Page 17 of Scandal Wears Satin (Dressmakers #2)

The Marquess of Hertford has invited a large party of the fashionable world, on Monday next, to his first fête during the season, at his mansion in the Regent’s Park ... We understand upwards of five hundred invitations have been issued.

— The Court Journal , Saturday 13 June 1835

Exclusive to Foxe’s Morning Spectacle

Monday 15 June

In light of the recent incident at the British Institution’s annual summer exhibition, we can only shake our heads in wonder at a certain gentleman’s persistence in folly. This lord has won—whether by fair means or foul, we leave to our readers’ judgment—the hand of London’s premier belle, a diamond of the first water: a title which even our most hardened misogynists cannot begrudge her. A lady of rank, incomparable beauty, and grace, she ought, we should have thought, to arouse feelings of purest devotion in any masculine heart not hardened into adamantine obduracy by years of self-indulgence and callous disregard of obligations. True, the gentleman’s depredations upon the once prosperous family estate left to him by a loving father have reduced his dependents to beggary. True, London has not in many years seen so shameful a case of financial recklessness and disregard, even of the unwritten code which permits a gentleman to ignore the clamor of his creditors yet requires him to pay promptly all debts of honor to his friends. Indeed, to find a case comparable in egregiousness, we must look back to the date in 1816 when Beau Brummell fled these shores in the dead of night, leaving his friends responsible for some thirty thousand pounds in a mutually raised loan, in addition to sums owed to divers parties who were not his friends.

At present, we hardly know what to think. We can only present to our readers a singular incident: On Sunday night, the gentleman in question was observed in a quiet alcove of the Brunswick Hotel. Admittedly, it is nothing out of the ordinary to discover groups of gentlemen enjoying the hotel’s fine food and drink. Yet no other gentleman joined his lordship. His only companion at table was a young French widow last seen on the arm of his affianced bride’s brother.

Maison Noirot

Tuesday afternoon

“N o, no!” Marcelline cried. “What are you thinking, Sophy? It’s essential that Lady Clara wear the white. And you must wear the blue.”

“I thought you made the plum expressly for this party,” Sophy said.

Marcelline waved her hands near her head, dismissing the plum dress and her plans for it. “That was before I saw the two dresses together, and you and Lady Clara standing together. No, no, it will never do. It’s out of the question. The contrast is too strong.”

A trio of mannequins wore the dresses at the moment. They were part of a set, twelve in all, and represented an extravagance Leonie hadn’t enthusiastically endorsed. But the mannequins made a splendid show, and impressed the customers. Dowdy’s had only two antiquated specimens.

“Of course there’s a contrast,” Sophy said. “I’m a dashing young widow. Lady Clara is an unwed young lady.”

“I know that,” Marcelline said impatiently. “But if Lady Clara wears the white and you wear the plum, the difference will seem too extreme, and you’ll seem fast by comparison. Dashing is all very well. It’s exciting. But fast is a judgment. And you’re not the one we want judged.” She turned to Lady Clara’s brother. “I appeal to you, Lord Longmore.”

He retreated a step. “Ah, no, thank you. When it comes to ladies’ clothes, I’m like Mad Dick. He refuses to get near their hooks and buttons and such, and I refuse to enter disputes about style.”

He, Lady Clara, Marcelline, and Sophy stood in the private consulting room on the first floor, away from the hubbub on the ground floor—a much greater hubbub than they’d anticipated for the Season’s remaining ten days.

The ton liked to end the Season with a series of lavish events, rather like the concluding explosions of a fireworks display, and hosts competed to make the biggest explosion. Likewise, the women’s competition for envy-arousing dress was as grim and fierce as preparations for war.

On Thursday, Lady Bartham would hold her annual ball. Her intent, as always, was to cast into the shade, if not the void, all other end-of-Season events, including the Marquess of Hertford’s fête in Regent’s Park yesterday, the Duke and Duchess of St. Albans’s ball and supper this evening, and the Duke and Duchess of Northumberland’s fête champetre at Sion House on Friday.

Outdoing everyone else was the obvious reason Lady Bartham had invited not only the principals of the exciting Adderley scandal, but a couple who had appeared on precious few guest lists: the Duke and Duchess of Clevedon.

