Vixen in Velvet

by Loretta Chase

  Actually, she could use a servant, strange or not, at the moment. She was in the habit of dressing herself, but that was everyday clothing. Her evening dress was far more challenging to manage single-handed.

  After listening for footsteps outside, she climbed cautiously from the bed, unearthed her chemise from the haphazardly folded garments on a chair, and threw it on. She looked at her stays and sighed. It was one of her most beautiful corsets and she’d designed it to be self-fastening, but Lisburne had undone the strings completely, which defeated the purpose.

  She picked it up and put it down again. Somewhere nearby must be his dressing room, and surely he owned dressing gowns.

  She was heading toward a likely looking door, when she heard a sound behind her.

  “I’m in the nick of time, I see,” Lisburne said. “Another minute and you’d have entered my dressing room and touched something, and Polcaire would go into a decline. Will you come down to breakfast?”

  “In what?” she said. “My chemise?”

  “In this.”

  She’d been so occupied in gazing dreamily at his beautiful face that she’d failed to notice he had something draped over his arm.

  He approached. “I found one of my mother’s morning gowns. It’s a decade out of date, but easier to get into, I reckon, than your gorgeous ball dress.”

  She took it from him and held it up. It was a deep green, made of twilled sarcenet, and closely fitted to the body. “How narrow it is!” she said.

  “Women used to show off their shape more,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s the best I could come up with on short notice. Bachelor place, you know. I hadn’t any women servants to help me, except from the kitchen, and I doubted they’d be au courant with ladies’ fashion.”

  “It’s exquisite,” she said. “Beautifully made. Your mother has impeccable taste.”

  “Yes, I think you’ll like her.”

  “Oh, Lisburne.”

  “Simon,” he corrected. “You must be starved for breakfast. I’ll help you dress.”

  The dress felt very strange, snug along the arms and hips and, because she’d had to forgo her corded petticoat—it was too wide and the wrong shape—falling straight to the floor. She did not feel fully dressed.

  Which would not have been any great problem, had she not had to face a series of servants.

  And then, when she entered the breakfast room, she found her sisters there with their husbands.

  She stood for a moment, debating whether to race to the sideboard, snatch a knife, and stab Lisburne.

  But that was the sort of thing Sophy would do. Leonie Noirot wasn’t dramatic. In any case, she refused to show any signs of being taken aback, let alone in a state of murderous rage.

  How could he?

  Did he think this was going to work? Advertising his conquest? Did he think her brothers-in-law would make her marry him?

  As if they could.

  She smiled. “What a lovely surprise, Lord Lisburne. How sweet of you to think of inviting my family for breakfast.”

  “It’s a business breakfast,” he said. “That’s why they’re all here.”

  He took out from the pocket of his waistcoat the three sheets of paper, rather the worse for wear.

  “I went at a somewhat indecently early hour to Clevedon House to consult with the duke,” he said. “And he sent for Longmore. And after we’d argued back and forth, we came to something like agreement.”

  “They did not, I ought to point out, consult with us,” Marcelline said. “Nor have they confided in us. You can’t blame Sophy and me for anything but curiosity. Speaking of which, what an interesting dress that is.” She rose and approached to take a closer look.

  She stood for a moment, frowning. Then she took Leonie’s hand and examined the sleeve and said, “But my dear, that’s an Emmeline dress. Come here, Sophy. Don’t you recognize the satin rouleaus? That’s from Cousin Emma’s shop, I should stake my life. Good heavens, I believe I sewed those satin bands myself! Wherever did you get this?”

  “Cousin Emma’s?” Leonie said. “This was Cousin Emma’s work?” Her eyes filled and her throat closed and she found the nearest empty chair and sat down.

  “Cousin Emma?” Lisburne said.

