by Amanda Quick
She broke off when the curtains that covered the doorway behind the counter parted. A plump, middle-aged man dressed in a flowered satin waistcoat, a maroon jacket, and an extravagantly tied cravat emerged. His hair was suspiciously dark for a man of his years, Lavinia thought. There was not a speck of gray in the mass of tightly crimped curls that sprang up all around his head.
“Ah, sir, madam.” He beamed at them through a pair of gold spectacles. “Welcome, welcome, welcome to my shop. J. P. Cork, at your service.” He switched his attention to Lavinia, his eyes widening first in shock and then narrowing in pity. “Madam, you have come to the right place, I assure you. I can rescue you from your sad plight.”
“Indeed,” Lavinia murmured. She ignored the annoyance that darkened Tobias’s eyes.
This was not the first time she had been greeted with such enthusiasm in the past two days. Every wig-maker they had interviewed had been horrified by the sight of her red hair and had vowed to save her from what those in the profession evidently considered a fate worse than death.
“Do not fear, madam.” Cork bustled out from behind the counter and seized one of Lavinia’s gloved hands in two pudgy palms. “When you leave this shop today, you will be a new woman.”
“That would be an interesting experience, I’m sure,” she said. “But I’m afraid that my companion and I did not come here to purchase a wig.”
The proprietor made a tut-tutting sound with his tongue and shook his head gravely. “If your natural shade were brown or black, you would be able to make do with a toupee or a chignon, but given that unfortunate red, I’m afraid you will find that only a full wig will solve your problem. Nothing else will entirely conceal your own hair.”
Tobias moved slightly, just enough to draw the wig-maker’s attention. “Cork, my name is March. I would like to ask you a few questions about your wigs.”
“I see.” Cork studied Tobias’s closely cut dark hair with a professionally troubled expression. “Forgive me, I was so stunned by madam’s dreadful plight, I failed to notice your own misfortune. But now that I look more closely, I can, indeed, see those telltale signs of silver at the temples.” He tut-tutted again. “You are quite right to take action now, sir, before you turn entirely gray. I have just the thing.”
“Devil take it,” Tobias growled. “I am not interested in a wig for myself.”
But Cork had already gone to one of the male busts and whipped off a brown wig. He held it up in triumph, rather like a hunter displaying a fresh kill. “I guarantee that this will do the trick, sir. It will conceal the ravages of time and make you appear at least a decade younger.”
“I said, I am not here to purchase a wig.” Tobias eyed the brown hairpiece as though it were a dead rodent. “Mrs. Lake and I wish to ask you a few questions. Nothing more.”
“We will make it worth your while,” Lavinia put in quickly, trying hard not to smile. Tobias had made no secret of the fact that he found these interviews exceedingly trying. Persons engaged in the business of wig-making and hairdressing considered themselves to be artists, and Tobias did not have a great deal of patience with the artistic temperament.
“Humph.” Cork’s smile lost its warmth. “What sort of questions?”
“Just one or two small inquiries concerning sales of blond wigs,” she assured him.
“Blond?” Cork screwed his face into a disapproving glare. “Haven’t had a commission for a full blond wig in months. Very unfashionable color, you know. Has been for some time. The shade never really recovered its popularity after Madam Tallien declared black to be the most elegant hair color some twenty years ago.”
“Madam Tallien?” Lavinia repeated curiously. “The wife of the French revolutionary?”
“Never mind her dreadful politics.” Cork brushed that issue aside with one pudgy hand. “The important thing is that her salons were truly splendid affairs, and she reigned supreme in the world of French fashion. Owned a vast assortment of wigs. Legend has it that she switched them several times a day. Wore one color in the morning and another in the evening. All of the most exclusive sort here in England strove to follow in her brilliant footsteps. I don’t mind telling you that those of us in the wig-making and hairdressing professions were exceedingly grateful to her.”