When the Great World learned that both Lady Clara Fairfax and her rumored rival for Lord Adderley’s affections, Madame de Veirrion, patronized Maison Noirot, half a dozen of the female members of that world abandoned their own dressmakers and made posthaste for No. 56 St. James’s Street. Doubtless they hoped to get a glimpse of the two women, preferably trying to scratch each other’s eyes out—not to mention a closer look at the glamorous new Duchess of Clevedon.

But these were lesser motives. The greater was to outdo everyone else, including the Parisian sensation, Madame de Veirrion. It seemed that having a dress made at Maison Noirot was the only way to achieve this aim—even if it meant getting put on the Marchioness of Warford’s enemies list.

Since a delighted Leonie gave Sophy full credit for the influx of desirable customers, she’d been more affectionate and less tiresome about accounts than usual. Today, she was taking advantage of Sophy’s being on duty at Maison Noirot by visiting the linen drapers. Leonie’s eye for fabric was as sharp and discerning as her eye for numbers.

Still, Marcelline was the acknowledged design genius. Had Leonie been present, she would have told Sophy, “But of course you’ll wear the blue. Didn’t Marcelline say you must?”

Lady Clara, who’d moved to study the dresses, now added her opinion. “You’ll be divine in the blue,” she said. “It’s the perfect shade for your eyes. And it will set off the diamonds splendidly.”

“Diamonds?” Longmore said.

“Of course,” Lady Clara said. “Madame must be dripping diamonds, to whet a certain gentleman’s appetite.”

His dark gaze swung to Sophy. She had not seen him since early Monday morning. This was the first time he’d actually looked at her since he’d arrived with his sister. She thought the glint in his eyes was humor.

Perhaps he wasn’t in love after all. Perhaps he’d had the ailment for a moment, then recovered, much in the way he’d recover from a morning after too much carousing.

A man in love ought to seem at least a little troubled, perhaps pale and ill. He ought to feel love’s pangs , as Lord Adderley so tritely put it.

But maybe it was trite of her to expect a man like Longmore to fret over a minor thing like being in love. He wasn’t high-strung. One couldn’t accuse him of excessive sentiment. He wasn’t emotional. He wasn’t sensitive.

And she rather loved that about him.

And so many other things about him.

Never mind never mind never mind.

She concentrated on now , and getting through this encounter with her poise and dignity intact.

“It’s not a time for Madame to be subtle,” she said.

“Oh, no one’s subtle at Lady Bartham’s ball,” Lady Clara said, oblivious to currents between her brother and one of her dressmakers. “Women empty their jewel boxes on themselves.”

“But not you, Lady Clara,” Marcelline said. “You’ll wear very simple jewelry. Your beauty requires no adornment in any event, and neither does the ball dress. A great dress should not require mounds of jewelry to make it great. But most important, we want to emphasize your purity and innocence.”

“And we want to pretend that I have any purity and innocence,” Sophy said. “That is to say, that Madame has any.”

Longmore moved to the mannequins and examined the blue dress. “What is it you object to?” he said. “This blue will enhance the color of your eyes—your celestial eyes—or was it your lips—or your soul that the Puff Adder proclaimed celestial?”

“ I’m celestial,” she said. “My entire being.”

“Did Lord Adderley say that, really?” Lady Clara said.

“He put it in writing,” Longmore said. “Has Madame not told you?”

“When would Madame tell her?” Sophy said. “Lady Clara and Madame are not on warm terms these days, remember?”

“I’m losing track of who is whom and what they’re about,” he said. “Too much subtlety and hidden meanings for my little brain box. Too much subterfuge.”

It was second nature to her, Sophy thought. Or perhaps first nature.

With a fine show of good humor she told Lady Clara about the love letter. She saw the lady glance at her brother—looking for a reaction?—but he didn’t notice. He was walking back and forth in front of the mannequins, hands folded behind his back. He put Sophy in mind of a general inspecting his troops.

In a way, that was what he was doing. Two of those dresses were part of Sophy’s and Lady Clara’s arsenal.

