Page 11 of Scandal Wears Satin (Dressmakers #2)

Happy, indeed will the visitor be who is so fortunate as to be on the Platform when a first-rate man-of-war is sailing out of the harbour. He will then enjoy one of the grandest sights in the world, in beholding the majestic castle gliding along the water, and hearing the astounding sound of her guns, when in passing she salutes the garrison flag.

— The new Portsmouth, Southsea, Anglesey & Hayling IslandGuide , 1834

T he moon was setting by the time they reached Portsmouth. Still, all Longmore had to do was keep to the main thoroughfare. Along the High street were many prosperous-looking establishments. For lodgings he had a choice between the Fountain and the George, the two major coaching inns. He decided on the George, because the Royal Mail set out from there. Too, it was the one recommended to Clara’s maid.

After sending Fenwick to gossip with the servants and stablemen, Longmore took Sophy into the inn.

He was sure he’d be relying mainly on Fenwick at this point, since the landlord of a busy town’s busy inn—still awake and bustling even at this hour—probably wouldn’t remember the two women. If Clara behaved as she’d done previously, she’d have kept in the background, letting Davis hire the room and arrange for meals and such. Plain women tended not to make an impression.

The innkeeper had no recollection of two ladies traveling together, and his guest ledger confirmed this.

Longmore moved away, to talk to Sophy. “We might as well stop,” he told her. “There’s little we can do at this hour.”

“But you said the sun would be up soon, near four o’clock,” she said. She took up the pocket watch that dangled from the belt of her carriage dress. “It’s only half past two.”

“And you look like the very devil,” he said. “You need to sleep.”

“I slept in the carriage,” she said.

She’d slept against his shoulder, her hat’s absurd decorations tickling his chin now and again. She’d sink lower and lower, then, at a certain point, she’d wake with a start.

He thought it was adorable—an odd thought to have about Sophy, but there it was. She was a complicated girl. That was what made her so interesting. That and the delicious mouth and smell and perfect figure.

“It wasn’t proper sleep,” he said. “The fact remains, you look like the devil.” Ignoring her protests, he hired a room for her and ordered a meal as well. And a maid. Someone needed to get her out of her clothes and into bed. It had better not be him, or no one would get any rest.

S ophy had only the dimmest memory of what had happened after they reached the inn. Weariness had welled up, a massive wave, which must have been building for weeks. It had simply swamped her. She could barely keep her eyes open, let alone continue arguing with Longmore.

She did remember his fussing over her and ordering everybody about. He’d insisted on a maid for her, and she dimly recalled the maid chattering at her as they went up the stairs to the room he’d hired. He’d had a light meal sent up and Sophy had eaten it, surprised at how hungry she was. She’d washed and undressed with—considering the hour—the maid’s extremely cheerful and patient help. Longmore must have given the girl a large gratuity.

Tired as she was, Sophy hadn’t expected to sleep. The longer they’d searched, the more anxious she’d become about Lady Clara. She’d persuaded Longmore that his sister was safe with Davis watching out for her, but Sophy hadn’t persuaded herself.

Yet sleep she must have done, since the noise woke her. She was so groggy that it took a moment to realize someone was beating on the door.

She bolted upright, heart pounding, to see early-morning sunlight streaming in through the window. How long had she slept?

She stumbled out of bed, found her dressing gown on the chair nearby, and was pulling it on when she heard Longmore’s voice. “Where’s the confounded maid?”

Sophy ran to the door and flung it open.

Longmore stood in the corridor, fully dressed in the same clothes he’d been wearing when they arrived. Had he not slept? He hadn’t shaved, certainly. The shadow along his jaw made him look more dangerous than ever.

“Clara’s here,” he said.

“Here? In the inn?”

“No,” he said. “That is, if she has, nobody’s told me. But she hasn’t left Portsmouth yet. I shouldn’t have wakened you—”

“You shouldn’t have let me sleep,” she said.

“Never mind that. I need your help. People get suspicious when a man seems to be hunting a young woman. They become less than candid. Fenwick lacks your charming methods of extracting information from the unwilling, and I’m having trouble holding onto my temper.”

“You’ve been searching, without me,” she said reproachfully.

He stepped over the threshold and she took two steps back. He looked down at her feet. She did, too. They were bare.