  She made herself speak. “Emmeline was the shop in Paris. Where Lord Swanton met me. The cholera took our cousin Emma and decimated Paris. It killed our seamstresses and our customers. It destroyed our business. There were riots. The shop was looted. We had a sick child, and we feared the mob would hear of it and set fire to the shop with us in it. We left Paris with nothing. Not a scrap of muslin. Not a silk ribbon. We had nothing left of all Emma had done. All her beautiful work. That’s what I was trying to explain.” She nodded toward the papers in his hand. “What it meant to us. What opening our own shop meant. It’s very hard to describe, let alone put into neat columns. But my heart is there, in the shop. Marcelline and Sophy—they’re artists. They can be artists in other ways. I can’t. I’m a businesswoman.”

  “My love,” Marcelline began, so gently, the way she used to do, when their parents had abandoned them for the hundredth time.

  “Don’t,” Leonie said, holding up her hand. “I like numbers. I like reviewing the merchants’ bills. I like negotiating with tradesmen. I like managing a shop. It makes me happy. I wish you and Sophy were still there—”

  “We haven’t left.”

  “But you will. You must. It’s completely ridiculous. A duchess can’t wait on customers, Marcelline! Do use your head. And a countess can’t, either, Sophy, so you may put that fantasy out of your fevered brain. The shop will go on, but not with you. It’s too disruptive. I need to know I can count on you and I can’t anymore. The next I know, Sophy will be pregnant, too, and running away to be sick.”

  “And what about you?” Marcelline said. “Have you and Lisburne been writing in ledgers and only holding hands? Or do you imagine you’re immune to the laws of nature?”

  “Right,” Lisburne said. “If we might return to business? I have a business proposal to make to the proprietresses of Maison Noirot.”

  Leonie looked up at him. In truth, he did look businesslike. It was the waistcoat, certainly—Polcaire truly was a genius—but Lisburne held himself with an air of authority, and he’d made his beautiful face very stern.

  It was rather adorable.

  She said, “Marcelline and Sophy, pray sit down. I’m only going to throw some food on my plate, and I’ll attend you directly, Lisburne. But really, I can’t bear any more emotion on an empty stomach.”

  “Ma pauvre!” Marcelline said. “Don’t stir. I’ll get you something to eat.”

  She heaped food on a plate and set it down in front of Leonie.

  She oughtn’t to have had any appetite.

  But Lisburne looked so imposing that one couldn’t feel anxious about anything. Perhaps she was deluded, but for now she felt less worried than she’d done in months. She took up her cutlery and ate.

  Though Lisburne had made notes on her sheets of paper, he had it all in his head. He’d only needed to speak to Clevedon for a short time this morning before the pieces began to fit together.

  He said, “Firstly, we address the question of vocation. Three highly talented women, passionate about their work, whom one cannot expect will find contentment in idleness. The Duke of Clevedon proposes a magazine—”

  “Oh, Clevedon,” the duchess said. “The magazine again? It’s a lovely idea, but—”

  “If you would be patient, my dear, and let Lisburne say his piece,” the duke said. He looked round the table. “I know he can be deuced annoying, and he likes to pretend he’s an idiot. The truth is, he’s far more astute than he lets on. Perhaps we might all listen quietly and raise objections at the end.” He nodded at Lisburne. “Pray continue.”

  “An expensive magazin
e, containing a large number of color plates,” Lisburne continued. “An emphasis on women’s fashion. Her Grace to provide the designs for dresses and Lady Longmore to provide a selection of hats and bonnets as well as descriptions, anecdotes, and stories in her own inimitable style. Miss Noirot to manage the enterprise entirely.”

  He paused. The three sisters’ expressions remained inscrutable. He made a private note never to play cards with them—or not all three at once.

  He went on. “Secondly, the shop. The three proprietresses to retain ownership as well as continuing to provide designs for apparel in their different areas of expertise, with the aim of keeping Maison Noirot at the very forefront of ladies’ fashion. The day-to-day work of the shop, however, to be under the supervision of the eminently qualified Selina Jeffreys. Furthermore, to be staffed by the most talented professionals available as well as provide training for qualified indigent females proposed by the Milliners’ Society. As regards qualified professionals, His Grace and I take the liberty of recommending one Dulcinea Williams to the ladies’ attention. It is our belief that Mrs. Williams can sell anything to anybody.”

