Vixen in Velvet (9 page)

“That hardly makes us even!”

“The biggest army, even in the smartest uniforms, doesn’t always win the battle,” Leonie said. “Did his lordship your father never tell you that cleverness and luck come into it?”

Shortly thereafter

A
t this time of day, when ladies of fashion were dressing for the parade in Hyde Park, Lisburne had expected to find the shop relatively quiet. Otherwise he wouldn’t have let Swanton come with him. The shop was quiet enough. The showroom held a few shopgirls restoring order after their most recent customers. They were putting ribbons and trinkets into drawers, reorganizing display cases, straightening hats their clientele had tipped askew, and rearranging mannequins’ skirts. The only remaining customer was an elderly lady who couldn’t make up her mind among several shades of brown ribbon.

Swanton was pacing at one end of the showroom when the girl returned to inform them that they needed to make an appointment.

“They must be busy with an important client,” Lisburne told him. “Why don’t you toddle up to White’s? The club will be free of women, and you can compose your turbulent mind with the aid of a glass of wine or whiskey.”

Swanton had stopped pacing when the girl returned from her errand. Now he looked about him as though he’d forgotten where he was. “White’s,” he said.

“Yes. The young ladies can’t get to you there.”

“And you?”

“I’m going to wait,” Lisburne said. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying out our errand on my own. And I can do it in a more businesslike manner if you’re not mooning about.”

“I need to write half a dozen new poems in less than a week!” Swanton said. “You’d be in a state of abstraction, too.”

“All the more reason for you to go away to a quiet place, where the women are not giggling and blushing and making up excuses to get close to you.”

Naturally Swanton didn’t realize what was going on about him. The shopgirls would have to hit him on the head with a hat stand to get his full attention. Still, unlike the young ladies of the ton, they were mainly excited to have a celebrity in their midst. They probably hadn’t time to read his poetry—if they could read. Their interest wasn’t
personal
, in other words.

Swanton looked about him, seeing whatever hazy version of reality he saw. “Very well,” he said. “I can take a hint.”

No, you can’t
, Lisburne thought.

With any luck, Swanton would manage to cross St. James’s Street without walking into the path of an oncoming carriage. If not, and if he seemed headed into danger, a sympathetic female would rush out and rescue him, even if she was one of the two people in London who didn’t know who he was. Because he looked like an angel.

In any case, Lisburne wasn’t his nursemaid. Furthermore, he’d wrestled with enough of the poet’s problems in the past two days.

He was in dire need of mental relief.

Such as Miss Leonie Noirot.

Who was too
busy
to see him.

He walked about the shop, studying the mannequins and the contents of the display cases. He even allowed himself to be consulted on the matter of brown ribbons.

He was solemnly examining them through his quizzing glass, trying to decide which had a yellower cast, when Gladys hurried out into the showroom, then swiftly through the street door. Clara followed close behind. Neither noticed him, and he didn’t try to attract their attention.

“I wonder if Miss Noirot will see me now,” he said to the girl who’d told him to make an appointment.

The girl went out.

She returned a quarter hour later and led him to Miss Noirot’s office.

Chapter Five

The management of a dispute was formerly attempted by reason and argument; but the new way of adjusting all difference in opinion is by the sword or a wager: so that the only genteel method of dissenting, is to risk a thousand pounds, or take your chance of being run through the body.

The Connoisseur
, 1754

W
hen Lisburne entered, he found Miss Noirot straightening her ledgers with excessive force.

Since she’d spent more than an hour with Gladys, he diagnosed pent-up rage. No surprise there.

He was, however, distracted by the stormy picture Leonie Noirot made, in a maniacally feminine concoction of white muslin: the swoosh of the billowing sleeves and the way the overdress—robe—whatever it was—lifted and fell against the dress underneath and the agitated flutter of lace. Her bosom rose and fell, the embroidery and lace like white-capped waves on a tumultuous sea.

It was only a woman in a pet, by no means an unfamiliar sight. All the same, he had to take a moment to slow his breathing to normal and drag his wits out from the dark seas into which they were sinking.

“I sent Swanton up to White’s, but I thought it best to wait,” he said, his voice a shade hoarser than it ought to be.

She took up the little watch at her waist and opened the case. “An hour and twenty minutes,” she said.

“But I was waiting for
you
,” he said. “The time was as nothing. And it allowed me to perform deeds of mercy without much trouble.”

“Deeds of mercy,” she said. “Have you been helping my employees lose their wits? Or were you mercifully wafting sal volatile at the customers after you made them swoon?”

He adopted a hurt expression. “I helped somebody’s great-grandmother choose ribbons.”

“You ought to be careful, plying your ‘mercy’ upon elderly persons,” she said. “Their constitutions may not withstand the onslaught of so much manly beauty and charm. You may not realize how bad it is for business when ladies go off into apoplexies in our showroom.” She put the watch away, folded her arms, and donned a blankly amiable expression.

As though he were any other customer.

He squelched the prickle of irritation and told himself not to act like an oversensitive schoolboy. Careful to keep his voice smooth, he said, “Thank you for the reminder, madame. In future, I’ll take care to inflict my beauty and charm only on big, strong wenches.”