“Where are your slippers?” he said.

Without waiting for an answer, he strode to the bed, found the slippers, and gestured at a chair. She sat. “I can put on my own—”

“You’re not even awake.” He knelt and took her foot and slid it into the slipper. He paused, his hand still on her foot, and stared for what seemed a very long time.

“I’m awake,” she said. “I can do that.”

He came out of his trance and put the other slipper on, then stood. “You shouldn’t run about barefoot in public hostelries,” he said.

“I wasn’t running about—and you shouldn’t have been searching without me.”

“You needed sleep,” he said. “You’ve needed it this age, I’ll wager anything. You keep ridiculous hours.”

“I’m a working woman,” she said.

“You ought to give it up.”

“ What? ”

“The whole thing’s absurd,” he said. “Your sister married a duke. I told Clevedon ...” he trailed off.

“What did you tell him?”

“Never mind that now,” he said.

“I certainly will mind it now,” she said.

“Do you want to find Clara or do you want to quarrel?” he said.

“Preferably both,” she said.

“Don’t aggravate me,” he said. “I haven’t time to throttle you. Fenwick and I were up at dawn’s crack—”

“Without me.”

“Without you,” he said. “Some infernal gun went off. I’m informed that it does so twice a day, sunrise and sunset. After that I saw no point in trying to sleep. I took Fenwick to the docks. It took a while for me to find the area we wanted, but we did eventually. We found out which passenger ships had left since the earliest time Clara could have arrived. We’re reasonably sure she wasn’t aboard any of them. But I can explain all that later. I only came to tell you to make haste.”

“Very well.”

She rose from the chair and stumbled to the washstand. In spite of the abrupt awakening, she was still muddle-headed. She filled the bowl with water and washed her face. That improved matters. She was drying her face when she saw his, behind her, in the mirror.

“Can’t you go any faster?” he said.

“It will take me at least half an hour without a maid’s help,” she said.

“I don’t know where she went or what she’s doing,” he said. “All I know is that when I asked for one a moment ago, I was told, ‘Straightaway.’ That could mean hours from now. The place is a madhouse. Most of the servants seem to be in the dining room, running frantically hither and yon, serving breakfast.”

He waved at the carriage dress she’d worn yesterday, which the maid had hung carefully over a chair. “Just throw it on, can’t you? We’re not going to a fashion parade.”

“I can’t just throw it on! How can you be so obtuse?”

“Easily,” he said. “It wants no effort at all.”

Later, when she had time, when she could see straight, she was going to hit him with something bigger than a brick.

She found her chemise and petticoats and corset, and laid them out on the bed. Tired and cross—and maybe because she was who she was and couldn’t resist playing with fire—she pulled off her dressing gown, then the nightdress.

She would have done the same thing had she been with her sisters and in a great hurry to be gone from somewhere. She was well aware she wasn’t with her sisters.

“Damnation!”

She glanced back at him as she pulled on her chemise. He’d turned his back on her nakedness.

That was funny. Her mood lightened a degree. “You could try sending for the maid,” she said.

“Not for worlds,” he said.

“Then look,” she said. “I don’t care. I’m not modest.”

That was no lie. Merely because she made clothes for a living didn’t mean she was shy about being unclothed. Even in front of him. Or, rather, especially in front of him. She was a Noirot, after all.

“I’m not looking,” he said. “I’m not modest either, but I need to keep my wits about me. By Jupiter, you’re the very devil.”

She stepped into her drawers and tied the tapes at the waist. She donned the petticoat and tied it. She arranged the corset on the bed and started lacing it.

“What’s taking so long?” he said. He turned. “What in the name of Satan and all his minions are you doing?”

“It’s one of the new corsets Marcelline invented,” she said. “One can do it up oneself. But the maid didn’t understand how it worked, and I was too tired to explain clearly enough, it seems. She untied the lacing, and I need to—”

“I can do up the lacing,” he said. “Actually, I’m quite good at it.”

“This doesn’t surprise me,” she said. She slid the corset over her head and slipped her arms through the straps. She tugged the corset down and snugged it over her torso.

As she was adjusting the straps, Longmore came up behind her.

“One leaves it knotted at the bottom and laced,” she explained. “Then one need only put it on and pull it tight in front.”

