“He’s never too busy to see me.”
Cabot didn’t bother denying it, because it was quite true. Still, he eyed her sticky hands and face and sighed. “I’ll be right back.”
Since she adored Cabot, mostly because he never, ever treated her like a child, she waited with uncharacteristic patience. He returned with a bowl of steaming water and a towel. There was a very pretty little soap, pressed into the shape of a fish that Attie promptly dropped into the bowl so she could watch it swim to the bottom. Then she scrubbed her face and hands until even the grime under her nails was gone.
There was no point in rebelling against Cabot. He was the only person in the world who was actually more persistent than she was. And she felt sorry for him.
Clean at last, she dried off with the luxurious bit of toweling and handed it back to Cabot, grimy streaks and all. “It’s really important.”
He didn’t seem impressed. “It always is.”
Still, he led her down a silk-papered hallway to a simple painted door and tapped on it. “It’s the littlest one,” he announced through the wood.
In response to a murmur from the other side, Cabot opened the door and ushered Attie through.
The man at the small cluttered desk turned to greet her with a sweet smile. “Ah, the lovely Atalanta! What a fetching frock.”
Attie looked down at her dress and plucked indifferently at the deflated bodice. “It was Ellie’s.”
The man tilted his head. “I imagine it was. I would be happy to make up one new for you, you know.”
Attie shrugged and plunked herself down on the faded needlepoint footstool at his knee and happily contemplated the tiny, cluttered office of the renowned Lementeur, the greatest and most expensive dressmaker in all of England. “No need,” she said. “I’ll likely get a bosom eventually.”
She loved to come here. Being in this little room, with its piles of papers and fabrics on the desk and bits of trimming pinned up on the walls that nearly covered the hundreds of drawings layered beneath them—why, it reminded her of Worthington House!
Wrapping her arms around her knees, she rocked gently to and fro. “I have a problem.”
Lementeur, or Mr. Button, as he was known to the Worthington clan, nodded sagely. “I could tell the moment I saw you. You must be extremely distressed to have forgotten—”
“Oh!” Attie sat up and dug into her pocket. “Here. These are for you!”
Button beamed as if he’d been handed the Crown Jewels. “Ah! You did remember! How very kind!” With utmost care, he took the slightly grubby paper packet that had gone just a bit sweat-soft in her pocket and untwisted it with an expression of delighted expectation.
“Lemon drops! How did you know?”
Attie chuckled, for he always said that. When he offered her one, she graciously accepted and popped it into her mouth. For several minutes they sat in companionable silence sucking on the sweet-tart hard candies. Then, with a sigh of satisfaction, Button carefully redid the paper twist and stored the gift carefully in the chaos of his desk.
Then he dusted his hands in a businesslike fashion and turned back to Attie. “Tell me everything.”
Attie did, relating the fight between the twins, her visit to Mrs. Talbot, confessing even her eavesdropping without hesitation, for Button understood that in a world of misbehaving adults, a child did what a child had to do.
“Oh, dear” and “oh, heavens” were his only responses as he let her tell the entire tale without interruption.
She really, truly loved Button.
When she finished with a sigh, Button nodded. “I see. It is indeed a pickle.” He leaned forward eagerly. “What do you propose to do about it?”
Attie scratched meditatively at her nose. “Well, I thought about poison, of course. I think I could really do it properly this time.”
Button pursed his lips. “Oh my. Is she so terrible?”
She wrinkled her nose. “No, actually. She’s really rather nice, as it happens. I mean, she must be removed from between Cas and Poll, obviously, but this time I don’t see any immediate need for murder.”
Button let out a breath. “Well … that’s a relief,” he said faintly.
Attie nodded in agreement. Her last attempt at homicide had not gone very well at all. She really wasn’t ready to attempt it again. Not that she’d lost her nerve or anything. Simply … not ready.
“I thought and thought, and then I had the answer. We must make her beautiful!”
“Ah!” Button brightened at once. “My favorite thing!”
