Vixen in Velvet (22 page)

“They would have roasted you fearfully, I daresay,” Lisburne said.

They’d reached the top of the stairs, and he felt a hundred years old. It was so unfair that Swanton, so sensitive, should be placed in this humiliating position. Had an unknown woman accused any other man of fathering and abandoning a child, the Great World would have shrugged. But the world loved to topple an idol. In Swanton’s case, the ton would break him into pieces, and drag the fragments through the mud.

But worst of all—because Swanton would survive this, and recover eventually—was the damage to Leonie. And her girls. And her shop.

Still, it was no good brooding about that, any more than it made sense for Lisburne to brood over his own breach of honor. Or the fact that he wasn’t as upset about it as he ought to be. He’d wronged her, and yet . . .

He was happy. Her image floated in his mind—nearly naked, wearing his hat—and though he could suppress the smile, he couldn’t squelch the gladness.

In any event, he and Leonie had done what they could to moderate the scandal. Gladys had done her part, too, whether intentionally or not.

There was nothing more he could do at present—nothing intelligent, certainly, until he’d had a good night’s sleep.

“Get some sleep,” he told Swanton. “We’ll all do better for it.”

Chapter Twelve

Ros.
There is none of my uncle’s marks upon you: he taught me how to know a man in love; in which cage of rushes, I am sure, you are not prisoner.

Orl.
What were his marks?

Ros.
A lean cheek; which you have not: a blue eye, and sunken; which you have not . . . Then your hose should be ungarter’d, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and every thing about you demonstrating a careless desolation.

As You Like It
, Act III, Scene II

Tuesday 21 July

L
isburne tried to sleep, but that didn’t go as well as it ought, considering how weary he’d been when he fell into bed. He tossed and turned and now and again came full awake in a sort of frenzy, certain that alarm bells had gone off or the roof was falling in, and he had to run and warn people and Do Something.

Though he gave up hoping for sleep by the time the sun had climbed a short distance from the horizon, he remained in bed. Arms folded under his head while he stared at the canopy, he relived his time with Leonie, especially the last few hours of that time.

Eventually he heard Polcaire creep in as he always did, to make all ready before his master thought of stirring. This morning the master stirred, to the valet’s annoyance. He wasn’t any happier when the master bathed, shaved, and dressed with indecent haste, and went down to breakfast.

Swanton was eating.
Foxe’s Morning Spectacle
lay folded for easy reading at the edge of his plate.

“The news can’t be completely ghastly, if you still have an appetite,” Lisburne said.

“I’m hoping to find a clue to the truth,” Swanton said. “A name, a word I might have missed—something, anything, that might rouse dormant memories. I’m pretending the
Spectacle
talks about somebody else. It might as well, since Foxe has included three conflicting reports. The most intelligible one deals in exhausting detail with what everybody wore.” A pause. “Especially what your cousin Lady Gladys wore. And what she said. In this article, she gets more column inches than Lady Clara.” He looked up at Lisburne. “I did wonder whether you’d written the piece, but then I couldn’t picture you rhapsodizing about your lady cousins, even Lady Clara, whom everybody seems to agree is the most beautiful woman in London. Falling into raptures about a woman isn’t your style. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you fall into raptures about anything. And what do you know about women’s clothes, beyond the quickest way to get them off?”

It was true that Lisburne wasn’t inclined to be poetical about women. He hadn’t done so since he was a schoolboy in the throes of his first infatuation.

Yet he’d quoted Shakespeare to Leonie—from a lovers’ scene in
Romeo and Juliet
, no less.

Not that Swanton needed to know that.

“You aren’t even attentive to your own clothes,” Swanton said.

Lisburne looked down at himself and frowned.

A scene from
As You Like It
rose in his mind’s eye: Rosalind describing how to recognize a man in love.

Then your hose should be ungarter’d . . . your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and every thing about you demonstrating a careless desolation.

But that was drama and poetry—Swanton’s line—and Lisburne was
not
in love. He’d simply been too tired and irritated to want to spend the usual eternity dressing.

Swanton was saying, newspaper in hand, “You always leave your appearance to Polcaire. Maybe he can translate this for us. ‘Sleeves with double bouffans and lace sabot’? ‘Corsage half high mounting’? Have you the least notion what any of this means?”

Lisburne shook his head and moved to the sideboard. He stared at the covered dishes for a time before he realized his mind wasn’t on food. It held only Leonie. Wearing his hat and some bits of gossamer. Wearing nothing but the half smile . . . caressing him . . . sure of him . . .