“Ingenious,” he said.

“But she untied the knot and undid it in the usual way.”

“I see that,” he said.

She was aware of his hands at the base of her spine, knotting the tie. She felt him drawing the lacing through the eyelets, smoothing the narrow tape as he worked his way steadily up her back, tugging with precisely the right degree of firmness.

He certainly had the knack of it. How many women had he undone?

His hands were warm against her back. His breath was warm, too, at the back of her neck. The tiny hairs at her nape rose.

When he’d finished, he didn’t move away immediately. His hands rested on her hips. He stood so close that she could hear his quickened breathing. She could feel the heat of his big body—or was that her own heat? He stood so close that she had only to lean back a very little...

Her heart was racing, and the devil in her was clouding her mind, urging her to lean back that small distance. Don’t you want those

deft, capable hands on you, on your skin? it seemed to whisper. Don’t you want

that powerful body on yours? In yours?

Then the tiny voice, the one Cousin Emma had instilled, argued: And what happens to your power, if you succumb to this?

She’d already given in to her inner demons and played with fire: She’d thrown off her nightclothes and given him an eyeful. It was madly irresponsible—even for her—to forget why she was here.

Lady Clara.

Everything depended on her. The shop. Their future. Success or a mortifying failure. Dowdy triumphing over them, laughing at them.

Grimly she summoned her willpower.

He turned her around and pushed her hands away from the corset. He gave another firm tug, then swiftly tied the lacing in front.

She stepped away from him and took up one of the sleeve puffs.

“Gad, must you?” he said. His voice was low, the dark, dangerous voice that made her mind thick.

She looked up. He was dragging his fingers through his hair.

She wanted to tear her hair out. But she was a Noirot. “Have you noticed the size of my dress sleeves?” she said calmly. “Without the puffs, it’ll look as though I have skirts hanging from my shoulders.” She slipped her arm through one of the puffs. “You said people were suspicious of you. Have you had a good look at yourself in the mirror? One of us at least oughtn’t to look disreputable. And it won’t take long. Leonie invented these.”

“You’re all so inventive,” he said.

She started tying the upper tape to her corset strap.

“Why did you wear this complicated rig?” he said.

“This is what one of your fashionable chères amies would wear,” she said patiently. “Although I don’t doubt their clothes wouldn’t be quite so well made. Nor would they be made at the farthest, dangerous edge of the latest fashion.”

“Let me do that,” he said. “You might be unusually flexible, but I can see better what I’m doing.”

While he tied the sleeve puffs, she adjusted the arm bands over the sleeves of her chemise, and smoothed the edge of the sleeves.

When she took up a stocking, though, he backed away.

But he didn’t turn away. Sophy was shakily aware of his dark gaze fixed on her as she quickly drew on the stockings and tied the garters.

As soon as that was done, he grabbed her dress and flung it over her head. He tried to stuff her arms through, and swore. “There’s no room, dammit! It’s like trying to push a pillow through a keyhole.”

“You squeeze the puffs through,” she said. “They’re filled with down. They’ll compress quite a bit. But you need to do it carefully.”

“I have never seen a more idiotish fashion garment in all my life.”

“It’s not that difficult,” she said. “Just calm down.”

“Easy for you to say,” he said.

It was easy to say. Feeling it was another matter. She wasn’t at all calm. No man had ever helped her dress or undress. The intimacy was almost painful. “I’ll do the left and you do the right.”

They worked quickly, in silence. Once the sleeves were dealt with, he knew what to do with everything else. He even went so far as to crouch to smooth the skirt, and tug it straight.

Then he sprang up, grabbed her hat, thrust it on her head, tied the ribbons, and pushed her at the door.

“My boots,” she said. “My boots.”

He looked down at her slippered feet. “This is diabolical,” he said.

He found her boots, pushed her onto a chair, drew on the boots, and fastened them. Then he grabbed her hand and pulled her upright, so abruptly that she fell against him.

His arms went round her. He let loose a few more oaths and jerked away as though she were contaminated.

“I vow, you’re doing this on purpose to drive me mad,” he said.

And what of me?

She had been kissed by other men, and he had shown her there was another entire world of kissing.

But that intimacy was nothing to this, to his touching her undergarments, her dress, everything that touched her person. She was shaking inside.

