by Edith Layton
And of course, he was there, as constant as Cecily’s smile, standing at Cecily’s side, waiting for her when she reached the reception room of the hotel.
“We’re going to Paris today,” Cecily told her at once, with wonder, as though they hadn’t visited there every third day, as though she’d never been there at all before. “I’m having some new gowns made,” Cecily said again, as though she didn’t have a new gown ordered up for every look Mr. Lyons bent upon her. “And a new bonnet too,” she added in an unusual burst of loquaciousness, for purchasing clothes clearly spurred her to high flights.
The smile that Francesca was about to give to Arden, both in tolerance and amusement for Cecily’s excitement and as a continuation of her own excitement and gratitude for his part in the evening just passed, faded entirely as she saw the smile he gave to Cecily as he took her hand and placed it on his arm.
“But where is Roxie? And the viscount?” Francesca asked abruptly as she straightened her bonnet and her proper, company face.
“Mrs. Cobb has decided to sleep in this morning, I understand,” Arden said blandly, “and Julian is resting.”
He decided it would be impolitic to mention what Julian was resting from, or upon, or even that it was unlikely he was resting at the moment. He doubted that Mrs. Cobb was getting much sleep either. Julian had, of late, the habit of plunging very directly into his new relationships, Arden thought wryly as he helped the two ladies to his carriage. It might be a few concentrated days before the blond gentleman emerged from his room again, after having literally exhausted all possible permutations and combinations of pleasure with his new interest, before, if he were running true to form, he’d discard her.
He hoped this time it wasn’t true, if only for Julian’s sake. There might not be much of love in such diversions, but Julian was the sort of fellow, Arden thought, who needed at least the illusion of it, and that he no longer sought so much as that wasn’t a good sign. When the viscount had left England he’d been bruised by what he’d thought was love. Though he’d not been hurt since, or at least in no large way that his friend had seen, he’d evidently been wounded often—in a thousand ways, in the sensibilities he swore he didn’t have—by the quick succession of the many brief and careless lovers he’d taken without a semblance of love. He would bleed to death from those thousand cuts, Arden thought, unconsciously frowning enough to terrify Cecily, if he didn’t take care. Because it seemed to him that Julian only came fully alive these days when he was in action of some sort, whether it was facing danger or lovemaking. All other times he seemed to be afflicted with an unnatural careless languor, which was never like him. It was far better to have one’s heart neatly pierced all at once and die complete than have your soul leak away the slow way that Julian’s seemed to be doing.
No, Arden thought, it would be neck or nothing for himself, and literally so, for when he declared himself he would leave no option and present his neck cleanly on the block to the female of his choice. And too, he never expected to find the grand passion and complete soulmate that Julian obviously still sought or dreamed about, to his continual disappointment. Far more realistic because he was older or more worldly wise, and ready to retire from his roving, Arden had decided he’d be pleased to settle for an amusing companion who’d either feel passion or care enough to simulate it, and whom he could please in turn by being himself. Which was why, he thought, finally noting Cecily’s frightened expression and her chaperone’s puzzled frown, he was going about things precisely the way he was now.
“We wait,” he said in answer to Mrs. Devlin’s unasked question, “for Mrs. Deems to join us.”
“I can’t buy dresses without mama,” Cecily explained.
“Oh, naturally,” Francesca said, while she shocked herself with the sudden spite of her next mute sentence: or pick a husband neither.
Mrs. Deems arrived at last, magnificent in purple, plump as a grape, and scented liberally with heliotrope. She crowded next to Francesca, suffusing her entirely in her scent, stray gauze from her gown, and folds of her cape, and taking up her attention completely with her conversation as well. She was suddenly friendlier to Francesca than she’d ever been, and surprised her considerably by beginning to chat at once about what sort of dress she thought might suit her Cecily, but so loudly and incessantly that had Mr. Lyons wished to entertain them, he could not be heard, and had he any interest in hearing Cecily’s usual replies, via her mama, he’d miss them, since she ignored him and her daughter entirely. This was, Francesca finally perceived, after Mrs. Deems asked her third rhetorical question and burbled on without answer, evidently so that Cecily herself could bear the full force of Mr. Lyons’ attentions.
“Don’t look good to ditch the baron’s daughter yet,” Mr. Deems had ruled after much thought the night before, after reviewing all the possible reasons why Arden Lyons had not shown up at their table to take either their dinner or their daughter. “Too brash, and he’s a gent likes the conventions, for all I doubt he’s lived by ’em. Reformed rakes is the worst,” he’d said wisely, but then warned, shaking a cautionary finger at his wife’s nose, although she only lay on the next pillow absorbing every word of wisdom emerging from under his nightcap, “Keep the baron’s daughter on, for the look of it, understand? But keep her close to you, away from Cee-cee till he pops the question. Far away. And keep yourself away too, my girl, or we’ll share no wedding cake this summer.”