Attie nodded quickly. “Yes! If she’s beautiful, then she’ll have lots of suitors—exceedingly good ones, with lots of money and titles and such—and she’ll forget all about Cas and Poll … at least, I think she will.” She frowned. “They are terribly handsome, though. And nice. And funny.” She straightened. “You’ll just have to make her really, truly gorgeous!”
Button nodded. “Yes. It is an excellent plan, truly an ingenious solution to an impossible fix. I should assume, I suppose, knowing the twins’ tastes in the past, that she is already quite pretty?”
Attie scrunched up her face in thought. “Well, her dress wasn’t much to look at … a bit dull. And she’s quite modest. You’ll have to do something about that. But she has a figure like Ellie’s … and hair like Aunt Clemmie’s used to be before the silver came … and her eyes are sort of…” She waved her hand in search of the perfect word. “… green-gold, like the sun shining on the sea.”
Button made an impressed face. “That sounds promising.”
“So you’ll help?”
Button smiled and spread his hands. “Need you even ask?”
* * *
There weren’t many invitations in Mrs. Talbot’s post on a usual day—none, to be exact.
Until the next morning, when a subtly striped mauve envelope was brought to her door.
The deliverer of this mysterious epistle was a quite unbelievably handsome young man in an exquisitely fitted suit of gray superfine that perfectly matched his eyes. When Miranda stepped into the front hall in anticipation of her suitor, she found the fellow coolly refusing the protests of her butler, Twigg, who was accustomed to being the first to lay hands on the mistress’s mail.
Twigg was very aware of his rank and defensive of his privileges. He was also on the managing side. Miranda stepped forward to resolve the stalemate.
“Twigg, I shall handle this matter. Please return to your duties.”
Her butler-cum-guard-dog cast a dismissive sniff in the elegant young man’s general direction and hustled away, perhaps intending to give the impression of much more important things to attend to. Miranda waited for him to be gone, then turned to her visitor with a smile.
“I suppose one cannot overdo on a virtue such as diligence.”
He gazed down at her impassively. So tall. So very decorative …
“My master would likely say, ‘Why do when one can overdo?’”
Miranda, who was, after all, on the brink of a rather “overdoing” adventure—twin suitors—oh my!—could only concur with that philosophy. “Your master sounds delightfully wise.” She gestured with one hand. “Won’t you come sit, Mr.—?”
He bowed with courteous precision. “Please, forgive my imposition, madam. I am Cabot. I am here on behalf of my master, who would like to extend to you this invitation. He desired that I personally place it in your hand.”
He handed her the elegantly embossed envelope with another bow. Upon taking possession of it, Miranda was driven to caress the heavy, expensive paper ever so slightly with her fingertips. Goodness, her senses were becoming most unguarded, weren’t they?
To her discomfort, she realized that Cabot had noticed her sensual tendency and, if the glint in his beautiful eyes meant anything, had drawn some conclusion from it.
He nodded toward the missive. “If it please you, madam, my master has requested that I abide for your reply.”
“Oh! Of course!” Miranda opened th
e envelope then and there, for she was already perishing from curiosity. Merely the way Cabot spoke of his master, with the most peculiar hint of pride of possession in his tone—
“Oh!” The stationery was emblazoned at the top with a looping elegant L—a symbol every woman in London knew as well as she knew her own initials! “But—I don’t understand—” She peered at the beautiful script. “Lementeur wishes to see me?”
Stunned, she looked up at Cabot in shock. Really, so very attractive.…
“But I have never even met him! Why ever should he wish to see me?” She drew back. “You cannot be in earnest. Is this some sort of jest?”
Cabot blinked at her, clearly set back by her doubt. Indeed, most women would likely shop first and ask questions later.
“Mrs. Talbot, I assure you that this is nothing of the sort. A mutual friend, who prefers not to be named, has asked Lementeur to assist you as you move past your mourning period. Many ladies find it difficult to keep up with the latest modes whilst in bereavement. It was merely meant as a kindness, I pledge to you.”
