Regency Rogues and Rakes: Silk is for Seduction / Scandal Wears Satin / Vixen in Velvet / Seven Nights in a Rogue's Bed / A Rake's Midnight Kiss / What a Duke Dares. Loretta Chase
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why Marcelline had pursued him in Paris, mad scheme that it was. The Duchess of Clevedon was their direct route to success. She’d end Dowdy’s dominance. Then the perverse incompetent who called herself a dressmaker would no longer have the power to undermine them.
That was the plan. The Duchess of Clevedon had been the main objective.
Lady Clara was not going to be the Duchess of Clevedon—not after that speech, in front of an audience. But Sophy had rescued them, which meant that the essential plan, of dominating London’s dressmaking trade, remained.
Marcelline’s feelings didn’t come into it. Her feelings were her problem.
Sophy, on the other hand, had spent the night on her feet, working, after a long day in the shop spent mainly on her feet, working.
“I’ll admit I met with a bit more excitement than I’d expected,” Sophy said. “I told you I’d maneuvered to a prime position near the French windows, where I could hear every word. No one noticed me. No one notices servants. Then, when I was coming away, I ran into Lord Longmore.”
Both Marcelline and Leonie looked at her, eyebrows aloft.
“Not literally,” Sophy said. “But there he was. I expected he’d look right through me and continue on his way the way they all do, as though nobody was there. Servants, like shopkeepers, are nobody, after all. But he stopped dead and said, ‘What are you doing here?’ You could have knocked me over with a feather, but I never blinked. ‘Working, sir,’ said I in my best maidservant voice—you know, the one with the hint of the Lancashire country girl. ‘What, did they turn you off from the shop?’ said he. ‘What shop?’ said I. And then, as deferential as you please, I suggested he’d mixed me up with another girl. But he wasn’t having any of it. He gave me a hard look, and I was sure he’d keep at the interrogation, and give me away, but then his mother started shrieking, and he rolled his eyes and went that way.”
“You’d better watch out for him,” Marcelline said sharply. “He’s not the fool he makes out to be, and the last thing we need is another one of us getting mixed up with an aristocrat.”
“I don’t think he wants to get mixed up with me,” Sophy said. “I think he wishes us all at the devil. I think he may even believe we are the devil.”
“Let’s hope the ladies of the beau monde don’t feel the same way,” Leonie said.
“They won’t,” Sophy said. She got up and started for the door. “I believe I will go back to bed. But don’t let me sleep for too long. I don’t want to miss the fun. Oh, and if I were you, I’d put out the grey dress.”
Downes’s shop, later that same day
Mrs. Downes grimly regarded the dress lying on the counter. “How many does this make?” she asked her forewoman Oakes.
“Six,” said Oakes.
“Lady Gorrell threw it at me,” said Mrs. Downes.
“Shocking, madam.” Oakes, who’d witnessed the event, wasn’t at all shocked. Had she been the one to learn she’d paid a premium price for a dress exactly like one her friends had seen at Covent Garden Theater last year, she’d have reacted the same way.
Oakes had warned her employer. The sleeves, she’d pointed out when she saw the patterns—allegedly sent by Madam’s associate in Paris—were in last years’ style. Mrs. Downes had assumed either that Oakes was an idiot or her customers wouldn’t notice. Many of them, accustomed to trusting her implicitly, didn’t. At first. But they were quickly set straight.
Only one dressmaker in London made such memorable attire for ladies, and that dressmaker was not Mrs. Downes. Her customers’ eyes were soon opened by their more observant friends and relatives, who recalled seeing such and such a dress at a banquet, the theater, Hyde Park, and so on. Of a dozen orders so far, six owners had returned their purchases, furious about having paid high sums for not merely copies, but copies of last years’ fashion. Mrs. Downes had been hoaxed, beyond a doubt, beautifully hoaxed.
Oakes wondered how much her employer had paid for old patterns, and how many customers she’d lose as word got about.
It was time, the forewoman thought, to find a new position.
As Clevedon had expected, the shop was mobbed that day.
He passed it on his way to White’s Club and again on his way to the boot makers, the hat makers, the wine merchant, and others. He’d shopped for things he didn’t need, simply to keep in St. James’s Street. He was waiting for Maison Noirot’s eager throngs to melt away.
He’d read the Morning Spectacle, as had most of the Beau Monde, apparently. He wasn’t amazed at Foxe’s having got hold of the story. The man was noted for that. The detail was another matter. Clearly, Foxe had planted a spy in their midst.
The spy could be none other than Miss Sophia. The story—entirely about the dress, lovingly described, with the dressmaking establishment prominently mentioned—was in her dramatic style. To have done all that in time for today’s edition, she had to have been on the spot.
That, actually, was a relief.
His one great worry was that last night’s debacle would mark the end of Maison Noirot. The ton would blame Mrs. Noirot for leading him astray, and they’d shun her, as she’d warned him time and again. Clara would never return to the shop, and Mrs. Noirot would be marked down as a temptress and a harlot. Henceforth the ladies would have nothing to do with her.
But the ladies came today in an endless parade, stepping down from their carriages and peeping into the shop windows before going in. At this rate, they’d wear out the shop bell.
…a dress that inspired its wearer not only with the confidence to decline the addresses of a duke but with the fire of poetry…
The impudence of it passed all bounds.
Typical. The impudence of those Noirot women was beyond anything. And like all else they did, the article was well done, indeed. He would have liked to hug Sophia for it, but Sophia wasn’t the first person on his mind.
It wasn’t Sophia who’d kept him awake all night.
It wasn’t Sophia who’d got him up to pace and argue with himself. A futile argument.
From the time he’d escaped the party, from the time he’d stood on the pavement and realized why he was shaking, he’d seen there was only one way to put an end to this farce.
And so he waited until the afternoon waned and the ladies had gone home to dress for the ritual promenade in Hyde Park.
Then he crossed to the other side of St. James’s Street and entered Maison Noirot.
The shop bell tinkled, and Marcelline thought, Will they never go home?
She was happy, of course. This had been a day like no other—not even the day after she’d returned from Paris and the ladies had come to stare at the poussière dress. Today, though, herds of women had come. Their old shop could never have contained them all. As it was, she needed to find at least six more seamstresses in no time at all, otherwise they would never complete all the orders by the dates promised.
All this went through her head in the instant before she lifted her gaze from the tray of ribbons she was sorting, and looked toward the door.
Her heart beat painfully.
The gentleman stepped inside, and stopped and looked about. He did it exactly in the way all gentleman did when entering a shop for the first time: gazing coolly about them, evaluating what they saw, deciding whether it was worth their notice, and taking no notice of the lowly shopkeeper behind the counter.
But this wasn’t the first time he’d been here and this wasn’t any gentleman.
This was Clevedon, tall and arrogant, his hat tipped precisely so, his black hair curling under the brim. He carried