Outside, she was a Noirot. “You could have sent for the maid,” she said.

He stomped to the door and pulled it open. While he stood there, breathing hard, vibrating impatience, she found her gloves and her reticule. When she passed through the door, he said something under his breath. It sounded, strangely enough, like French.

L ongmore took Sophy to Broad Street, from whose hostelries travelers could obtain passage to various destinations.

It was a wonder he could find his way, considering she’d destroyed his brain. What remained of it.

He wasn’t a man who was easily shocked.

She’d shocked him.

She’d simply thrown off her nightwear and calmly tossed a chemise over her naked—completely, splendidly naked!—body.

He’d seen her in profile, and the image was seared into his mind: soft, creamy skin and perfectly formed breasts and the most beautiful bottom he’d ever seen in all his life—and he had seen a few.

Then to have to help her get dressed...

That evil corset. By the time he’d finished, his hands had been shaking from the fight with himself not to undo all he’d done.

He would rather have fought a tavern full of drunken sailors.

Then those curst sleeve puffs—to be reaching through her neckline to bash the damn things into place.

He was going to throttle his sister. And Adderley.

Sophy, meanwhile, calmly perused a guidebook to Portsmouth he’d bought at the George some hours earlier.

“This was an excellent idea,” she said, sounding surprised.

“I have them now and again,” he said. “I’m not the sort of traveler who wants guidebooks, but I’ve rarely been to Portsmouth. To the races at Goodwood or Soberton often. Here, almost never. I thought the information would be more reliable than what a harassed innkeeper would offer, and I knew it would be a great waste of time to wander about aimlessly, asking at every inn and ticket office for Clara. That book, as you see, narrows the possibilities.”

“Only two steam packets leave on Sundays,” she said, drawing her finger down the appendix page listing the packets: “One to Ryde.”

“I doubt the Isle of Wight is far enough away for her,” Longmore said.

“There’s a packet to Ireland on Sundays, too,” she said. “From here to Plymouth to Cork, thence to Liverpool.” She looked up at him. “The book says it arrives here in the morning.”

“Can you wonder at my hurrying you?” he said. “But the earliest steam packets don’t leave before seven, and we’ve nearly half an hour until then. The one to Ryde doesn’t leave until eight. Yet I can’t believe she’s so addled as to come all the way to Portsmouth, only to travel to Ryde. And if she did, why get up at dawn’s crack for the purpose, when the Ryde boats leave several times a day? Clara is no more of an early riser than I am.”

“She’d be awake early if she couldn’t sleep,” she said. “In any case, we ought to start with the Sunday packets. The one to Ireland leaves from a place called the Blue Posts. Shall we start there?”

“I thought Ireland or the Continent might be her first choice,” he said. “Still, in the event she does decide to make for the Isle of Wight, I’ve sent Fenwick to the Quebec Tavern. I described her to him, and told him to create a scene if she turned up and was headed for a boat. I don’t doubt he’ll think of something. He offered to play the starving boy and faint at her feet—which, he made sure to point out, would be easy, since he hadn’t had his breakfast.”

“He hadn’t had much sleep, either,” she said. “I can’t believe you took him with you but left me at the inn.”

“He slept in the back of the carriage,” Longmore said. “It was probably the most comfortable berth he’s had in a long time.” Then he realized he’d dragged her away without breakfast, either. “We’ll find you something to eat at the Blue Posts,” he said.

S unday brought visitors to Portsmouth, to tour the sights listed in the guidebook Longmore had given Sophy: the fortifications, churches, and ships—above all the Victory , Lord Nelson’s famous ship. However, Sunday was a slow day for shipping, and at this early hour, one didn’t have to compete so much for attention against crowds of eager or worried travelers.

Sophy and Longmore soon learned that Clara hadn’t booked passage for Ireland. Yet. No pair of women appeared on this morning’s passenger lists.

She’d tried and failed to get a berth on the American Line, bound for New York.

“I didn’t like the look of it,” the agent explained to Sophy. “Anyone could see she was a lady, couldn’t they?—same as they could see the other one wasn’t. I knew something wasn’t right. Hardly any luggage. It was easy enough to put her off. She hadn’t any travel papers, had she? She wouldn’t get past the customs officers, and so I told her. I told her, too, whatever the trouble was, she was only going to find worse, being a stranger in a strange place. Well, I ask you, madam. It was plain as plain to me she was a gentlewoman, and the other one wasn’t no aunt. I wasn’t born yesterday, was I? I hope you find her, before she gets into any trouble she can’t get out of.”