“Oh.” Miranda nodded, ashamed now of her suspicion. Mr. Worthington knew many people in London, did he not? What a lovely gesture. She had no doubt that it was Poll who had directed the famous Lementeur to pay her such attentions. “That is very kind.”
She did most desperately need new gowns. The very plain one she wore at that moment had been ordered for her by her sister-in-law after Gideon’s burial, of course without the slightest consultation with Miranda.
Abruptly, Miranda wanted to burn it, to burn them all. How presumptuous of Constance, to use Miranda’s money to purchase unwanted gowns for her! If she wished gowns, she would buy them herself! Furthermore, she could afford to treat herself to Lementeur, if she wished!
She lifted her chin. “I shall be there, just as Mr. Lementeur has requested, this afternoon at three o’clock.”
Cabot narrowed his eyes slightly and his lips twitched. A smile? Surely not. No more would a marble statue of a Greek god smile. He bowed yet again.
“Madam, it will be my genuine pleasure to see you then.”
Miranda saw him out, then closed the door and leaned against it, running her fingertips over the invitation once more.
Lementeur.
Oh, Mr. Worthington, you are a darling!
Then she looked down at her gown, one of a nauseating array of bland-to-blander half mourning dresses that were all she owned, other than her black widow’s weeds. Was there perhaps one of them in which she could manage to appear before the great arbiter of style himself?
Best to start at once!
She was halfway up the stairs, skirts in hand, desperately cataloging her lackluster wardrobe in her mind, when Twigg called for her.
“Madam, what should I say to the gentleman in the parlor?”
Miranda frowned. “What gentleman? Oh! Oh, dear! I completely forgot about Mr. Seymour!”
Again.
Chapter Ten
“Thank you for interrupting your very busy schedule to meet with me, Mrs. Talbot.”
Miranda examined that gracious statement with wary care. This odd little man seemed to know a great deal about her.
The great Lementeur smiled gently at her. “It must be difficult to return to Society after such a long mourning absence.”
“Ah. Well, yes, I suppose.” Horrified, Miranda realized she was blushing, just thinking about her “busy” schedule!
Identical shoulders, identical hands, identical parts all about—
She turned slightly away, pretending to examine the mad collage of drawings on the wall of the surprisingly tiny cluttered office. The showroom in the front of the shop was spacious and elegant. This wee chamber felt like a closet.
Then her vision focused properly on the sketches papering the wall floor-to-ceiling and she realized that she stood in a privileged place where genius was born. In wonder, she let her fingertips trail over a drawing, tracing the curving high waistline of a screamingly modish riding habit.
“A design I recently created for the Duke of York’s … er … dear friend,” Lementeur commented from the vicinity of her elbow. “Shall I have one made up for you as well? In a fiery russet, perhaps. I shall change the collar for you, I think. It is a blessing to have such a long, elegant neck, is it not?”
Miranda, realizing that she was being a tiny bit rude, ignoring her host for his drawings, snatched her hand away and turned back to face the great dressmaker. “You are too kind, Mr. Lementeur.”
His face crinkled into a gleeful smile and he chuckled. “Darling creature, Lementeur isn’t my name. It is my calling! Le Menteur.”
Miranda’s French was little better than schoolroom level. She frowned. “The … Liar?”
He bowed, sweeping a ridiculously low, pointed-toe pose that should have looked silly but didn’t, instead calling to mind a hat feathered in plumes swept to his side. “At your service, my dear.” He straightened and spread his hands to include the hundreds of sketches. “Now, how shall we lie today? You may choose anything you like.”
Her eyes roamed around the room filled with beauty and style and something else—a depth of understanding of women, of their dreams, of what they loved and needed.
For her?
Abruptly, Miranda found herself blinking back tears. Horrified, she pressed her gloved fingertips to her leaking eyes. “I’m so sorry—I don’t know what’s come over me—”
Warm fingers tugged gently at her hands and she found herself gazing into sympathetic eyes.
“My sweet, you need a cup of tea.” He shoved her gently into a deep soft chair. “Sit.”
Suddenly Miranda was perishing for a cup of tea.
And a friend.