“I can imagine,” Lavinia said. She was well-aware that the war between England and France had done nothing to hinder French influence on English fashion. Some things transcended politics. “But what we’d like to know is—”
“She came along at a most critical moment, you see.” Croft sniffed disdainfully. “The Crown had just placed that perfectly absurd tax on wig powder, which caused the demand for powdered wigs to plummet. When they went out of fashion, so did the taste for the truly grand coiffeurs. It was a sad passing. Very nearly ruined Mr. Todd and myself.”
Lavinia caught Tobias’s eye and made another attempt to interrupt the wig-maker. “Mr. Cork, what we would like to know—”
“Ah, yes, those were the days,” Cork said reverently. “I have a nasty suspicion that we shall never see another such golden era for wigs in my lifetime. Back then every great house possessed a special wig closet where the false hair could be curled and papered and powdered. The hairdressers had to be extremely skilled. And they rose to the occasion, I must say. Why, I knew some who could create headdresses of such enormous height and magnificence that the ladies who wore them could not travel in their carriages unless they knelt on the floor or stuck their heads out the windows.”
“Mr. Cork.” Lavinia injected a bit more firmness into her tone. “We want to know—”
The door of the shop opened at that moment. A dapper-looking man, of about Mr. Cork’s age but less than half his girth, entered. He carried a package under his arm.
“Mr. Todd.” Cork greeted him with a familiarity that spoke of an old friendship. “There you are. I was wondering what had become of you.”
“Lady Brockton changed her mind at least three times about whether or not her daughter should have braids or ringlets.” Todd snorted. “It was obvious to me that what the chit really required was a great many curls in front to conceal her rather high forehead. But convincing Lady Brockton of that obvious fact required the most extreme diplomacy and a good deal of my time. Luckily I had no other appointments this afternoon.”
“I know you find Lady Brockton quite trying, but she is a regular client.”
“Yes, yes, I am well aware of that.” Todd peered at Lavinia and Tobias. “I say, I did not mean to interrupt.”
“Charles Todd, allow me to introduce Mrs. Lake and Mr. March,” Cork said. “They called to ask some questions. I was just telling them about the grand old days of our profession.” He turned back to Lavinia and Tobias. “As I was about to say, there was no need to worry overmuch about the exact shade of the false hair in those days, because one knew that it would all be covered in powder and pomade.”
Todd put his package down on the counter. “And what lovely stuff the powder was.” He put his palms together and closed his eyes against what was evidently an excess of strong emotion. “The variety of the tints one could create was nothing short of inspiring. When I mixed them I knew myself to be a true artist.”
“Todd here had a master’s touch with the powder,” Cork confided. “I vow, he had recipes for the most delicate shades of pink and blue, yellow, lavender, and pale violet. And the exquisite intricacy of his chignons had to be seen to be believed. At night in the ballrooms one could always identify his work. His headdresses outshone those of every other hairdresser in London.”
“Those were the days,” Todd agreed.
“I was just telling Mrs. Lake and Mr. March how Madam Tallien saved us when she set a new fashion for natural-colored wigs,” Cork said. “And now we do very nicely with chignons, puffs, and toupees and such. But the wig business has never been quite the same.”
“There was another bit of uncertainty a few years back when the ladies all insisted upon cutting their hair ve
ry short to suit the taste for Greek and Roman fashions. But the demand for skilled hairdressers rebounded once more when they all wanted long hair again,” Todd said, not without a good deal of satisfaction.
“Thank heaven for the ever-changing tastes of fashion,” Cork added. “Mr. Todd is, I am happy to say, one of the most distinguished hairdressers in town. He has a very elegant clientele. His designs are truly unique and original works of art. The trained eye can spot them immediately on the street or in the ballroom.”
“Is that so?” Tobias said with very little interest.
“Indeed. Many of his competitors have attempted to copy his chignons, but they have all failed. No one can imitate a true artist.”
“A hairdresser is only as good as his chignon, I always say,” Todd declared. “It is the basis upon which the entire headdress must rest. It is what gives the creation its true distinguishing elegance. If the chignon is uninspired in design or poorly situated on the head, no amount of frizzing or curling will save it.”