Very well. He liked her excessively. He lusted for her, perhaps more than was entirely comfortable. But he wasn’t
in love.
He was aware such a thing existed. His parents had been deeply in love. But they were exceptions, from all he’d seen.

“I see you’re as stumped as I am,” Swanton said. “I suppose the word is meant to be
bouffant
, but I’m at sea as to where this bouffant is on the sleeve and how it’s doubled—vertically or horizontally—and how this is accomplished.”

“I’ll ask Madame when I speak to her,” Lisburne said. “
If
she’ll speak to me.”

“Did you not part on good terms last night?”

Before Lisburne’s weary brain could compose a discreet reply, Swanton fell back in his chair and smote his forehead precisely in the way a poet ought to do. “But how stupid of me! How could you part on good terms, after what’s happened? And there was I, looking like the most thoroughgoing idiot when she asked me about the child. Did you see her expression when she asked me if I was claiming amnesia? By gad, a man ought at least have an inkling as to whether he’s fathered a child! I was too agitated to examine the little girl—but had she the look of me, do you think?”

“From the little I could see, she had the look of you and thousands of other Englishmen,” Lisburne said.

He threw food on his plate without heeding what it was, and returned to his place and sat down. He ate because food was necessary to sustain a man, and he needed sustenance because he had a great deal to do today. He couldn’t afford to be romantically languishing, caring nothing for such banal matters as food. He wasn’t a poet. Let Swanton keep his head in the clouds. Lisburne was the one with his feet on the ground.

They ate in silence, Swanton poring over the
Spectacle
as though he were an antiquarian perusing a scroll newly dug from the ashes of Pompeii.

By the time they finished breakfast, Lisburne had decided what to do. One decision was to tell Swanton as little as possible. Another was to pay a visit to Maison Noirot, though he wasn’t sure what he’d do or say when he got there.

He made the mistake of mentioning the projected Maison Noirot visit to Swanton. Then he had to spend an irritating amount of time convincing his poetic cousin of the likelihood of disastrous results, should he come along.

“But Lady Gladys might be there,” Swanton said.

“If you want to see her so badly, go to Warford House,” Lisburne said. “It’s absurd to hope for a chance encounter at Maison Noirot. How often do you imagine women visit their dressmakers? Even the vainest don’t make it a daily exercise.”

“The family isn’t at home on Tuesdays,” Swanton said.

Lisburne stared at him.

Swanton’s ears and neck became tinged with red. “I overheard somebody say something about calling there today, and somebody else said the family doesn’t receive visitors on Tuesdays,” he said. “Not that they’d receive me, in any event. You can’t suppose I’d want to show my face to Lady Warford the day after I’ve been exposed as a debaucher of innocent young women and a getter of bastards whom I deny and abandon.”

“Then I recommend you loiter in Hyde Park during the promenade hours,” Lisburne said. “When Gladys drives by, run out into the road, pretending to be in some sort of poetic agony. But do give her time to stop the carriage, unless you’d like to be trampled and die with a stain, possibly undeserved, on your escutcheon.”

Swanton gave him a piercing look. “You’re strangely whimsical today.”

“I’m obliged to exercise my imagination,” Lisburne said, “since yours seems to have deserted you at Vauxhall. I can’t believe I need to tell a man of five and twenty how to further his acquaintance with a girl. I can’t believe you resort to skulking about pleasure gardens eavesdropping. I don’t understand why you can’t approach her in a straightforward manner.”

He left the room and went upstairs, where a greatly relieved Polcaire put his unsentimental and not-at-all-in-love master into proper attire.

Maison Noirot

Later that afternoon

W
e’ll have to send for Sophy,” Marcelline was saying. “The piece in the
Spectacle
was so clever. I know how much you dislike that sort of thing. Yet you did a fine job, and I’m sure it smoothed matters quite a bit. Unfortunately, ‘quite a bit’ is insufficient. Clevedon and I have talked until we’re blue in the face, and neither of us knows how to do it as it needs to be done. We need Sophy.”

“The fact is, no one knows how Sophy does it,” the Duke of Clevedon said.

The three stood in the showroom, which was empty of customers. A paucity of clients wasn’t unusual at this time of day, when the ladies were at home, dressing for the promenade or resting before dressing for the evening. However, the ladies had kept away all day. Even Lady Clara had sent a note apologizing for not coming to show her support—but her mama had not thought it advisable for her to visit the shop quite yet. Lady Gladys, according to the note, had made a brilliant argument in favor of the shop, but as everybody knew, it was nigh impossible to get round Clara’s mama once she’d made up her mind. Only Sophy could do that, and Sophy wasn’t here.