Lady Clara had met with a similar rebuff when she tried to book places on the packet bound for Havre.

Sophy and Longmore were proceeding to the next ticket office on their list when a ragged boy ran toward them and stopped short.

“You the ones lookin’ for the two females?” he said. “One tall and pretty and one plain and looks like a bulldog?”

“Yes,” said Sophy.

“I fought it was you,” the boy said. “You look like what he said—tall, dark gentleman and the lady with big blue eyes and lots of fancy clothes. I was to tell you as Mad Dick says he found ’em, and hurry along to the Quebec Tavern, as he don’t know if he’ll be able to keep ’em. Too many officers and such about, givin’ him dirty looks.”

S ophy and Longmore found Clara on the wharf, pacing, while her maid stood guard over their pitiful pile of belongings. The day was warm, but a stiff breeze blew, and she seemed to be huddled against it, her arms folded. Now and again she looked out over the water. To Sophy she looked pale and ill.

The maid noticed them first, but Longmore put up a hand, signaling her to be quiet.

Fenwick sat on a crate, chin in hand, watching Clara pace. As he’d reported, there were a number of naval officers about. They were all keeping an eye on him, and not making much effort to pretend they weren’t. He did look the worse for wear. Two days’ travel had restored much of his grubbiness and his general appearance of being up to no good.

Longmore neared and then, “Ah, there you are, Clara,” he said, and she started at the sound of his voice. “I’ve been all over the town, looking for you.”

She rushed toward him and he opened his arms, but instead of accepting comfort, she started hitting him in the chest. “No,” she said. “No, no, no.”

“What the devil?”

“I won’t go back,” she said. “You can’t make me go back.”

“Then where do you mean to go?” he said.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Anywhere. Anywhere but here.”

The scene promptly attracted attention.

Sophy decided it was time to intervene. She advanced toward the nearest sturdy-looking officer, gave a little shriek, and fainted.

I t was a strategic swoon, Longmore noticed. She’d made sure to do it where she could fall into the arms of a muscular, good-looking fellow. For a moment, even Longmore was taken in. He knew she was fatigued to a dangerous degree—even he was tired, and he hadn’t been working long hours before he set out—and he’d hurried her and dragged her from the inn at an unholy hour.

But then Clara hurried toward her, crying, “Oh, Miss Noirot, are you ill? You poor thing. My brother is such a brute.”

At that, the deep blue eyes fluttered open. “My dear, is that you? We’ve been so worried.” She gracefully disentangled herself from the entirely too-handsome naval officer she’d landed on.

“Are you sure you’re all right, miss?” he said.

“Oh, yes, merely dizzy for a moment,” she said in a faint voice.

Longmore advanced. “She’s quite all right,” he said. “She hasn’t had her breakfast yet, that’s all.”

The wind gusted then, and the two young women clutched their hats, while their skirts flew up, treating the onlookers to an exciting vision of lacy petticoats and well-turned ankles.

The naval officer’s gaze darted from one pair of ankles to the other.

“Fenwick, help the maid with the bags,” Longmore said. “Ladies, we’ve entertained the audience sufficiently, I believe.”

Clara’s face took on a familiar, mulish expression.

Sophy said, “Do be reasonable, my dear. You can’t go on a voyage with only that .” She waved at Clara’s woefully small pile of belongings. “You won’t have a thing to wear.”

T o Longmore’s amazement, it worked. Clara looked at the bags and at her maid and then at Sophy.

“What you need is a brandy,” said Sophy.

“Yes,” Clara said.

“Let’s go back to the hotel,” Sophy said.

Clara’s lower lip trembled.

“I promise you, everything will be all right,” Sophy said. “Let’s talk about it in a comfortable place.”

“Talking won’t do any good,” Clara said.

“Yes, it will,” Sophy said with so much confidence that even Longmore believed her.

T hey returned to the George, where Longmore procured a private dining parlor. He ordered brandy first. If getting his sister drunk would make her cooperate, he was happy to do it.