Lavinia thought about the designs Mrs. Dove’s hairdresser had created for Emeline and herself for certain important balls during the recent Season. The chignons had, indeed, been works of art, she thought, almost architectural in design.
“It is not just the design of the chignon that is critical,” Todd continued. “The ornaments that are used to decorate the finished work of art must be chosen and placed with an eye to the overall effect. I regret to say that many in my profession are inclined to overdo the pearls and flowers, to say nothing of the feathers. Restraint must be a hairdresser’s motto in such matters, just as Lafoy says.”
“Who the devil is Lafoy?” Tobias asked, apparently having abandoned any hope of regaining control of the interview.
Todd and Cork looked at him as though he were a barbarian at the gate.
“You are not acquainted with Lafoy?” Charles opened the package on the counter with a flourish and produced a book. “I refer to the Lafoy.”
“Never heard of him,” Tobias said.
“Lafoy is not only an artist in the world of hairdressing, he is a great poet.” Todd opened the book. “He published this excellent volume on the art of the coiffeur last year. This is my second copy. I was obliged to purchase another because I had quite worn out my first.”
Cork winked. “He fell asleep while reading it in the bath one evening last month. The book was ruined.”
“Just listen to these verses on the noble art of hairdressing,” Charles urged. “The sensitivity and the intensity of the emotions quite overcome one. Why, Lafoy’s ode to his comb alone brings the tears to my eyes every time I read it.”
He cleared his throat, preparing to read aloud.
“Another time, perhaps, Mr. Todd.” Cork held up one hand to silence his associate. “Mrs. Lake and Mr. March are here on business.”
“Yes, of course. Forgive me.” Todd closed the book and surveyed Lavinia with pursed lips. “You were right to come to us, madam. There really is nothing one can do about red hair except conceal it. I have some dyes that will darken hair, but nothing that is strong enough to tint yours. Once you have made your selection of a wig, I would be delighted to dress it for you. I see you in black hair, don’t you, Cork?”
“Yes, indeed.” Cork beamed. “Madam would be stunning in black.”
Todd circled Lavinia, assessing her hair very closely. “I believe I will use one of my chignons à la Minerva. It will add height. What do you say, Mr. Cork?”
“As always, when it comes to such matters, you are correct, Mr. Todd,” Cork said. “But, sadly, madam has made it clear that she does not wish to make a purchase today.”
“A pity,” Charles murmured. “There are possibilities, you see. If only—”
“About the matter of blond-wig sales in recent months,” Tobias said evenly.
“Yes, indeed.” Cork clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “I believe you said you would make it worth my while to discuss recent sales of yellow false hair?”
Tobias glanced at Lavinia, one brow elevated. “My assistant will handle the negotiations.”
Lavinia cleared her throat and prepared to make the same bargain she had struck with the other helpful wig-makers. “Like yourself, we cater to a very exclusive clientele, Mr. Cork. Only the most elegant sort apply to Lake and March for private inquiries.”
“I see,” Cork murmured.
“As we both know,” Lavinia continued smoothly, “every business establishment thrives on the right sort of advertising. I propose that, in exchange for whatever information you can provide us today, I shall make it a point to recommend your wig shop to my own clients.”
Cork did not bother to veil his skepticism. “I really don’t see much use in that.”
“I assure you, sir, we are talking about some very high flyers in the ton,” Lavinia stated. “A word in the proper ears here and there is worth far more than a notice in the newspapers, as I’m sure you are well aware.”
“Humph.” Cork rocked some more on his heels and then he nodded once. “Very well, I was asked to create one or two blond toupees and a couple of puffs this past Season, but that was the lot. As I said, the color is simply not fashionable. I don’t even bother to stock the excellent German yellow anymore. The majority of the demand is for French brown and black.”