  The three sisters’ faces remained politely amiable, no more, yet he sensed an intensifying of attention. For one thing, Leonie plied her cutlery more slowly.

  “The changes will allow the proprietresses to devote more time to the Milliners’ Society,” he went on. “For example, in using their social position to increase sponsorship and donations, which will lead, we trust, to the building of a larger facility, a project they will supervise.”

  Leonie put down her cutlery. She and her sisters looked at each other, still giving nothing away.

  “As this may offer insufficient use of Miss Noirot’s business skills,” he said, “I offer her the position of Marchioness of Lisburne and the management of my several properties and business interests.”

  He folded up the pieces of paper and stuffed them into a pocket. Polcaire would give him martyred looks, but never mind.

  Lisburne waited through a fierce silence while the three women digested his summary and while at least one of them tried to work out the implications and consequences, writing out ledger pages in her mind, he had no doubt.

  After a time, the duchess glanced at her sisters and said they needed to go into another room to discuss it. They rose as one and went out.

  They were gone a very long while.

  After half an hour had passed, a bored Longmore went out to take a walk. Clevedon went to the library.

  An hour after leaving the breakfast room, the ladies returned. The men were summoned to hear their decision.

  The three women moved to stand in front of the chimneypiece, where the afternoon light flowed becomingly over their dresses.

  “As the eldest, I’ve been deputed to speak for the others,” the duchess said. “We find your proposal generally satisfactory and have agreed to accept it.”

  “All of it?” Lisburne said. “Duchess, there’s one item, I believe, about which you can’t speak for one party. Miss Noirot, do you agree to become my wife?”

  “That depends,” she said. “Will the Botticelli still be mine?”

  Thanks to Clevedon, Lisburne had to wait a full week for the wedding.

  Lisburne had raced to Doctors Commons the same day Leonie had at last consented. He’d waited there for what seemed an eternity, after which he was obliged to pay out a great deal of money for the piece of paper he wanted. Then he had to wait some more.

  But special license or no special license, Clevedon wouldn’t allow his sister-in-law to be wed until he plagued Lisburne with lawyers, and the lawyers fought with each other and finally came to a truce, at which point Lisburne signed the marriage settlements.

  The Botticelli was to be included as a bridal gift, which made it Leonie’s own property. All provisions were made for offspring and in case of illness and death and bankruptcy and whatnot. She must have pin money and a dower house.

  It was all very well, Clevedon said, to promise a girl the moon, but the law was not very protective of women, especially wives, and he was damned if he wouldn’t protect his wife’s sister’s future security, since he’d been unable to protect her virtue.

  And then His Grace invited his aunts to the wedding! Which meant that Leonie was obliged to stay at Clevedon House, so as not to shock them.

  But the Friday came at last, and they were married at Clevedon House rather quietly, with only what seemed like hundreds of Clevedon’s aunts and thousands of Fairfaxes, and Swanton and Gladys, and all the gentlemen who’d assisted at Vauxhall, because without them as witnesses, Lisburne might have rescued his cousin, but not Maison Noirot’s and the Milliners’ Society’s reputations.

  But at last the celebrations were over, and he and Leonie retired to his villa, where the servants made a little party for them, and Polcaire bore up manfully under the prospect of a mistress of the house and the inevitable lady’s maids disturbing his perfectly ordered world.

  Then it only remained for Lisburne to bed his bride, which he did at first with feverish impatience and at second at a more leisurely rate. Then, as they lay in bed, quieting, she said, “You never said about the last item.”

  He puzzled over this for a moment. “What last item?”

  “In the cons column,” she said.

  He thought. Ah, yes. The last item had been Dreadful DeLucey, underlined twice.