“I know you can’t help it,” she said. “You were born that way. But some of my best customers are the older ladies, and I don’t wish to send them off before their time.”

“I promise to try not to murder any elderly ladies by accident,” he said.

“Strictly speaking, it isn’t murder if it’s an accident,” she said. “Or if it looks like one,” she added, as though to herself. He saw her gaze shift to the desk . . . where she kept her penknife and probably other instruments of mayhem, like sharp scissors. Dressmakers always had sharp things about them—scissors, needles, pins. He had an odd sensation of having wandered inadvertently into danger. No doubt because the atmosphere seemed to vibrate with the passion she was having so much trouble suppressing.

He was very badly tempted to push, to see—experience—what happened when her control slipped.

“I have customers waiting, my lord,” she said. “I believe Parmenter said that you and Lord Swanton had come on
business
.”

He caught the note of impatience. What next? Would she throw things?

“So we did,” he said. He put two fingers to his right temple and pretended to think.

The air about him throbbed harder yet. “Perhaps it would be best for you to join Lord Swanton at White’s. Perhaps if the two of you put your heads together, you’ll remember what it was that was so desperately urgent.”

She started toward the door.

“Oh, yes, now I remember,” he said. “It’s to do with the girls you’ve taken under your wing. Swanton and I want to help.”

She paused. “My girls,” she said.

Her
girls.

“The Milliners’ Society,” he said. “The poetic genius and I came to tell you about our brilliant idea for raising funds.”

She wanted him to go to the devil. She wanted funds for her girls. The struggle between these opposing desires was so well concealed that he would have missed it had he not been watching her so closely.

She couldn’t altogether calm herself, but she mastered the impatience.

“I shouldn’t have plagued you today, especially when it’s clear you’re so extremely
busy
,” he said. “The trouble is, we need to do it quickly, and I wasn’t sure I could get an appointment soon enough.”

She folded her hands at her waist. “It was very good of you and Lord Swanton to think of the Milliners’ Society,” she said.

“I should like to know how we could avoid doing so, when I brought home the shop’s entire contents,” he said. “We can hardly stir a step in the library without tripping over pincushions and purses and who knows what. Having to plan prevented Swanton from excessive weeping. I was so glad I didn’t bring him to the shop with me. He’d have wanted weeks to recover. And I very much doubt we have weeks, young women being famously fickle.”

“You said you had a plan,” she said, womanfully crushing her impatience.

“Ah, yes. The plan.” He went on to describe it. In detail. With various detours and contingencies.

If he’d hoped for an explosion, he’d underestimated her.

She moved to her desk, took up a pen, and took brisk notes.

While she wrote, he talked and wandered seemingly aimlessly about her office, gradually drawing nearer, until he paused beside her to watch her write.

She had compressed his meandering verbiage amazingly: a charity fête at Vauxhall during the grand gala on Monday night. Swanton to read new poems in one of the smaller theaters. An additional five-shilling fee for admission to the poetry reading. A small percentage of proceeds to Vauxhall’s proprietors for use of the hall. The rest to the Milliners’ Society for the Education of Indigent Females.

He was aware of the words but more aware of the sounds. Everything upon her person fluttered and billowed, so that even nearly still, only writing, she made a sort of murmuring sea of sound, audible below the pen’s scratching. Mingling with the sibilance was her scent, light and clean, of lavender.

His mind conjured nights in the Tuscan mountains, high in a villa overlooking a tiny village . . . glowworms flickering in the darkness of the terraced vineyards below . . . and the scent of lavender, carrying his first intimations of grief easing and a possibility of peace.

He was aware of a stabbing in his chest, and of heat, in so sudden a surge that it startled him, and he drew back a fraction.

She looked up at him.

“What a knack you have for . . . reducing the thing to its essentials,” he said.

“I’ve had plenty of practice,” she said. “My sisters are geniuses, but they’re not concise.” Before he could comment she went on, “Monday night is rather short notice. Most of the ton will be engaged already.”

“While Swanton’s star is in the ascendant, people will make time,” he said. “We start early, which allows his admirers to listen to him for an hour, then go on to their other amusements. But it will be all new poetry, always a draw. Well, then, will it do?”

She put her pen back into its place. “Certainly. This is most generous of his lordship.”

“You rescued his lecture the other night,” he said. “And then there were the things the girls made. Very touching.”

“Yes, I daresay.” She straightened away from the desk, getting away from him so smoothly that he didn’t realize it until she’d done it, and the tantalizing scent was gone. “I expect you shall want one of the patronesses of the Milliners’ Society to put in an appearance.”

He resisted the urge to draw near again. He oughtn’t to have been breathing down her neck in the first place. He knew better than to be so obvious.

“And she ought to make a little speech,” he said. “To solicit additional donations. Men are more likely to empty their pockets if an attractive woman is onstage, asking them.”

“It will have to be me,” she said. “Marcelline’s unwell and Sophy’s away. But I’m good at talking about money and getting it out of people, so that’s all right. Well, then, my lord.” She set down her pen and stepped back from the desk. “I do thank you, indeed. Will there be anything else?”