It didn’t take much. After half a glass, Clara seemed to calm a degree. She sat close to Sophy.

“Are you feeling a little better?” Sophy said.

“I can’t bear to go back,” Clara said. “Isn’t there another way?”

“We’re going to fix this,” Sophy said. “My sisters and I will fix this, and we’ll do it beautifully, the way we make your clothes. But I need to understand everything that happened. Think of it as my taking measurements, and trying colors next to your face.”

“It’s easy enough to tell,” Clara said. “I was angry.”

“About what?”

“Something stupid. It isn’t important.”

“A man?”

Clara met her gaze.

“Very well,” Sophy said. “Not relevant.”

“Why not?” Longmore said.

“Because,” Sophy said. She gave him a look. The message was as clear as if she’d grasped his lapels and said, Don’t say anything. Don’t do anything.

He subsided. Not happily. But they were women, and he was wary of setting off his sister again.

“Go on,” Sophy told Clara.

“I was angry,” Clara said. “And there was Adderley, with champagne. I drank too fast and we danced and I was dizzy.”

“You were drunk,” Longmore said.

Clara glared at him. “Don’t you dare lecture me.”

“I wasn’t—”

“And don’t tell me I oughtn’t to have gone out onto the terrace with Adderley. I’ve seen you slip away with women—even at St. James’s Palace! At a Drawing Room!”

“I’m a man,” Longmore said. “And I don’t do that with innocent girls.”

He looked straight at Sophy.

He hadn’t got her drunk. And she wasn’t innocent.

She might be a trifle inexperienced with some of the more intimate aspects, but he was very sure she knew more about men than Carlotta O’Neill did.

In any case, innocent girls didn’t throw off their nightclothes in front of a man.

Well, perhaps dressmakers did. Dressing and undressing were business, after all.

And perhaps he’d instigated it ... inadvertently. He’d woken her from a sound sleep and barged into her room and expected her to get dressed in no time.

Maybe she’d done it to spite him.

Maybe. Maybe. Why the devil was he obliged to think at this hour?

“I thought he was going to talk,” Clara was saying. “I thought he was going to tell me how wonderful I was, and I wanted to hear that, because I didn’t feel ... pretty. I felt big and clumsy.”

“You aren’t that big,” Longmore said.

“Lady Clara isn’t big or clumsy, but this is the way she felt ,” Sophy said.

“Feelings,” he said.

“Yes.”

He sat back and drank his brandy.

“I thought Lord Adderley might steal a kiss,” Clara said. “And I was cross and feeling ... I don’t know.”

“Defiant,” Sophy said.

“Yes. But then it wasn’t like stealing a kiss at all. It was something else completely. I wasn’t sure I liked it, but it was exciting, because I knew it was wrong. But then things happened so quickly—and then there were all those people. And then Harry came, and I knew he’d kill Adderley.”

“I would have tried,” Longmore said. “But I suspect Miss Noirot would have come after me with a chair or a potted plant—or she would have shrieked and fainted.”

Clara looked from him to Sophy.

“Absolutely,” Sophy said. “I knew he wasn’t thinking clearly. Or at all. I was prepared to let him hit Lord Adderley. But that was all. If I couldn’t find something to hit him with, to get his attention, I was prepared to create a diversion.”

“I wish I’d known,” Clara said.

“Then you weren’t trying to protect him,” Sophy said. “I knew it wasn’t quite ... true.”

“The tears were true enough,” Clara said. “I was terrified for my brother.”

“For me? Against that limp—”

“You never think of consequences. You’d lose your temper and kill him, and then you’d have to run away to the Continent. But you’d never run away, from anything. They’d try you and hang you for murdering a defenseless man.”

Longmore stared at his sister.

“You were protecting me ?”

“Someone had to,” she said.

“For God’s sake, Clara.”

“How was I to know Miss Noirot understood, and knew what to do? I didn’t even know she was there.” She looked at Sophy. “Where were you?”

“It’s better not to know,” he said. “Are we done talking about our feelings? Because I’ve had enough revelations for one day. You look as though you’ve had enough, too, the pair of you. Looking seedy—”

“Harry!”

“You both look like the devil,” he said. “I recommend a dose of beauty sleep for the rest of the morning. If we leave by midday, we ought to be able to make London tonight.”