“I’m so glad I didn’t know about it,” Lady Clara said when Sophy had, with suitable pathos, conveyed Lord Adderley’s closing plea. “I should never have been able to keep my composure yesterday when he called.” Her smile was thin. “He was furious about the piece in the Spectacle . Once again he threatened to sue them. He ranted about slander. I sat with my hands folded and waited for him to finish carrying on. I thought Mama would explode, but she only sat very upright and stiff and disapproving. He must have caught on that he was using the wrong tactic, because after a while of getting no sympathy he quieted. Then he assured me the incident was perfectly innocent.”

“I’m sorry I missed that performance,” Longmore said while closely inspecting the blue dress. “I had to put in an appearance at the Marquess of Hertford’s fête.”

He’d gone to that party after he’d told her he loved her, Sophy thought. After he’d told her he loved her and then looked as though it was a joke or a puzzle ... and laughed ... and left.

Marcelline joined him. “Is something troubling you about Sophy’s—” She broke off, frowning, and moved to the white dress she’d made for Lady Clara. “Sophy, do you think these sleeves ought to ...” She looked at the dress, then at Lady Clara. She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips in that way she did when her artist’s eye discerned something amiss that nobody else could see.

“The sleeves,” she said. “They’re not quite ... Lady Clara, I must trouble you to try on the dress.”

“Oh, yes, of course. That’s why I came. And wasn’t it good of Harry to take me, when he could have gone to Ascot? The races begin today, you know, and he hasn’t missed an opening day since he came back from the Continent.”

Marcelline only smiled and led her ladyship into the dressing room. The door wasn’t closed, and Lady Clara’s light, musical voice was perfectly audible. “It was too bad he missed Lord Adderley’s performance,” she said. “That might have made up for Ascot. I think Harry would have laughed himself sick. Mama, naturally, doesn’t see the humor in it. She was plainly outraged, but she held herself in check. For which I give her credit. It’s very hard to sit quietly while one’s intelligence is insulted.”

Longmore drew near to Sophy. “I should like to see you dripping diamonds ... and nothing else,” he said in the very low voice that melted her spine and her brain simultaneously. More audibly, he answered his sister, “I was curious how the snake would account for himself.”

“Oh, he blamed you,” Clara said, her voice slightly muffled. Sophy could hear fabric rustling and Marcelline muttering something.

“I?” Longmore said. He leaned in and licked Sophy’s earlobe.

Her fingers curled into her palms. She really ought to step away, but it was too delicious. Too naughty.

“He claimed you’d hurt Madame’s feelings,” Clara was saying. “He said he was simply trying to cheer her. I said I thought that dining intime with a lady at a hotel seemed an odd way to go about it. Why did he not suggest she take a brisk walk in the open air? Why did he not suggest she visit Astley’s Amphitheater or the zoo or watch a comedy at the theater?”

Longmore was kissing the little bit of Sophy’s throat accessible above the ruche of her chemisette. It was extremely difficult to concentrate on Lady Clara. Yet Sophy was too weak-willed to step away. “That’s ... good,” she said. “You didn’t forgive him too easily.”

“Not at all,” Lady Clara said. “I know he was annoyed with me. He expected me to smile and accept whatever he said. He thinks that he can do whatever he pleases, merely because he holds the power to restore my good name—the good name he fouled. On purpose.”

Longmore left off kissing Sophy and looked deeply into her eyes. “This is too complicated,” he said. “I can’t do this and think at the same time.”

“Then move away,” she said.

“Don’t want to,” he said.

“I know he wanted to break it off then and there,” Clara went on. “But he doesn’t dare. A bird in the hand, you know—but, my God, what shall I do if it all goes wrong, and—”

“Hush!” Marcelline said sharply. “It’s not going to go wrong. Trust us, my dear.”

“Trust you,” Longmore murmured, still gazing so intently into Sophy’s eyes. “What a funny, funny thing to say.”

S ince it was best for Sophy not to be seen too often in the shop at present, she avoided the showroom. Marcelline was the one who accompanied Lady Clara and her brother downstairs and saw them out—much to the excitement of the customers, no doubt.

Marcelline returned very soon, however, and with a grim look quickly removed the plum dress from the mannequin. She draped the dress over one arm and took hold of Sophy’s arm with her free hand and marched her into the dressing room.

“There’s no need to throw a tantrum,” Sophy said. Marcelline could become temperamental about her designs. “If you say I must wear the blue, I must wear the blue.”