“Thank you for the information,” Tobias said grimly. “It is very much appreciated. Rest assured, Mrs. Lake will mention the name of your establishment to her clients whenever the opportunity arises.”
He seized Lavinia’s arm and propelled her toward the door.
“Well, that was a complete waste of time,” he said when they were safely outside on the street. “I vow, I have learned far more about the arts of wig-making and hairdressing in the past two days than I ever wanted to know.”
“Nevertheless, you were correct when you said that we must pursue that line of inquiry. We could not afford to overlook such an important clue.”
“We will finish the last three shops now, and tonight I will have a look around the one that was closed and that will be the end of the matter. Hell’s teeth, Lavinia, I must find another angle on this case.”
She smoothed the fingers of her left glove. “I really feel that I should accompany you tonight, Tobias. You need me.”
“Indeed?” He sounded distracted, as though he was only half listening to her argument. “Why is that?”
“Because in spite of our interviews yesterday and today, you simply do not possess an adequate knowledge of fashion to know what to look for inside a wig-maker’s shop. You might well ignore a critical bit of evidence.”
He mulled that over for a few seconds and then, to her secret astonishment, he merely shrugged.
“Perhaps you are right,” he said at last. “I suppose there is no great risk in tonight’s venture. After all, the proprietor, Mr. Swaine, is out of town.”
“Excellent.” She gave him an approving smile. “I shall look forward to the expedition. When we get home you may lend me one of your picks so that I can practice a bit before we go out this evening.”
“Very well,” he said somewhat absently.
A sense of satisfaction welled up inside. Tobias was, indeed, starting to treat her like a true partner, she told herself.
But by the time they reached the end of the street and turned the corner, much of her triumph had faded. The little battle had been almost too easy, she thought. Tobias either did not have his heart in it or else he was too preoccupied with other matters relating to the case to bother to argue.
“Out with it, sir,” she said briskly. “You are not yourself today. What are you brooding on so intently?”
“The evidence of the ravages of time that has begun to appear in my hair, I suppose.”
Her jaw dropped.
“The ravages of time? Of all the ridiculous concerns.” She came to an abrupt halt, turned to face him, and surveyed the silver at his temples. It went very nicely with the interestin
g crinkles at the corners of his mesmeric eyes, she thought. “I cannot believe that you took Cork’s comments seriously. For heaven’s sake, he is a shopkeeper who was attempting to make a sale.”
“But he was right. I’m not getting any younger, Lavinia.”
“No, you are not,” she said crisply. “I certainly agree that you are no callow youth. You are a man in the prime of his life. Furthermore, I must tell you that I find the evidence of the ravages of time in your hair immensely attractive.”
His mouth quirked at one corner. “Immensely?”
“Yes.” She caught her breath at the interesting gleam in his seductive eyes. “Immensely.”
“That is fortunate, indeed.” He took her chin on the edge of his hand and raised it slightly. “Because I am inordinately fond of your hair too.”
The familiar little rush of heat and pleasure whispered through her. “Even though the color is extremely unfashionable?”
“I will have you know, madam, that I have never been a slave to fashion.”
She started to laugh at that outrageously accurate remark. But he kissed her, right there on the street, heedless of passersby glaring with disapproval and curiosity.
She stopped laughing.
Chapter 16
Anthony was in a good mood for the first time since Hood’s demonstrations two days ago. He followed Emeline through the door of Mrs. Lake’s study with a sense of keen anticipation.
The first person he saw was Tobias, who was sprawled comfortably in his favorite chair, legs stretched out in front of him, a glass of sherry in his hand.
“Mr. March.” Emeline smiled warmly. “Mrs. Chilton said you were here.” She looked around the small room. “What have you done with my aunt?”
“Started her down the road to a career of crime, I regret to say.” Tobias took a swallow of sherry. “But I must admit she does have an aptitude for the profession.”
“I’m right here.” Lavinia’s head popped up from behind her desk. She waved a lock pick in the air. “Practicing my trade. Mr. March and I are going to break into a wig-maker’s shop tonight.”