Silk Is For Seduction (11 page)

Again he glanced back. One footman stood at a discreet distance, holding the umbrella, awaiting his grace’s pleasure. The other stood on his perch at the back of the carriage. They’d both donned cloaks, which by now must be soaked through, in spite of their umbrellas.

“Until Sunday, then,” she said.

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.

C
levedon 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 circumstances 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 God,” he muttered. “By God.” 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 breasts . . . 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 Saturday?

Meanwhile, at the Hotel Fontaine

“P
ack?” 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 Saturday, 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 Saturday. 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 naïve 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
poussière
silk displayed to magnificent advantage in the course of a waltz,’ ” Marcelline said, thinking aloud. “No, it wants more detail. ‘Gown of
poussière
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 passports?”

“What about them?”

“You recall that the ambassador’s secretary told us that before leaving, we must send him our passports 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 ambassador only deigns to put his name to the passports 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 passports and the officials to me.”

Saturday 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 décolleté.

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 assisted. As the ambassador’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 snatched 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 assisted 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 harassed, 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 passengers 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 masse, 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

S
he 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 noble 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 noble 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.

“How did you know?” she demanded, hands clenched.

Though he felt his face heat, he answered carelessly, “I sent my porter to spy on you. He was loitering about your hotel in the small hours of the morning when you and your maid departed from it, in a fiacre. At first he assumed you’d merely set a shockingly early hour for meeting Mademoiselle Fontenay. Then, when he counted the number of portmanteaux being stowed in the vehicle, he grew curious. From one of the inn servants, he learned that you had quit the hotel. Your destination, he discovered, was the posting office, and you were traveling to ‘visit a relative.’ In point of fact, I should be asking how you contrived to get out of France. You left hours before any of the officials who must approve your exit were even awake.”

“It didn’t occur to you that I might have made my arrangements previously?” she said.

“Did you?” he said.

“Ah, your spying porter didn’t find that out,” she said. “What a pity, because I’m not going to satisfy your curiosity. I’ve been traveling for a day and a half over wretched French roads, and I’m tired. Good night, your grace.”

She dipped the barest of curtseys and walked away from him.

He fought the urge to follow her. He’d behaved absurdly enough as it was. For what? What did he think he’d achieve aboard a steam packet mobbed with travelers? He was lucky this was an English boat, or they would not have delayed its departure for him. As it was, he’d paid massive bribes to change places with other passengers. Even so, had he been a man of lesser rank, he’d be waiting in Calais for the next vessel.

Staying in Calais was what he ought to have done. No, he ought not to have left Paris at all. Six more weeks of freedom, and he’d thrown them away—for what?

But he’d done it, and having spent a day and a half racing over abominable roads, he was hardly likely to stand tamely on the dock, watching the packet sail away.

His behavior was lunatic—but never mind. In truth, Paris was growing wearisome, and a mad race to Calais was better excitement than anything he’d done in recent weeks, perhaps months. Certainly it had been worth it, simply to see Noirot’s shocked expression when she caught sight of him.

Surprise, indeed. He doubted anybody or anything had surprised her in a very long time.

He stayed on deck until the packet had sailed out of the harbor and out into the Channel. He noticed the clouds drifting across the heavens, dimming the starlight and moonlight, but he thought nothing of it. The sky over the English Channel was never perfectly clear.

He went below, where he let Saunders peel off his coat and relieve him of his neckcloth, waistcoat, and boots. Then his grace fell into bed and instantly asleep.

Not an hour later, the storm struck.

M
arcelline staggered out into the narrow passage. The smell was foul: scores of panicked passengers being sick. Her own stomach, usually reliable even in rough seas, heaved. She paused for a moment, breathing through her mouth, willing her insides to quiet.

The ship lurched hard to her right, and she fell against a door. From behind it came shrieks and shouts, the same she’d heard from other cabins. The vessel screamed more loudly, its timbers groaning as the waves knocked it about.

She walked on unsteadily, telling herself that this was normal, the ropes and timbers protesting the sea’s pummeling. Her heart thudded all the same, with fear. It was hard not to imagine death when every lurch threatened to overturn them, and the vessel itself seemed to be screaming.

The crew had closed the hatches, but water washed in. Under her feet, the deck was wet and slippery.

Nearby, someone was crying.

“Repent!” a man shouted. “Thy time is nigh.”

“Go to the devil,” she muttered. Yes, she was afraid, as any sane person would be. But her time was
not
nigh and she was
not
going to die. She was not going to drown. The ship was not going down. She had a daughter and sisters waiting for her in London.

She trembled all the same, and her stomach churned. She was never sick. She couldn’t be sick. She hadn’t time. Jeffreys was ill, desperately so, and needed Marcelline’s help.

But oh, she did not feel well at all.

Later. Later she could be as sick as she wanted.

One thing at a time.

