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The cousins linked arms. “Well, where to now?” Susannah asked.

“Now we discover a dressmaker, someone fashionable who the Countess of Seaverness does not patronize,” Catherine said, scanning the shop windows and noting the type of people who went in and out of the various shops along the street.

“No one fashionable is patronized by Lady Harth,” offered Susannah.

Catherine laughed. “Then that should make our task all the easier. Do you know anything about that shop across the way?” she asked, pointing to a neat establishment fronted by a green-and-gold sign proclaiming the services of one Madame Vaussard.

“Only that it is not patronized by Aunt Alicia.”

“Then that is where we shall begin,” Catherine said decisively.

“Oh, please, Oliver, buy me a gown from this silver net. It will go a long way toward appeasing my sadness at the cruel way you deserted me last week,” Lady Welville wheedled, a pretty pout emphasizing her full, ruby-red stained lips.

She draped the material across her chest in the suggestion of a low-cut bodice.

Her long dark lashes drooped seductively over her blue eyes and a catlike smile emerged from the pout as she looked sideways up at him through the veil of lashes. “It could make a most enticing gown.”

The Marquis of Stefton leaned back on one elbow against the small counter used to display selections of feathers and flowers and crossed one leg negligently before the other as he studied the posturing woman before him.

He intended to sever the relationship. During their outing, he thought to discover some bauble or other that she was enamored of that could serve as a parting gift, not a ridiculous gown in which she could advertise to the world her abundant charms. He didn’t know why he let himself be talked into accompanying Panthea to the dressmaker.

He watched her cup the fabric to her full breasts while suggestively running her tongue across her lips.

Perhaps, he considered, his actions stemmed from a twinge of pity for the woman who tried so hard to wield feminine charms to her advantage.

Such girlish posturings were a caricature on a woman her age.

Her actions lacked grace and elegance, he thought distastefully.

She was no better than the coarse-mouthed ladybirds of the theater.

“Yes, enticing.” He watched her preen and smiled archly at him. “Very suitable for the Cyprians’ Ball,” he drawled.

“Oliver!”

The Marquis straightened and languidly removed a stray piece of feather from his black jacket.

“Really, Panthea, your taste is degenerating. While it may land you in a man’s bed, it will not land you with a man’s name.

” His words were spoken softly, though an undercurrent of cold steel ran through them.

Panthea blanched, feeling the steel slicing through her. For the past two weeks or more, she had felt the Marquis slipping away from her. She desperately wanted to revive his flagging interest, but now it seemed she’d erred badly. The silver net slipped through her fingers.

“You’re right, of course. This fabric is just too gauche.” She laughed shrilly. “You have such exquisite taste. I was right to bring you with me.” She reached out one long, milky-white hand toward the Marquis.

He ignored her. Picking up his hat from the counter, he placed it rakishly on his head, running his hand along the brim as he checked its position through one of the long gilt-framed mirrors on the wall. When he turned back toward Panthea, she was still staring at him, dumbfounded by his actions.

“Why don’t you allow Madame Vaussard to guide you in fabric and style,” he suggested, a slight smile playing upon his lips. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I shall stroll down to Jackson’s to see if I can get in a few healthy rounds of sparring.”

He touched the brim of his hat in salute and opened the door.

Catherine was amazed when the solid green door of Madame Vaussard’s establishment opened before her hand touched the latch, and a large man almost careened into her.

Instinctively she stumbled backward, bumping into Susannah who, in surprise, dropped her reticule.

They both stooped to retrieve it, the brims of their bonnets smashing together. Susannah started to giggle.

“Miss Shreveton, so we meet again. What a pleasant surprise.”

The dark, rich-timbered voice took the cousins by surprise. Slowly they turned and rose as one, a bright shade of pink staining Catherine’s neck and cheeks.

“My lord,” she murmured, curtsying.

“I trust you are quite recovered from that unfortunate episode at the inn?” he inquired, his eyes never leaving Catherine’s flushed countenance.

Catherine was incensed that he should mention the incident. Surely a gentleman would possess more consideration for a lady’s sensibilities. She tossed her head up, her chin thrusting out in challenge as she met his steady regard. “I deem it best forgotten.”

His lips twitched in humor. He bowed his head. “As you wish. I am known to have a deplorable memory, anyway. I hope others are as inclined to forget,” he finished meaningfully.

“Memory serves no purpose.”

“I bow to your greater knowledge. But aren’t you going to introduce me to your companion?”

Catherine had the grace to blush again. “Of course,” she said stiffly, turning to Susannah. “May I present his lordship, the Marquis of Stefton. My lord, my cousin, Miss Shreveton.”

Stefton smiled at her awkward introduction but did not comment. He bowed to Susannah. “Charmed, my dear. Your father is, I believe, our illustrious Captain the Honorable Glendon Shreveton of His Majesty’s navy?”

“That is correct, my—my lord,” Susannah stuttered, blushing and bowing her head in pretty confusion.

He returned his attention to Catherine. “I shall look forward to seeing you both again. Perhaps at Lady Oakley’s ball?”

“Yes, I believe we go there,” Catherine returned stiffly.

Stefton raised an amused eyebrow at her show of reluctance, then grasped her hand, raising it to his lips. “Since I am to forget the incident at the inn, I shall look forward to making your acquaintance at Lady Oakley’s.”

He bowed again to Susannah, then turned on his heel to saunter down Bond Street.

“Arrogant, insufferable, and rude,” Catherine murmured wrathfully.

“And out of character,” mused her cousin, complacently smiling as she watched the Marquis until he was out of sight.

Bethie giggled and exchanged knowing looks with Susannah.