The dismissal couldn’t have been clearer.

He told himself he wasn’t provoked and certainly needn’t provoke in retaliation, like a child. Yet he took his time. First he reread her notes, then he looked over the items on her desk.

“Did you forget a part of your plan?” she said. “Mistake the time? The entrance fee?”

“No, it’s all in order.” He stepped away. “All in order.”

But she wasn’t. She was still smoldering away.

Because of Gladys.

Then he remembered the whispery voice behind the fan.

“There was only—” He broke off. “But no, I’m sure it’s of no possible interest to you. Idle gossip.”

He sensed rather than saw her come to sharp attention. He knew little about dressmaking but he understood business far better than he let on. For business people, gossip was seldom truly idle. If Sir A was on the brink of bankruptcy or Lord B was growing tired of his mistress or Lady C was hiding gigantic gambling debts from her husband, their tradesmen wanted to be the first to know.

“Well, then, I shan’t keep you,” she said cheerfully.

He ought to go. Her business errors weren’t his problem—and she couldn’t wait to be rid of him. He started for the door.

One, two, three paces. He was reaching for the handle when Lady Alda’s blue and pink fan fluttered in his mind’s eye and he heard her whisper, all feigned concern.

Could someone not counsel dear Lady Gladys? It is a great shame she’s put herself into such hands. I shall not say those women are
unscrupulous
, precisely. And yet . . .

He stopped and turned back to her. “No, I can’t do it. I can’t go without knowing. Miss Noirot, I’m perishing of curiosity. Tell me you didn’t tell Gladys you’d make her the belle of the ball.”

She blinked once.

“You’ve blinked,” he said. “In you that can only be a sign of tremendous shock. Perhaps I ought to have broken the news more gently.”

“No, no. I was only taken aback at the change of subject.” She shook her head. “I’m not at all shocked. I’d heard they’re already placing bets.”

“They were all tittering about it at Lady Jersey’s assembly last night,” he said. “Are you saying it’s true? The belle of the ball?
Gladys?
”

She donned the politely amiable smile. “You seem to find it inconceivable that Lady Gladys has unfulfilled potential. To you it may seem impossible that anybody not born beautiful and charming could ever win anybody’s heart. Or do I misunderstand?”

“We’re not talking about anybody,” he said. “We’re talking about
Gladys
. You can’t be serious.”

“A young woman’s hopes and dreams are no joking matter to me,” she said. “My livelihood depends on helping her achieve them. In this case, I have every expectation of accomplishing our mutual aims, and all is well in hand. By the time Maison Noirot is done with her, Lady Gladys will need only to crook her finger to have any beau she wants.”

L
eonie wanted to choke him.

How dare he? That poor girl!

“This is deranged,” he said. “I thought you were a sensible woman of business.”

“Pray don’t trouble yourself,” she said. “I know what I’m about, my lord.”

“No, you don’t know what you’re about,” he said. “You don’t know Gladys.”

“I know her better than you do,” she said.

“She has a talent for making trouble wherever she goes,” he said. “The other night she nearly got Val into a duel. She has somehow provoked you to a challenge impossible to meet, and led you in far over your head.”

“Led me?” she said with a smile. “Led
me.
” The notion of any Noirot being led was hilarious.

“You’ll become a laughingstock,” he said. “Your business will suffer. And my cousin Gladys will never be grateful for any efforts you exert on her behalf. She won’t thank you for any sacrifices you make for her. What she’ll do is blame Maison Noirot for not doing what is completely impossible to do!”

“You underestimate me,” she said. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

There was a short, taut silence.

He eyed her up and down.

Sizing her up.

She was used to arrogant men looking her over. But he might as well have put his hands where his glittering green gaze went. She grew hot and confused. And so she made a mistake.

She returned the favor.

A very stupid mistake, given the perfectly sculpted face and dangerous green eyes and the powerful torso . . . tapering to a taut waist and then the view downward . . . looooong, muscled legs. She felt a wave of dizziness, which she resolutely ignored.

“By the time you’re done with her,” he said slowly, as slowly as he’d let his gaze run up and down over her like hands. “That’s conveniently vague. This strikes me as a life’s work.”

She was going to make him pay. The pride of the Noirots and DeLuceys demanded it.

“Let me see,” she said. She put two fingers to her temple the way he’d done before, pretending to be an idiot. “What is today? The fifteenth. She’ll have gentlemen at her feet by the month’s end.”

She leaned over the desk to reach for a pencil that had shifted a degree out of alignment with its fellows. The position, she was aware, placed her backside prominently on view. A not so subtle taunt. But then, subtlety was usually wasted on men.

“At her feet,” he said. His voice had dropped and grown rougher. “In a trifle over a fortnight’s time.”

“Yes.”

“Anybody she wants,” he said.

“Yes.” She fiddled with the pencil, waiting.

He said, “Would you care to make a wager?”

She swallowed a smile.

M
adame took her own sweet time placing the pencil in the tray, aligning it with the others.