He smiled. "But you need my n.o.ble head, Madame Noirot. You need me to pay the bills."

"How did you know I was leaving?" she said.

"You are single-minded, I notice," he said.