Page 20 of How to Fall for a Scoundrel
“Is Ambrose Cox another of your aliases, Monsieur le Comte?”
“Actually, it’s one used by my mentor, the man who introduced me to a life of crime when I was a bright young lad of sixteen.”
“Is that his real name?”
“Goodness, no. But he’s a wonderful chap, the closest thing I have to family in this world. Who knows, perhaps one day you’ll get to meet him.”
“Is he here in London?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea. The last time I saw him was on the arm of a delightfully wealthy widow at the Venice Carnevale, but he’s a man who likes to travel. Hecould be anywhere.” He glanced out of the window as the carriage bounced to a stop. “Ah, Cork Street.”
Ellie accepted his hand as he helped her down, ignoring the tingle in her fingers, and studied the wares in the window of Schweitzer and Davidson with interest. She’d never been inside a gentleman’s tailors before.
The proprietors were suitably impressed when Harry introduced himself as the Comte de Carabas, complete with an ever-so-slight Italian accent inflecting his perfect English. In no time at all he’d got them to agree to helping his “friend” Miss Law, of King & Co.
No sooner had he handed over the overcoat he’d exchanged with Morris, than an assistant was sent to retrieve a large leather-bound ledger from the back room. Mr. Davidson himself came to assist them, and in less than ten minutes, they had their answer.
“The gentleman this coat was made for is John Patmore, Lord Willingham.”
Ellie sent the tailor a warm smile. “How wonderful. I’m so glad we’ll be able to return it to him.”
“May I ask where he misplaced it?”
“Oh, my friend Tess, the Duchess of Wansford, held a ball a couple of weeks ago and this was left behind in the cloakroom,” she lied blithely. “Since there were over three hundred guests, it wasn’t practical to write to them all individually asking about a lost coat, so we waited to see if anyone asked after it. When nobody did, I promised to look into the matter for her.”
Harry raised his brows in silent congratulation of her quick thinking, and she reminded herself sternly that she shouldn’t be so pleased by his approval.
She turned to leave, but Harry, it seemed, was in no hurry to go.
“Would you mind waiting just a few moments longer, Ellie, my sweet?” he purred. “Mr. Davidson here has been so helpful that I feel the urgent need to purchase a new topcoat.”
The tailor’s face lit up at the prospect of a wealthy new client.
Ellie sent Harry an impatient glare behind Davidson’s back, which he ignored completely.
“If I could just take Monsieur’s measurements?” The tailor helped remove Harry’s perfectly fitted jacket, and made a point of complimenting the cut of his waistcoat, which forced Ellie to notice the neat tuck of his waist and the impressive breadth of his shoulders.
She sank begrudgingly into a chair at the edge of the showroom and became an unwilling voyeur as the tailor took various measurements, including chest, neck, and arm length.
When Harry turned his back to her, his beautifully proportioned rear was at a level with her eyes, and try as she might, she couldn’t stop herself from admiring the fit of his buckskin breeches as they hugged the strong curves of his thighs and buttocks with loving faithfulness.
She tried not to listen as the two men discussed cut and fabric choices, but when the probable cost of the garment was discreetly mentioned she sucked in a horrified breath. She’d never spent so much on a single item of clothing in her life!
Harry, she was sure, was well aware of her disapproval, and promptly ordered a new riding jacket, too, to be delivered the following week.
“And where shall your purchases be sent, sir?” Davidson asked.
Ellie pricked up her ears, desperate to know where “Henri Bonheur,” charlatan extraordinaire, was pretending to live. Perhaps he’d cite the King & Co. offices as his abode?
“You may send them to Cobham House, Thirty-one Norfolk Street.”
Ellie stored the information away for future investigation, and was pleased when Harry finally escorted her out of the shop. They walked a little way down the street in companionable silence, waiting for his carriage to return. The driver must have taken the horses for a short walk to prevent them becoming impatient.
“So, now we know Lord Willingham is behind the theft of the lucky prayer book,” Ellie said. “That was excellent work.”
“Do you know him?”
“I’ve never met him personally, but I’ve seen him at various social events. He’s a friend of Lord and Lady Holland, who’ve been quite vocal in their support of Bonaparte over the years. A month or so ago the newspapers reported that they were preparing to send him an ice maker, of all things, to Saint Helena to make his incarceration more bearable.”