Page 20 of The Lyon Whisperer (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #79)
C hase was up and gone, and based on the light eking through the heavy drapes, she guessed the time at not quite six a.m. He had not only risen before her, he had somehow managed to not wake her.
Though he had beaten her to the breakfast hall every day since they’d moved to Warren House, she typically rose before him—by design. Seeing to the dogs without alerting the entire household demanded a fair amount of stealth.
Now that Chase had learned of their presence, she didn’t know how to proceed. She supposed she’d stick with her routine until ordered otherwise.
The good news was, he hadn’t seemed overly annoyed after stumbling upon them last night. But then, he’d been focused on her dealings with Lord Tully.
She wondered what his attitude about the puppies would be in the light of day.
She stretched, luxuriating in the soft sheets and heavy down blanket cocooning her in warmth in her husband’s large bed, then braced for the cold and folded back the covers.
The air felt toasty warm, not frigid with the morning chill as she’d expected. A quick glance confirmed what her body already gleaned. A crackling fire burned in the grate. Her husband had seen to it before departing the chamber. Surely a good sign?
She found her nightshift hanging neatly over his polished wooden valet. She donned it, noting stiff muscles and tender parts she had never known existed before this week.
Any amount of soreness was worth the heaven she experienced in Chase’s arms. She’d never known such all-consuming pleasure, nor such tenderness.
She crossed to the adjoining door. She’d throw on a hasty gown, apron, and coat and see to the puppies, then ready herself for breakfast and whatever consequences Chase saw fit to dole out.
With an apron full of scraps, and a bowl of water balanced in her hands, Amelia crunched across the graveled courtyard toward the coach house. She took careful steps, trying not to slosh more water from the bowl than she delivered to the thirsty, growing pups.
With each step, her anxiety grew. Chase had promised a forthcoming discussion. She could deal with his annoyance, but what if he insisted she get rid of them before she found homes for the three?
She worried about placing Roddy most of all. The sweetest and most mischievous, he was also the smallest, weakest, and there was that business with him having only one eye. People could be so very superstitious about such things.
Nearing the building, she glanced up from the water she hefted and noted the door stood ajar. Alarm had her hastening her steps. Had she and Chase left it open last night?
With the toe of one boot, she swung the door further open and slipped inside.
One look at the nook where she housed the pups and her stomach dropped. The dogs had somehow nudged the barricade aside.
She set the water aside, no longer caring if it slopped. A quick search of the nook told her the three were not inside.
She dashed outside, casting furtive glances in every direction. She saw no sign of them.
Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision as she jogged the length of the stone building to reach the grassy area behind—and the large expanse of wood.
Roddy, Rose, and Fergus were all still babes. If they’d ventured into the woods, she’d never find them. Anything could happen to them. They could be picked off by predators, or…
She jerked to a halt at the sound of robust male laughter. Chase’s laughter.
She scrubbed her eyes with the backs of her hands and peered around the corner in time to see Roddy take a running leap toward Chase, who caught him mid-air.
Her husband half sprawled on the dew-covered lawn wearing tweed pantaloons and his shirtsleeves—no waistcoat or cravat—and appeared not to care about the moisture surely soaking his clothing.
Rose and Fergus wrestled in easy arm’s distance from him, their small bodies indiscernible from one another’s as they rolled and kicked for all they were worth, both issuing their adorable renditions of menacing growls.
Roddy, still caught in Chase’s large hands, wriggled and strained in a desperate bid to plant kisses on the man’s face.
“No,” he ordered, but laughter laced his remonstration. A broad smile split his handsome face, softening his normally stern features. She could almost imagine how he’d looked as a tender-aged boy.
An image of Chase’s son—her son—came to her, unbidden, and her breath hitched.
The sound must have alerted Chase to her presence, because he shot a querulous look over his shoulder toward her.
Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, Roddy dove forward, managing to plant one solid lick on Chase’s chin before landing on his lap, where he curled into a ball, tucking his nose under his tail. He fixed Amelia with a belligerent look, as if daring her to try and take him from Chase.
Her eyes misted again, and her mouth curved in a helpless grin.
“Good morning,” Chase said, his expression neutral. He set poor Roddy aside and unfolded from the ground, dusting himself off. “I thought you might like to sleep in.”
“It was quite cozy when I awoke, perfect for lazing about in bed, but I knew I had three hungry mouths to feed. Thank you for your assistance, by the way, both last night and this morning.”
He gave an indeterminate grunt of acknowledgment and sauntered toward her, Roddy at his heels.
“You might have mentioned you intended to take them out. When I looked in and found them gone, I thought they’d somehow escaped into the wood.”
“Apologies,” he said, an unmistakable edge of sarcasm lacing the one-word reply.
Her face heated. “None needed.”
“May I ask what your plans are for them? Other than traipsing about in your nightshift for the next several months to sneak food to them?”
He’d said months . A good sign, she decided. “I’ll find homes for them, of course, as I did for two of the litter already, and as I have for countless others.”
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Countless. Others.” He opened his dark eyes and fixed her with a stern eye. “This will be your last batch of strays, madam wife. Do I make myself clear?”