But as they entered the city of Paris, a quick listen and glance showed Mr. Lyons wholly involved in recounting a tale about a horse to her enrapt daughter, and so because Mrs. Deems’ idea of subtlety was not saying a thing more than three times, and mostly because she was on pins and needles lest her husband’s excellent advice not be attended to, she suddenly leaned close to Francesca’s ear and whispered, in a gust of candied violets, “Hist! Mrs. Devlin, don’t be narked, love, but it would be best if you’d manage to let the two lovebirds be this afternoon. Let them alone, understand?”
Then she swayed right back upright, as though only a lurch of the carriage had brought her lips to Mrs. Devlin’s ear, satisfied by the shock on the chaperone’s face that her message had been heard clearly.
“Why…of course,” Francesca managed, as horrified by the terminology, as she was staggered by the request, but as Mrs. Deems’ eyes flashed a warning at her using a normal tone of voice to answer, she foundered only for a second before she went on in lower accents, “…of course…and so you may refuse, madam, as is your right, of course, but I was wondering if I might have some time off, for myself, in Paris today, as I’d like to order up some new gowns for myself. I know it’s a presumption,” she went on, warming to her theme and salvaging her pride by lifting her chin proudly, “but I so seldom have the time to visit a dressmaker, they’re all of them off to church on my half-day off, you see, Sunday not being a day for trade.”
“Why, what a treat for me,” Arden said heartily, causing everyone in the carriage to look at him. “Two lovely ladies going for gowns today to offer my advice to. I’ll be glad to give my opinion,” he said comfortably, as though he’d never been deeply involved in a story about a horse, as if it had been stony quiet in the jouncing coach so he’d been able to hear Francesca’s hoarse and broken whispers as well as a shout.
“I’d think,” he went on reflectively, “as I’ve already told her, that Cee-cee would do best to have something done up in white, for her golden hair, but as Mrs. Devlin’s complexion is the creamy color of a camellia, white would be insipid for her. Gold, I think, or green…yes, olives and sunlight, something Italianate, or an Egyptian motif would suit. I’ve been told I’ve an eye for color, though I can’t paint a thing except the side of a barn, and even there, I tend to go outside the lines.” He grinned.
No one else did. Mrs. Deems stared, Cee-cee seemed uncertain because her other guide, Francesca, was both annoyed that he’d heard and astonished that he’d been absolutely right. And absolutely wrong, she thought as she recover
ed. Not for being au courant on female fashions. Some gentlemen, she’d heard, enjoyed such diversions; in fact it was exceedingly fashionable to be an expert on female fashions, and was quite the thing to do for a beau in London. But those were gentlemen who lived for fashion, decking themselves out in similar finery, making a life of what was stylish, and occupying themselves with such delights as collecting fobs and snuffboxes and adorning boxes at the opera.
Mr. Lyons, although always well-kempt and dressed, neat and clean as an army officer, and obviously home to an inch with gamesters and horses, did not remotely look like such a gentleman. But even as Francesca’s lip was curling over her reply, he added softly, for all the world as though they were alone in the coach, “The most romantic poet I know is the strongest swimmer I’ve ever seen, the best poet I’ve ever met resembles nothing more than a pugilist, Master Shakespeare himself, I understand, looked like a glove-maker. Take care, Mrs. Devlin, that you don’t trip over a sharp preconception in your hurry to correct me.”
She paused only a second before she said, as sweetly and innocently as Cecily might, but with a world more wickedness, if only because of her naturally husky, seductive accents, “I never doubted your talents, sir, but I fear you’ve overestimated my resources. I’m sorry to disappoint you, indeed,” she said charmingly. “I shall be bereft without your kind counsel, but M. Louis Hippolyte Leroy’s establishment is far above my touch. I’ll seek a competent but far less extravagant seamstress for my wants. I’m not in society, sir, after all.”
“She’s in mourning too,” Mrs. Deems shot back, visibly unhappy with the odd, half-understood conversation going forth. For the half she did catch sounded like something Mr. Deems would hate. “Don’t matter who tailors a black gown, we’ll be pleased to set you down anywhere, Mrs. Devlin, only shout it out as we pass,” she added helpfully.
It was difficult to be angry when one was so hard pressed not to giggle and the only person who seemed in similar case was the gentleman one was angry at, Francesca thought, clearing her throat over rising laughter.
“My dear doting mother isn’t the only one who wishes I’d been born twins now.” Arden sighed. “How shall I resolve this problem? For I’ve offered myself and my advice to two charming ladies who are splitting to go in opposite directions, and though I’m a man of my word, I can’t do the same without dangerous surgery. I have it,” he said, brightening. “I’ll accompany Mrs. Devlin on her mission, both to advise her and so she doesn’t have to go unescorted in wicked Paris, and I won’t have to worry about Cecily, for she’s got the services of her mama and her coachman. And then, because I humbly believe no one sees dear Cecily as I wish to do, I’ll be done in time to restore Mrs. Devlin safely to her, and offer up my advice before a bolt of cloth is cut, as well.”