“I know why you want to wear the plum,” Marcelline said. “It’s ravishing. It’ll make Longmore swoon.”

“It might make him do some things,” Sophy said. “But swooning isn’t one of them. He’s the sort of man who tells a girl he l-loves her—and then l-laughs. As though it’s a j-joke.”

To her vexation, she started to cry.

“Oh, my dear love.” Marcelline threw the dress over a chair and wrapped her arms about her sister.

That was all. She simply held her for a time while Sophy cried and cried until she was done.

Then Marcelline led her upstairs to the sitting room and brought out the brandy, the Noirot sisters’ preferred remedy for all sorts of disturbances.

“You work too hard,” Marcelline said after they’d taken their first sips. “You take too much on. Even Leonie says so.”

“But I’ve left you two to manage everything—and you’ve got a husband now! You’re still newlyweds!”

“Leonie and I have sufficient help from Selina Jeffreys and some of the seamstresses,” Marcelline said. “Clevedon and I have no trouble finding all the time we need to be together. Just because one is married doesn’t mean one must be with one’s spouse every waking minute.”

“Still—”

“Still, nothing,” Marcelline said. “You’re overworked. You had quite enough to do, merely looking after our interests. But now you’ve taken on this trouble of Lady Clara’s. And there’s her brother, making love to you at the same time you’re trying to conduct a delicate, elaborate, and risky scheme.”

Sophy met her sister’s gaze over the brandy decanter.

Schemes and dodges and subterfuge and other forms of machination were part of the family inheritance. If there was one thing her sisters understood as well or perhaps even better than they did the art of dressmaking, it was the art of deception.

“And there are my sisters,” Sophy said, “carrying on the business, slaving over dresses and indulging spoiled ladies—while I’m at the Clarendon Hotel pretending to be the Queen of Sheba at my brother-in-law’s expense.”

Marcelline laughed. “ Ma foi , you can’t be so mad as to let that trouble you! Clevedon’s thrilled to be part of our plot. And do try to remember that he doesn’t care about money. He’s not like us. He never had to think about it, let alone worry about it—and it’s extremely unlikely he ever will. Pray don’t fret about the Clarendon and Madame’s servants and such. My husband’s friends will have won or lost as much at Ascot this week as he’s spent on you. And they won’t have had nearly so much fun doing it.”

A weight lifted.

Sophy grinned at her sister. “It is great fun,” she said. “I get so caught up in worrying about Lady Clara that I forget I’m doing what I was born to do—and it makes a pleasant change from waiting on tiresome women.”

“That’s the only drawback,” Marcelline said with a little sigh. “I love designing clothes. I love making clothes. I don’t even mind the dreary, boring repetitive parts.”

“They’re soothing,” Sophy said. “One doesn’t think. One simply does , and takes pleasure in doing it beautifully.”

“I love everything about it,” Marcelline said.

“Except the customers.”

Marcelline laughed. “If only each customer could send a mannequin in her place. Well, not all of them. Some are great fun. Lady Clara is a delight—even when she’s arguing with me about things of which she knows nothing. But most of them—really, when one thinks about it ...” She sat for a moment, staring at the decanter. “There must be a way.”

“My dear, if you’d rather be a duchess, and design dresses in your private castle purely for yourself and your own entertainment, you know Leonie and I can manage the shop.”

“I’d die if I gave it up,” Marcelline said. “Something inside me would shrivel. It’s too bad, but Cousin Emma did something to us. In spite of Mama and Papa and all the others.”

“She inspired us,” Sophy said. “We were meant to be knaves like the rest—and we are. But Cousin Emma made us something more. And now we can’t be less, that’s all.”

Marcelline raised her glass, and Sophy did, too.

“To Cousin Emma,” Marcelline said.

“To Cousin Emma,” Sophy said. They drank.

“And I must wear the blue dress,” Sophy said, “because—”

“Because the other will make Longmore swoon, and we need him to keep his wits about him,” Marcelline said. “And speaking of Longmore ...” She raised her eyebrows at Sophy.

We make love , he’d said.

“Yes,” Sophy said. “Yes, I did. That. The thing you explained about.”

“The family matter,” Marcelline said.