Fiercely denying the tingling that trailed down her spine, Catherine looked at them in disgust. Clasping Susannah’s elbow, she pulled her toward the shop.

Through the open shop door, Lady Welville saw the Marquis engage two plainly-dressed young women in conversation.

She was frustrated that she could not hear what was said; however, that he was acquainted with one of them was apparent.

Jealousy clawed at her, and she swore viciously under her breath.

She grabbed her cloak and reticule and marched toward the door, angrily shouldering aside the dark auburn-haired woman who’d held Stefton’s attention.

“What!” Catherine exclaimed, staring after the elegantly-attired woman.

“Do not mind that one,” Madame Vaussard said, hurrying to Catherine’s side and leading her and Susannah, followed by Bethie, into the shop.

“Hannah, ma petite chou , do not stand there. Put that fabric away. Vite! Vite! " the little Frenchwoman said, waving her assistant toward the back room. She led Catherine and Susannah to two Queen Anne chairs covered in a pale green damask cloth and begged them to be seated.

“Now, how may I be of service to you?” she asked, studying them intently.

Madame Vaussard catered to women of the bon ton who possessed both money and a certain panache or flair that enabled them to wear gowns a step ahead of fashion.

She did not consider Lady Welville a suitable candidate for her creations, for the woman was barely respectable, as the Marquis rightly implied.

She would typically dismiss two so badly-dressed young ladies and consign them to a shop assistant, but Madame Vaussard had not become successful by judging a person on appearances. A shrewd knowledge of Society, and the ability to look beyond the obvious, were also hallmarks of her success.

These two plainly-gowned women intrigued her. They were both beauties, despite the scraped-back hair of the dark-haired one. She had not missed the way that one had challenged the Marquis or how he had smiled in return.

The Marquis of Stefton was not known for speaking kindly to, let alone teasing, young women.

And that kiss upon the dark one’s hand—oo-la-la!

There was an untold story here that she, Madame Vaussard, would know.

It was just possible she might be looking at the next Marchioness of Stefton and future Duchess of Vauden!

That was not a plum any clever dressmaker would ignore, and Madame Vaussard was nothing if not clever.

Madame watched closely as the dark-haired one folded her hands in her lap and tilted up her head to meet her steady regard squarely.

She did not blush or look swiftly away as so many simpering young misses did.

She took a deep breath as if contemplating how to begin.

Madame Vaussard took her cue and smiled reassuringly.

“I would have a riding habit made,” the young woman said coolly, “the most fashionable and eye-catching habit you can create. I would also like you to work with a milliner of your choice to design a hat with a face-obscuring veil. In keeping with my reasons for the veil, I also request your promise of secrecy. Can you do it?”

Madame Vaussard blinked at the forthright request. “Pardon, mademoiselle, I fear you go too fast for me.” Her estimation of the young woman was rapidly rising. “You will, perhaps, forgive my confusion. You are, please?”

“I am Miss Catherine Shreveton, and this is my cousin, Miss Susannah Shreveton.”

“Ah! Bon , you are two of the nieces that the Countess of Seaverness is presenting, non ? The countess does not honor me with her custom,” Madame Vaussard said carefully.

“And you wonder at our presence here,” Catherine said.

The little Frenchwoman shrugged apologetically.

“It is because our illustrious relative does not frequent your establishment that I am here.” Catherine looked carefully at the dressmaker. “May I have your promise of secrecy?”

Madame Vaussard smiled. “My child, a woman’s dressmaker is often privileged to knowledge not shared by others. I would not be successful if I could not maintain my silence.”

Catherine and Susannah exchanged glances.

Susannah nodded slightly, then turned to Madame Vaussard. “My cousin’s situation is most unusual.”

“Ah, but isn’t that what makes life interesting?”

“I am certain you have known women without money who strive to appear as if they are rich.”

“This is lamentably true, for my bills, they go unpaid, and I suffer for it,” Madame Vaussard said pointedly, pinning both young women with a considering eye.

Catherine laughed. “Do not worry, Madame, I am not of their number; rather, I represent their opposite.”

"Qu’est-ce que?”

“My aunt thinks of me as a charity case and so tells all of London. It is not so. Have you heard of Burke Horses or Sir Eugene Burke, Madame?”

“Mais, oui!”

“He is my uncle. It is not a fact I wish bruited about. I desire to appear just as my aunt perceives me. I find this business of a London Season to be tantamount to a horse fair. I have no desire to be examined for length of limb, soundness of wind, or breeding potential.” Catherine said.

“Nonetheless, I would like to ride. As you might imagine, I ride Burke horses,” she said, almost apologetically. “It is not an accomplishment of most women; therefore, if I am to be seen on a Burke animal, I must be somewhat out of the ordinary.”

“Ah, je comprends, mademoiselle . You wish to be mysterious, n’est-ce pas ?”

“That’s it, precisely.”

Madame Vaussard tapped her forefinger against her chin. Then a slow mischievous smile swept over her face, lighting her blue eyes. She’d wager her business that the Marquis knew her identity and had plans for the young woman that did not include anonymity.

“Tell me, s’il vous plait , do you intend to carry this charade throughout the Season?”

Catherine nodded.

“Ah, well. . . We shall see. But come now, let us go into the back and get your measurements and discuss fabrics. Come, come,” she said, shooing them through a green-curtained doorway into the back room.

Madame Vaussard remembered the Marquis’s smile and doubted Miss Shreveton would be overlooked in society for long. The bon ton might not understand why they were paying attention to her, but they would follow Lord Stefton’s lead. And soon Miss Shreveton would find herself out of her depth.

Madame Vaussard secretly smiled as she followed them into her fitting room, already designing the perfect ball gown for her young client. She intended to start sewing it as soon as she finished the riding habit.