She frowned. “But—”
“No buts .” Clearly considering the discussion closed, he studied the puppies with an assessing air.
Their frolicking had ceased, possibly due to the tone of the conversation between Chase and Amelia. Rose and Fergus had gravitated toward her to press their warm little bodies against her legs, and tiny tremors coursed through them.
Not Roddy, though. He swiped at Chase’s boot with one paw.
Amelia crouched to stroke the two at her feet. “It’s all right, Rose and Fergus. Lord Culver doesn’t mean to toss you to the wolves.” She slanted him a glance. At least she did not think he meant to.
“For pity’s sake,” he muttered. He scooped Roddy onto the crook of one arm and absently scratched him behind his ears.
Amelia could swear the dog’s muzzle curved into a grin. She pressed her lips together to avoid smiling.
“As for what’s to be done with them now…”
She straightened, wiping damp palms on her apron. “Yes?”
He cursed softly. “I can’t have my wife wandering the grounds at all hours. I’ll inform Cook they’re to be housed in the storage room attached to the kitchens. It’s sunny and warm and, more to the point, will contain them—indoors.”
“If you think it best.” She refrained from mentioning the debacle involving a litter of kittens she thought to keep in her father’s kitchen. They’d all escaped and hidden throughout the manse. She and the servants had had a devil of a time locating them.
Father had not been pleased.
“As for your numerous daily walks, which I can now attribute to your caring for your miscreants, you’ll take someone with you from now on.”
“That’s hardly necessary,” she objected. “The staff is overly taxed as is.”
“Nevertheless, I insist. If one of them dashes for the wood, or”—he shook his head, running his free hand through his thick mane of hair—“any number of disasters occur, I want someone available to offer assistance.” He looked into Roddy’s one eye. “I will accompany you on occasion.”
“I see. If you’re quite sure. I hate to add to your workload.”
He shot her a sidelong look as if gauging if she teased him.
Of course she did.
She gestured toward Roddy. “Looks like you have an admirer. Careful, you might find yourself too attached to let him go.”
He snorted. “Not a chance.”
She decided now was not a good time to mention her fears concerning his adoptability.
“By the by, my solicitor arrives later today to discuss his findings concerning the scraps of fabric we discovered in Copsham.”
“Really? I can hardly wait to hear what he has to report. When shall we expect him?”
“I will meet with him. You will keep your strays out of sight during the length of his visit.”
A week later, housed in her husband’s coach with her lady’s maid, Sally, Amelia spent a relaxing several hours traveling into town for her LLS meeting.
It certainly gave her peace of mind knowing the puppies were safe, and no longer in danger of discovery and disposal by her husband or anyone else during her absence.
She placed a satin ribbon between the pages of the romantic novel she’d purchased in Copsham and gave up her attempt to read for the moment.
Her mind kept straying to Chase. Everything about the man fascinated her, from his deep sense of integrity and responsibility, to his brooding good looks, to the way he brought her body to life by nothing more than entering her vicinity.
Since the first time she stayed the entire night in his bed, they’d spent every subsequent night together, making love until exhaustion took them. She especially loved being held in his arms after he made love to her.
Or maybe she loved being made love to best.
Or perhaps she most enjoyed his kisses and the sweet nothings he whispered when he was as caught up in the magic unfolding between them as she was.
Amelia closed her eyes and leaned her head back into cushions that could do with replacing.
She wished Chase would allow her to speak with her father about her dowry. Oh, not for silly things like cushions and frippery, but for funds that would enable Chase to tackle the costly undertakings his and his uncle’s titles demanded.
The coach slowed and executed a lumbering, sharp turn. Amelia peered out the small, paned window. Soon they would reach the turnoff for Mayfair, the fashionable neighborhood where Lady Harriet lived, and where the club’s meetings were held.
She reached up and tapped the trap. When it slid open, she gave Geoffrey an alternate direction, on Bond Street.
“Ma’am?” Sally asked, as he closed the trap.
“It’s a fine day. I fancy doing a bit of shopping as we have time to kill before my meeting in Mayfair.”
Unbeknownst to anyone, Amelia had purposely left Warren House much earlier than necessary to reach Lady Harriet’s residence on time.
The idea had come to her after Chase explained, none too happily, that his solicitor had gotten precisely nowhere in tracking down the source of the fabric scraps they’d salvaged in Copsham. Not one of the shopkeepers questioned claimed any knowledge of the materials. None had seen them. None had any notion where they might have been produced.
Amelia called poppycock to that.
Modistes relied on the upper crust for their very existence. They also understood the haute ton was a fickle lot. If they were to remain in business, seamstresses and tailors catering to the monied classes must have skill and fashion sense, of course.
But they also, by necessity, needed a stellar reputation for exclusivity, and, above all, discretion.
If word got out they doled out the names of their clients willy-nilly, especially in conjunction with a criminal act, they would be out of business faster than a seamstress could say, “ Oui, madame ,” in her questionable French accent.
Chase’s solicitor never had a chance of success. If Chase would have consulted with her previously, she could have advised him.
What was needed here was an intimate connection—the sort she had with her modiste, Madame Eloise of Bond Street. The woman would talk to her.