“I was waiting for the right time to tell you,” Sophy said. “But there hasn’t been time. Lately we see each other for such short intervals.”

She told her sister now, what had happened on the way to and from Portsmouth.

She knew Marcelline wouldn’t be angry or disapproving. Noirots weren’t like other people. There were rules they didn’t understand and didn’t care about.

She only listened and smiled now and again, and when Sophy had finished, she shrugged a perfect French shrug, which also happened to be a perfect Noirot shrug. “It was bound to happen sooner or later,” she said. “Purity and virtue don’t agree with Noirots, do they? And you’re all of three and twenty. It’s remarkable you kept your virtue for so long.”

“Lack of opportunity, probably,” Sophy said.

“You barely have time to sleep,” Marcelline said. “Where is there time for love affairs? Yet we manage to make the time when we have to.”

“I’m not sure I had to,” Sophy said.

“I am,” Marcelline said. “I know it’s damned inconvenient, and I don’t blame you for crying, considering what an extremely difficult and complicated situation it is with him.”

“Difficult and complicated? Impossible, you mean.”

“It does seem rather impossible, I’ll admit.” Marcelline smiled. “But my dear love— ma soeur chérie — I really must commend you on your excellent taste .”

Warford House

Thursday 18 June

“P ray listen to this, Mama,” Lady Clara said. She gave the Spectacle a little shake, cleared her throat, and began, “ ‘It would seem that the rift which had opened a few days ago between a certain lord and a young French widow has been bridged, and all is billing and cooing once more. The couple dined at the Clarendon Hotel last night with the duke and duchess who had introduced them, as our readers will recollect, last week at the Queen’s Theater. Madame wore a dress of pink velours epinglé , the corsage draped in folds across the bosom, the back close-fitting. Very short, full sleeves cut open in front to display ...’ ”

When she got to the “billing and cooing” part, Lord Adderley left his chair and walked to the chimneypiece, where he stared at Lady Warford’s collection of Murano glass flowers. He paid no attention to the rest of the recital, which consisted of every last pestilential detail of what Madame wore and what the duchess wore.

He’d dutifully called today as he did every day but Tuesday, when the family was not at home to callers. It was rather like going daily to have a tooth pulled, he thought. He wasn’t sure he could endure much more of it: Clara’s incessant prattling and her mother’s icily patronizing politeness.

“Billing and cooing, indeed,” Lady Warford said. “I shouldn’t be surprised if Longmore broke Tom Foxe’s jaw for his impudence.”

“Harry’s more likely to laugh,” Clara said. “But it’s interesting, isn’t it, Lord Adderley, that all is mended between them.”

“I can’t help but believe the engagement for dinner must have been made previously,” he said. “No doubt the lady didn’t wish to inconvenience her friends. The duke and duchess are friends of long standing, I believe.”

“Then my brother obviously took advantage of the opportunity to make up to Madame,” Clara said. “He can be winning when he wants to be.”

“If Longmore wishes to be winning, one can only conclude that he’s decided to fix the lady’s interest,” Lady Warford said. “I had a feeling it would come to this, from the moment I saw him with her in the theater. Ah, well, it might have been worse, I’m sure.”

A barmaid or a ballet dancer.

“I think you’ll like her, Mama,” Clara said. “She seems good-natured. At least she won’t make a disagreeable daughter-in-law.”

“Daughter-in-law?” Adderley said. “Have you got them to the altar already?”

“I believe it’s only a matter of time,” Clara said.

“But you seemed to take her in dislike the other day,” he said.

“That was before you told me that Harry had hurt her feelings. I know how provoking my brother can be.”

“Shockingly tactless,” Lady Warford said. “Unfortunately, Longmore can be tactless quite fluently in several languages.”

“In any event, Lady Bartham will ask to introduce her to Mama tonight, and it seems we must like it or lump it.”

“I see no alternative but to agree to know the lady,” Lady Warford said. “One can never be sure with Longmore, but in the event he turns out to entertain serious feelings about this young woman, I prefer to begin the acquaintance amiably. And if it all comes to nothing—” Lady Warford made a dismissive gesture. “No harm done. The Season is nearly over, and one needn’t see her again until next year. By then, who knows what will happen?”