“We can’t bring her back,” Leonie said. “It’s too soon. People will recognize her, especially now, when we’ll all be under extra scrutiny.”

“That nitwit Swanton,” Clevedon said. “I should like to tear his head straight off his neck. I’m not the only one. Don’t delude yourself, Leonie. When Longmore gets wind of this—which he’s bound to do in a matter of days, if not hours—he’ll race back to London to break Swanton into pieces. And Lisburne as well, for not keeping his flighty cousin under proper restraint.”

“I don’t understand why people expect Lord Lisburne to control his cousin,” Leonie said. “Lord Swanton is a grown man. And I daresay he was man enough five years ago, in Paris.”

Fortunately or unfortunately, she’d had direct experience of what Swanton might or might not have done with the woman in black. Though her hair was red, her coloring wasn’t a typical redhead’s. Leonie lacked freckles and the tendency to easy blushing. Yet she felt hot, and she was aware of a tingling in a place below her waist that didn’t normally tingle.

“It’s no good playing propriety with us,
chéri
,” Marcelline said to her husband. “We all know what you were doing in Paris, only six months ago. Englishmen go there to debauch.”

“That isn’t the point,” Clevedon said. “The point is, everybody knows Swanton is a dreamer. He needs minding. Lisburne, of all others, knows this.”

“I do not see why Lord Lisburne’s life must always revolve around Lord Swanton’s,” Leonie said. “It’s one thing to look after a younger, weaker cousin when they’re boys at school. But Swanton is quite old enough to look after himself. Or if this is beyond him, he ought to hire a bodyguard.”

Marcelline looked at her.

Later
, Leonie mouthed.

She always told Marcelline everything. But she hadn’t had time to share the momentous news. Marcelline had come with Clevedon. While Leonie liked and respected him, she was not about to confide in her sister while Clevedon was present. Not only present but furious with Lord Lisburne and his impractical cousin.

“This would not be a problem,” Clevedon said, “if the three of you weren’t directly involved with the shop at present. If you were ordinary dressmakers, no one would blink. But you’re not ordinary dressmakers anymore—”

“We never were,” said his wife. “
Ordinary
, indeed! I cannot believe you said that.”

“You’re a duchess,” he said. “Sophy’s a countess. No one cares what dressmakers do. Everybody minds what duchesses and countesses do. Great Zeus, Marcelline, you were presented to the Queen! Can you not understand the implications? You may care nothing for Society—”

“What nonsense. I care everything for it. Society is my clientele.”

“Those people form your
social acquaintance
,” he said. “It’s too ludicrous, your hosting a dinner for ladies you must wait on the next day in the shop.”

Leonie had no doubt this quarrel had been going on for some time. Initially, Clevedon had let Marcelline go her way without interference, because he appreciated her passion for her work. He understood that she was an artist, and her work was part of who she was. Too, he couldn’t see how to stop her. That would demand extreme measures, like violence or confinement, and he wasn’t that kind of man.

But now she was pregnant, and the pregnancy had made her ill, and he worried.

The plain fact was, he was right, in all the essentials. Logic told Leonie that the present state of affairs couldn’t continue and oughtn’t to. A duchess had responsibilities, and the social responsibilities mattered. Great hostesses wielded political as well as social power. Marcelline had the potential to be a great hostess. She had all the DeLucey and Noirot charm. She was clever. She could do more good as a duchess than as a dressmaker.

But she would be wretched if she couldn’t design clothes. She was an artist. She needed her art.

Logic had not yet shown Leonie how to resolve the conflict.

“Most certainly we need to talk about that,” she said. “But at present it would be more productive to deal with the immediate problem. Why don’t we adjourn to my office? It’s no use hanging about here, waiting for nobody to come in.”

The shop bell tinkled. All three heads turned toward the door.

Lord Lisburne sauntered in.

L
isburne.”

“Clevedon.”

An exchange of cool nods.

Lisburne’s heart might be going faster than it needed to, but that had more to do with anticipation regarding Leonie than with any fear of Clevedon. Lisburne wasn’t afraid of any man, even this one, who was as large and strong as he was, and who seemed larger still, because he was almost visibly swelling with anger.

Lisburne made himself larger, too.

“Come to buy some dresses?” Clevedon said. “Because nobody else has.”

Lisburne looked at Leonie, who did not seem overjoyed to see him.

“Not one customer, all day,” she said.