She had not told Chase of her plan. She didn’t want to get his hopes up, and, perhaps, she wanted to see the look on his face when he realized she had succeeded where his solicitor had not.
After directing Sally to the chocolatier on the corner, Amelia opened the door to Madame Eloise’s establishment. Bells jangled overhead, announcing her arrival.
One of Eloise’s seamstresses looked up from helping another of the shop’s patrons, a red-haired woman who stood before a floor-length mirror while the seamstress held a swath of pale-pink fabric across her midsection.
“Oh, if it isn’t Lady Amelia. Pardon me, mum,” the seamstress—Ellie, if Amelia remembered correctly—set her bundle aside and dashed through a curtain divider to the back of the shop.
Eloise herself bustled through the curtains a moment later. “Lady Duval, oh, pardon, Culver, n’est-ce pas ?” she enthused in her best French accent. “Welcome, welcome. ’Ow may I ’elp you today, madame? We did not expect to see you so soon after delivering your trousseau.”
“I rather hoped I could discuss a gown I wish to have fashioned.” She eyed the red-haired woman, briefly. “In private?”
“But, of course,” Eloise replied, as Amelia had known she would.
After all, Amelia had made purchases in the woman’s shop totaling in the hundreds of pounds over the last several years.
Eloise clapped her hands above her head. “Do not disturb us under any circumstance,” she announced to the room in general, and held the curtain aside for Amelia to pass.
They did not speak until they’d reached Madame Eloise’s atelier , where she met with her customers and sketched her designs.
Eloise gestured toward one of two luxurious, pink-and-gold damask-covered armchairs situated across from her desk before sitting herself.
“Now zen, madame, what have you in mind zat requires utmost privacy? I confess ze suspense is killing me.”
Amelia reached into her bag and pulled out two scraps of fabric. In an instant the smell of rancid animal fat scented the air.
Madame Eloise blinked and, to her credit, refrained from comment about the offensive odor. She did not mask the flash of recognition at the sight of the cloth nearly so well.
Amelia spoke in a low tone. “I can see by your expression my husband’s solicitor made his way to your shop, Madame Eloise. He told my husband he made the rounds, starting with the highest quality modistes and tailors in London. Naturally, your shop would rank top of the list.”
She sniffed. “But, of course.” She cocked her head and gave Amelia a frankly curious look. “A man did visit my shop. He did not, however, mention the name of his employer. It is your husband, Lord Culver, who wishes to discover the origin of these fabrics?”
Remarkable how the woman’s accent had given way to one decidedly Welch.
Amelia nodded. “Yes.”
“I see.” The woman glanced toward the drawn curtains. “I have never laid eyes on the pieces. But even if I had, you understand my position, n’est-ce pas ? If it got out I discussed my clientele…” She let her words dwindle.
“I understood immediately the predicament facing the shopkeepers questioned.” She fixed Eloise with a frank stare. “Just as I understood how much my patronage meant to you when I put it about that I would frequent no one’s shop but yours after the unfortunate incident with your ex-client who preferred to slander your establishment rather than pay for the gowns you’d made her.”
Eloise pressed her lips together.
Having made her case, Amelia gave the gown maker a reassuring smile. “Which is why I said nothing to my husband nor my lady’s maid, nor anyone else about my decision to come consult with you on this matter.” She paused. “Now I ask you again, Eloise. You’re certain you’ve never seen these particular textiles before?”
The woman fingered the scraps, her internal conflict over how far to trust Amelia written all over her face.
Abruptly, her expression turned resigned. “I am.”
“How can you be so sure? One is nothing more than a white cloth, or it used to be prior to the abuse it took. The other boasts a unique print, certainly, but I vow I would be hard-pressed to describe it with it out of my sight.”
“For one thing, the quality of the material is very fine. The white linen weave is superior to any I’ve seen produced locally. Or, on this side of the Channel.” She gave Amelia a meaningful look.
Amelia gasped. “You mean…?”
Eloise nodded sagely. “French contraband.”
“But how can you be sure the origin is France?”
She pointed to the print. “This particular style is very French. The latest trend in men’s fashions.”
“Men’s,” Amelia exclaimed, flopping back in her armchair. “I admit I had not considered that.” She frowned. “In that case, it’s doubtful I’ll be able to help my husband, at all. The only tailor I know of, per se , is my father’s, Mr. Rigby, and I cannot imagine questioning him any more than I can see him going outside the boundaries of the law.”
She refrained from mentioning if her father got word of her taking her investigations to his tailor he would likely disown her.
Eloise narrowed her eyes. “I wonder…The shopkeepers I know, including men’s tailors, all buy materials, buttons, lacework from local haberdashers. There are only one or two I myself use. Mayhap you can visit one of them?”
Amelia brightened. “An excellent notion, Eloise. Perhaps I can inquire after a particular style, or quality, say, for a gift for my new husband.”
A cunning smile curved Eloise’s ruby-red lips. “I’ll give you the direction of the two I most prefer. But remember—”
“Your name stays out of it.” Amelia mimed locking her lips shut and tossing away the key.