She came to the door she thought was the right one, the one where she’d seen the liveried servants loitering earlier. She’d heard, on her way back to her cabin, that the Duke of Clevedon had commandeered the best cabin for himself and two lesser ones for his retinue.

She pounded on the door. It opened abruptly at the same moment the ship gave an almighty lurch. She slid, stumbled, and fell straight into the cabin. Two big hands caught her and pulled her upright.

“Dammit, Noirot. You might have broken your neck.”

The hands bracing her were warm and firm, and she wanted to lean into him. He was big and strong and so was his personality. An image rushed into her mind of medieval knights protecting their castles, their women—and for one mad moment she wanted nothing but to put herself in his hands.

But she couldn’t. She daren’t lean on him.

She certainly daren’t look up. She did not feel well at all, at all.

“Had . . . to . . . come,” she managed to say.

“I was on my way out to find you, to see if you needed—Noirot, are you all right?”

She was looking down at his feet and thinking that any minute now she was going to be sick on his costly slippers. But the sea had ruined them already. Pity. Such fine slippers. He had big feet. Funny.

“Quite well,” she said, gagging.

“Saunders, brandy! Quick!”

Yes, that was it. Brandy. Why she’d come. Brandy. Jeffreys needed it.

So, heaven help her, did she.

“My . . . my s-seamstress,” she began. “Sh-she—”

“Here.” He put a flask to her lips. “Drink.”

“I’m n-never sick,” she said.

“Drink,” he said.

She drank, welcoming the fire sliding down her throat. If it scoured her insides, so much the better.

For a moment she thought she’d be well again.

Then the deck tilted and she slid and stumbled. This time his arms were about her, though. “Don’t,” she said. “Going to be . . . going to be—”

“Saunders!”

Something was thrust in front of her. A bucket. Good.

Then she was retching, doubled over, so sick she couldn’t see straight. Her head pounded and her knees gave way.

Sick, so sick.

Someone was holding her. Men talked above her head. His voice. Another’s. She was shifted onto something soft. A bed. Oh, that felt good. To lie down. She would simply lie here for a moment while the boat rose and fell, rocked this way and that.

But no. She hadn’t time for this.

Someone slid a pillow under her head, then drew a blanket over her. That felt so good. But she wasn’t supposed to feel good. She had to get up. It was Jeffreys who needed help. But if she moved, she’d be sick again.

Must lie very quietly.

Impossible, with the ship pitching so. Slowly it tilted up, then slowly down again, and all the while, the horrible noises, ropes and timbers grinding and creaking and groaning as though all the souls of the drowned were rising to meet them. From a distance came the sounds of passengers crying and screaming. And somewhere above all the noise of the ship, she heard the storm’s fury, the wailing wind.

Hell, she thought. Dante’s Inferno. Or that other thing. Not a poem but a picture of Hell, of the damned. Curse it, what was wrong with her? She couldn’t lie here, wondering about paintings.

“No.” She could barely form the words. “Not me. My—my— s-seamstress.”

“Your maid?” His voice was so calm. So reassuring.

“Jeffreys. She’s badly ill. Brandy. I came for . . . brandy.”

More talking, over her, around her. She heard screaming and shouting, too, but far away. The world went up, then down, and down, and down.

Don’t let me be sick again. Don’t let me be sick again.

Something cool and wet touched her face. “Saunders will see about your maid,” the familiar voice said.

“Don’t let her die,” she said. Or did she? Her voice sounded far away, so small against the infernal clamor about them. Hell, she thought. This was like the Hell the righteous ranted about. The Hell in the pictures.

“People almost never die of seasickness,” he said.

“They only wish they might,” she said.

An odd sound. A chuckle? It was his voice, low and close. Behind it, around it, above it were horrible sounds, like death. A long, drawn-out moan, a terrible grinding, then a
crack.

The ship . . . cracking open . . .

“We can’t go down,” someone said. Had she spoken?

Don’t talk. Lie quietly. Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

“We won’t go down,” he said. “It’s bad, but we won’t go down. Here, swallow this.”

She moved her head from side to side. That was a mistake. Bile rose. “Can’t.”

“Only a drop,” he coaxed. “Laudanum. It will help. I promise.”

She couldn’t raise her head, couldn’t even open her eyes. The world was spinning round and round, leaping up and down, throwing itself from side to side.

Where am I?

He lifted her head, so gently. Was it he? Or was it she, spooning medicine into Lucie?
Lucie, Lucie.

But she was away from this. She was safe in London with her doting aunts, who spoiled her appallingly
.
Lucie was safe because her mother and aunts had turned into three witches, brewing potions to keep her alive.

They had not fought so hard only to leave Lucie an orphan, because her mother had made a foolish mistake. A man-mistake. More than six feet tall and beastly arrogant and . . . oh, those big, beautiful hands.

“A little more,” he said. “Another drop.”

Take your medicine. Get better. Get back to Lucie.