He sat back smiling, vastly contented and entirely pleased with himself. Everything he’d proposed was unexceptionable, inarguable, neatly arranged, extremely proper, and entirely unsuitable to everyone else’s purposes but his own. Exactly as he most liked things to be, Francesca thought in great annoyance, searching for a loophole in his reasonings and finding none.
A widow could go off with a gentleman alone, and aye, a proper widow ought to have an escort in a strange city, Mrs. Deems thought furiously. She ought to have thought of that.
And Mrs. Devlin should have some advice, since she looked a quiz half the time, poor lady, with clothes out of Noah’s ark, Cecily thought, almost as pleased with the arrangement as Arden, if only because she never saw ulterior motives, singular motives being quite enough for her to comprehend.
“Ah,” Arden said, peering out the window and slapping his hand on the roof to get the coachman to stop, “Madame Renaud’s establishment, perfect. I’ll wager that’s precisely where you were bound, Mrs. Devlin,” he said as he swung open the coach door. “Indeed, your papa mentioned the place to me, it having been recommended to him as a superior sort of establishment for ladies of taste, and so certainly suitable for one who’s coming out of mourning,” he added on a charming smile to Mrs. Deems.
“We’ll meet again at M. Leroy’s,” he added as he took Cecily’s little hand in farewell after he’d helped Francesca out of the carriage. For really, she thought as she stood on the sidewalk thinking rapidly as he made his arrangements to meet up with the Deemses later, it wouldn’t have done to struggle, and would’ve looked ill-bred to argue, and moreover, and most annoying, she’d not the slightest idea of where to buy a gown in Paris.
She’d visited the city so many times in the past two weeks she ought to have noted where every interesting shop was. But she’d deliberately looked aside at first, for she’d had no money and hadn’t wanted to tease herself, and then after Mr. Lyons had roared into their lives, she’d been so busily doing her job and being an expert watchwoman that she’d had eyes for nothing else but her charge and that gentleman. So for all her pains, she thought in disgust now, not only was she being eased out of her job, but also she knew Arden Lyons’ profile better now than the shape of the Arc de Triomphe Napoleon had built.
Looking up at that human, but no less formidable profile after the Deemses’ carriage rolled off with a merrily waving Cee-cee and her stricken-looking mama, Francesca spoke coldly.
“My father,” she said determinedly, “never mentioned any dressmaker.”
“Care to wager on it?” he said with interest as he took her arm securely. “Now, come along, having your dowdiness removed shan’t hurt a bit. And you can’t hit me,” he said pleasantly, “not only because we’re in public and you are a lady, but because I’m bigger. Ah, here we are. Now, stop scowling or you’ll frighten Madame—she finds the British terrifying anyhow. She came from a staunch republican family and doted on the little emperor and most patriotically wouldn’t even smuggle her designs to us. That’s why she’s known only to the French, but as most of them still haven’t even the little that you’ve got in your pocket right now, she’ll be glad enough to design for you. The war’s over, after all, and she is French, and so, above all, practical. And don’t fret, she’ll do a gown that would make Louis Leroy weep with envy, that is, before he buys it up and adds a bow or two to salve his conscience before he puts his name to it.
“Ah, madame, enchante,” he said as the proprietor of the shop hurried toward him. “Permettez moi de vous presenter ma petite amie Madame Devlin. C’est important qu’elle ait une robe pour un ange, parce qu’elle est mon ange, comprenez-vous?” he asked, sighing helplessly.
It was difficult to say whether Madame Renaud, who was carefully assessing Francesca’s face and form, could have picked a proper color for a charming frock for a young woman who seemed to have a brick-red face, but then, since that face turned pure white with rage as Mr. Lyons finished with his speech, she might have guessed that the lady, so obviously English, had at least the civilization to match her beauty and so could speak French as perfectly as her escort did. And the lady, for some odd reason, disliked the gallant gentleman calling her his “angel” and announcing that she was his mistress. Ah, but she was certainly English, Madame thought, and therefore, of course, incomprehensible.
But, “Mais certainement, M. Lyons,” Madame said confidently, for whatever his jest, and the gentleman was known for his odd jests, he was warm in the pocket, and yes, she decided as she firmly towed a hesitant Francesca to her workrooms, still a connoisseur of females. Because for all the young woman was dressed as a frump she was, Madame saw, a diamond in the dustbin, trust the large gentleman to have an eye.
“And, oh,” Arden called out, “no red. Jamais rouge.”
Francesca swung her head about to argue, for it had been red she’d been starved for after all these weeks of unrelenting black, and red she’d coveted as she’d gazed at Roxanne’s dress.
“Too obvious, unless you want it to be obvious that you envied Roxanne to the point of madness, and have decided to take up her position when you lose your own, of course,” he commented, stilling her protest at birth.