“Indeed,” Lord Adderley said. “Who knows?” He came away from the chimneypiece. “I had better not trespass on your time. I know you ladies will wish to rest and prepare for the ball this evening.”

They didn’t try to keep him.

He made his farewell with great politeness if not great warmth. As he was leaving the room, as glad to be gone as he knew they were to see him go, he heard Clara say, “I can’t wait to see what Madame de Veirrion will be wearing.”

He swallowed a smile and went out.

Billing and cooing, was she?

The wicked little coquette.

Let the Spectacle print what it wished. Let them think what they liked.

He knew the truth about her.

Countess of Bartham’s ball

Thursday night

L ongmore watched Lady Bartham approach. “Whatever you do,” he said in an undertone, “do not treat my mother to that curtsey.”

“But what curtsey is this?” Madame said.

“You know the one I mean,” he said. “The ballet dancer dying swan Queen Mab curtsey.”

“This is absurd,” she said. “Why should I do these things?”

He hadn’t time to answer because Lady Bartham was upon them, all smiles. A moment later she was leading Madame to meet his mother.

He let them go ahead, while he watched everybody watching Madame. The blue dress had been pretty enough in the shop. Now it was breathtaking, Delicate silver embroidery made a twining pattern over the top layer of blue crepe, which floated upon the satin layer beneath. Gossamer lace fluttered and brilliants sparkled in the sleeves. Under the chandeliers, it was like watching sunlight shimmering on a blue sea.

The dress was cut low, the better to display the eleven tons of diamonds she wore—and which, with any luck, no one would discover had been charged to the Duke of Clevedon’s account at Rundell and Bridge.

Longmore glanced about the room, casually taking note of Lord Adderley, lounging near the refreshment room, wearing a self-satisfied smirk.

“M y dear Lady Warford, may I present Madame de Veirrion,” Lady Bartham said.

Lady Warford sat up a degree straighter and a shade more stiffly. Her blue gaze bored straight into Madame as though she were prepared to read entrails, without the usual preliminaries.

For a moment Madame wondered whether Lady Bartham had made a mistake or misunderstood. Ladies were supposed to ask other ladies if they desired such and such an introduction, to avoid awkward moments. Maybe Lady Warford had agreed but had changed her mind.

Mon dieu , I’m about to be snubbed , she thought. The cut direct—at the biggest event of the Season.

But nothing of what happened inside Madame showed on the outside. Outside she wore enough of a smile to be amiable but not at all fawning.

After all, Madame de Veirrion had a great fortune, and in Paris she was Somebody.

Lady Warford gave a gracious nod. “Madame.”

“Lady Warford.” Madame didn’t return the nod. She sank into a Noirot curtsey, the one Longmore had told her not to perform.

She heard everybody in the vicinity catch their breath.

When she rose, Lady Warford was wearing a speculative look.

Longmore appeared at Madame’s elbow. “Good gad, madame, it’s my mother, not Louis XIV. You French, always carrying everything to excess.”

“What is this excess you speak of?” said Madame. “This is madame la marquise , yes? What is wrong in this way I make my courtesy to your so elegant maman ? Of whom, yes, I beg the pardon.” She turned her attention to Lady Warford. “You will pardon, I beg you please, Madame de —ah, no. It is Lady Warford I must say. My English is not yet of perfection.”

“I’m sure you’ll master it in time, Madame de Veirrion,” Lady Warford said. “As you seem to have mastered ... other things.” She shot a glance at her son before returning to his companion. “I believe this is your first London ball?”

“Yes, Madame —Lady Warford. I make my debut, thanks to the great kindness of your friend Lady Bartham.”

“But of course I must have you,” Lady Bartham said. “Unthinkable not to have the most-talked-about lady in London at my party.”

“Of course you must,” Lady Warford said, smiling sweetly.

Lady Bartham said, with a laugh. “And I must have, too, the second most-talked-about, the Duchess of Clevedon.”

“Since most of the talk is in English,” Longmore said, “Madame is in the fortunate position of not understanding most of it. I daresay she barely comprehends three words in ten of the present conversation. Madame, you’re looking a trifle dazed. I think you need a drink. Lady Bartham—Mother—Clara—if we may be permitted to exit your exalted presence?”

He swept her away.