Regency Rogues and Rakes. Anna Campbell

Almack’s—”

      “I shall send you a dress tomorrow,” Noirot said. “I or one of my sisters will personally deliver it to you, at not later than seven o’clock, at which time we shall make any final adjustments you require. The dress will be perfect.”

      “But my mother—”

      “You will have already dealt with her, as I suggested,” Noirot said.

      Clara looked at Clevedon. “She is the most dictatorial creature,” she said.

      “His grace has been so kind as to mention this character flaw before,” Noirot said with nary a glance at Clevedon. “I serve women of fashion all day long, six days a week. One must either dominate or be dominated.”

      Ah, there it was: the disarming frankness, leavened with a touch of humor.

      Gad, she was beyond anything!

      “I have had enough of being dominated for the present,” Clara said. “Clevedon, pray be patient another few minutes, and I shall be glad to take the air with you. I promise to be back in a trice. Mrs. Noirot has left me a few paltry items she finds not completely abhorrent. My maid shall not have any momentous decisions to make regarding bonnets or anything else.”

      She started toward the door, and hesitated. Then, with the look of one who’d made up her mind, she went out.

      She had exactly what she wanted, Marcelline told herself. More than she’d hoped for. She hadn’t even had to wait for the betrothal. She had Lady Clara already, and a large order. Tomorrow night, the crème de la crème of Society would see Lady Clara Fairfax wearing a Noirot creation.

      Maison Noirot would soon be the foremost dressmaking establishment in London.

      Marcelline had accomplished everything—and more—than she’d planned when she set out for Paris, mere weeks ago.

      She could not be happier.

      She told herself this while she set about sorting the various rejected items of Lady Clara’s wardrobe.

      “Are you going to burn them?” came Clevedon’s voice from the corner to which he’d withdrawn.

      “Certainly not,” she said.

      “But they have no redeeming qualities,” he said. “I should never have noticed the poor choices in color before you poisoned my mind, but even I can discern inferior cut and stitchery.”

      “They can be taken apart and remade,” Marcelline said. “I am a patroness of a charitable establishment for women. Her ladyship was so generous as to allow me to take half the discards for my girls.”

      “Your girls,” he said. “You—you’re a philanthropist?” He laughed.

      She longed to throw something at him.

      A chair. Herself.

      But that was her shallow Noirot heart speaking. He was beautiful. Watching him move made her mouth go dry. It wasn’t fair that she couldn’t have him without complications. In bed—or on a carriage seat or against a wall—it wouldn’t matter that he was idle and arrogant and oblivious. If only she could simply use him and discard him, the way men used and discarded women.

      But she couldn’t. And she’d used him already, though not in that way. She’d used him in a more important way. She’d got what she’d wanted.

      A maid entered, and Marcelline spent a moment directing her. When she went out again with a heap of clothing, Marcelline did not take up the conversation where it had stopped. She did not take up the conversation at all.

      She wouldn’t let him disturb her in any way. She was very, very happy. She’d achieved her goals.

      “Which set of unfortunate women is it?” he said. “I’ll tell my secretary to make a donation. If they can make anything of those dresses, they’ll have earned it.”

      “The Milliners’ Society for the Education of Indigent Females.” She could have added that she and her sisters had founded it last year. They’d learned at an early age more than they wanted to know about indigence and the difficulties of earning a living.

      But her past was a secret under lock and key. “Some of our girls have gone on to become ladies’ maids,” she said. “The majority find places as seamstresses, for which there’s always need, particularly during mourning periods.” Luckily for them, the court was frequently in mourning, thanks to the British royal family’s penchant for marrying their Continental cousins.

      The butler entered, followed by a footman carrying a tray of refreshments to sustain his grace during the wait for her ladyship.

      Marcelline was famished. She’d been waiting on Lady Clara since this morning, and had not been offered a bite to eat or anything to drink. But mere tradesmen did not merit feeding.

      Oh, would the girl never be dressed? How long did it take to tie on a bonnet and throw a shawl about one’s shoulders? One would think, given her anxieties about Marcelline ruining his life, Lady Clara would not leave them alone together for above half a minute.

      But they were hardly alone, with servants going to and fro. Not that Lady Clara had anything to worry about, servants or no servants.

      The only designs Marcelline had were upon her lady-ship’s statuesque person—and her father’s and future husband’s purses.

      That was all.

      She was very, very happy.

      The silence stretched out, broken only by the servants’ comings and goings.

      Then, at last, at long last, Lady Clara reappeared.

      Marcelline stopped sorting for long enough to make an adjustment to her ladyship’s bonnet—it was not tilted precisely as it ought to be—and to twitch her cashmere shawl into a more enticing arrangement. Her shawls were very fine. One could not fault her there.

      Having arranged Lady Clara to her satisfaction, Marcelline stepped away, made a proper curtsey, and returned to her work.

      She was aware of Clevedon’s big frame passing not far from her. She was aware of the muffled sound of his boots on the carpet. she heard the low murmur, his voice mingling with Lady Clara’s, and the latter’s soft laughter.

      Marcelline kept busy with her work and did not watch them go.

      And when they were gone, she told herself she’d done a fine job, and she’d done nobody any great wrong—a miracle, considering her bloodline—and she had every reason to be glad.

       That evening

      The gown Mrs. Whitwood had returned lay on the counter. the enraged customer had come and gone while Marcelline was dancing attendance upon Lady Clara Fairfax at Warford House.

      Sophy had soothed Mrs. Whitwood. Sophy could soothe Attila the Hun. The dress would be remade. The cost was mainly in labor, the smallest cost of making a dress. Still, it cost time—time that Marcelline, her sisters, and her seamstresses could be spending on other orders.

      If this kept up, they’d be ruined. It wasn’t simply that they couldn’t afford to keep remaking dresses. They couldn’t afford the damage to their reputation.

      Marcelline was studying the dress, deciding what to change. “Who worked on it?” she asked Pritchett, her senior seamstress.

      “Madame, if there is a fault with the workmanship it must be mine,” Pritchett said. “I supervised every stitch of this dress. But madame can see for herself. It is precisely as madame ordered.”

      “Indeed, and the details, as you know, are of my own design,” Marcelline said. “It’s very strange that another dress should appear, bearing these same details. The angle and width of the pleats of the bodice was my own invention. How curious that another dressmaker should have precisely the same idea, in the same style of dress.”

      “Most unfortunate,