An hour later, she was laughing delightedly at the exquisite double entendres which Button—as he insisted she address him—dropped as easily as flower petals into every sentence.
Several new sketches had emerged from their consultation, though Miranda knew she could not afford them all.
“Nonsense, my darling. I charge in indirect proportion to my affection for my clients—and I am fast becoming fond of you. Each Season brings me a new muse. You, I think, shall be one of my finest creations.”
“I?” The offer took Miranda’s breath away. “Button, that is … so alarming!”
Her frank assessment of his generosity surprised a new bout of hilarity from them both. Miranda felt drunk—intoxicated by silk and velvet and tea and friendship.
At last, she knew she could take up no more of his valuable time. As she made her good-byes, however, he stopped her with a warm touch to her wrist and a suddenly serious expression.
“My dear, this is very important. In one month, I shall unveil you at the Marquis of Wyndham’s Midsummer Ball.”
Miranda’s jaw dropped.
Button dismissed her astonishment with a wave of his hand. “The marchioness is a dear friend and shall not mind extending an invitation.” He pressed her hand intently. “Here is the point. Under no circumstances shall you discuss our arrangement with anyone.”
Miranda nodded, a little perplexed. “Of course, if that is what you wish.”
Button narrowed his eyes at her. “No one is to know, pet. Not even your … dearest friends.”
A tiny chill went through Miranda. Yes, this odd, endearing little man definitely knew all too much about her.
* * *
After placing Mrs. Talbot into Cabot’s care to be returned to her carriage, Button strolled meditatively back into his office with his hands behind his back. “Most illuminating.”
He bent to move aside an armful of silks in various lemony hues draping off a viewing stand. “Indeed, I see what you mean,” he said thoughtfully into the space beneath. “She doesn’t quite match one’s idea of an evil seductress.”
“I know.” Attie crawled out of the glorious silken tent and stood, pushing her tangled hair out of her face. “But she wants both of them! Why would she do that? Why would s
he make them fight over her if she isn’t an evil seductress?”
Button frowned, considering the problem. “Perhaps she likes them both and cannot choose between? They are very much alike, after all.”
Attie scowled. “Everyone says that. It isn’t true, you know. They’re not very much alike at all.”
“How so?”
“Well,” Attie shrugged. “Cas is … well, he’s Cas! And Poll is Poll! That’s as much as saying Ellie and I are just alike, just because we’re sisters!”
“I suppose you are right. Looking alike is one thing. Feeling alike—no one can feel precisely like anyone else, can they?” Button returned to his chair and thoughtfully stirred his tea.
This was Attie’s favorite part—Button’s thinking pose! She scrambled into the opposite chair so recently vacated by Mrs. Talbot and waited.
Presently the ringing of the spoon slowed, then stopped. Button absently took a sip of his tea. Then he grimaced. “It is cold.”
Attie hopped up, ready for action. “I’ll call Cabot, shall I?”
“No need for that, Miss Atalanta.” Cabot backed into the office with another full tea tray, this time graced with iced gingerbread and chocolates.
“Ah!” Button brightened. “Cabot, you’re a wonder!”
Attie watched as Cabot served the tea. Did Button ever notice that Cabot took special care with everything he gave his master? The handle of the teacup was spun to just the right angle for Button to grasp. The two chocolates precisely and beautifully placed across a mint leaf on the saucer he gave Button were the orange and cherry ones, for people who knew Button well knew that he most preferred fruity sweets.
Did Button ever notice the way Cabot looked at him when he thought Button couldn’t see? It was a little bit like Button was a chocolate on a mint leaf.
Attie took the teacup handed her by Cabot, then hid her smile behind the first sip. It was awfully sweet—Cabot, not the tea—and Attie didn’t understand why it was that Button never seemed to notice.
Button took a sip of fresh, steaming tea and smacked his lips. “Excellent! Whatever would I do without you, Cabot?”
“Melt into a multicolored puddle of mismanaged creativity, without a doubt.” Cabot’s tone was completely without expression.
And Then Comes Marriage Page 9