  Dreadful DeLucey.

  He smiled.

  “You said nothing,” she said.

  “Neither did you,” he said. “I covered every other item, but you never asked what I meant to do about that.”

  “I forgot,” she said. “I was so busy making sense of all the rest, and so taken up with it that I forgot. And I never thought of it again until today when we stood before the minister, and that seemed an awkward time to bring it up.”

  “Yes, well, as to that.” He came up onto his elbow and looked down at her. “I’ve not been altogether honest with you.”

  “Not honest? You mean pretending to be stupid when you’re not? Claiming you leave all your business to Uttridge? Leading me out into a dark garden, not to use me in wicked ways, but to propose matrimony? Those sorts of deceptive practices?”

  “And you?” he said. “Claiming you’re not literary and know nothing of poetry—”

  “I’ve already admitted I’m not to be trusted. But you’re not entirely what you seem, by any means. In fact, sometimes I’ve wondered if you’re a Noirot—because they’re the French edition of the Dreadful DeLuceys, you know. And you—”

  “My maternal great-grandmother was Annette DeLucey,” he said. “When my great-grandfather married her, his father threatened to kill him so that he couldn’t inherit. But Annette won her father-in-law over, eventually.”

  She sat up. “I knew it!”

  “Of course you did. It takes a thief to catch a thief.”

  “We’re not thieves, exactly,” she said. She settled back down, and looked up at him. “That is to say, not all of us. But we are rather underhanded and not overly scrupulous . . . no wonder I’ve always felt so comfortable with you!”

  “Comfortable!” he said indignantly. “Like an old shoe?”

  “Because you understand me,” she said. “And because you use your DeLucey powers for good, mainly, and for very nice naughtiness.”

  “Very nice,” he said. “Is that the best you can do?”

  She laughed and reached for him in the way that made his heart seem to curl in his chest. “My realm is numbers, sir. If you want me to rise to great literary heights, you must inspire me.”

  “Like the muse,” he said as he lowered his face to hers.

  “Yes, like the muse,” she said.

  “This could take time,” he said. “But as long as you’re not too busy . . .”

  Epilogue

  But
by special licence or dispensation from the Archbishop of Canterbury, Marriages, especially of persons of quality, are frequently in their own houses, out of canonical hours, in the evening, and often solemnized by others in other churches than where one of the parties lives, and out of time of divine service, &c.

  —The Law Dictionary, 1810

  Bedford Square

  Saturday 15 August

  Madame Ecrivier, forewoman of Downes’s dressmaking shop, frowned at the short, round man who’d swaggered into the shop. “I do not comprehend your meaning,” she said.

  “I beg you won’t fret yourself, my mamerzelle,” he said. “I only want to see your mistress, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

  The man held an official-looking paper. In Madame Ecrivier’s experience, official papers were trouble. Especially when greasy men in red neckerchiefs and too-tight green coats delivered them.

  Mrs. Downes paid two men, Farley and Payton, to deal with annoyances of all kinds. As her forewoman debated whether to summon them, another man entered the shop. He was tall and stooped, dressed in black.

  “Here, now,” he said. “Otherwise engaged, is she?”

  “Don’t know,” said the other man.

  “See here, miss,” the tall man said. “We want to see your mistress. Important business. You take my card to her—” He held out a thick, dirty card, which Madame, seeing no alternative, collected with the tips of her fingers. “And tell her we can still settle matters agreeable to all parties.”

  Madame hurried from the showroom. She ran into the workroom, and learned none of the seamstresses had seen Farley or Payton all day. She ran up the stairs to Mrs. Downes’s private quarters. The footman told her that the mistress had gone out two hours earlier. To dinner, he believed.

  Madame, who’d lived in Paris during terrible times, could put two and two together—in this case men carrying official documents and an employer who’d gone out without informing her forewoman. She made her way to Mrs. Downes’s bedroom. No clothes. No cosmetics. No bandboxes, valises, or trunks.