“Madame Millet’s? She moved to a larger establishment about six months ago. But you don’t want to go there.”
“I don’t?”
“You don’t. She dresses nothing but dowds and is quite de trop amongst those in the know.”
“If she’s so awful, why did she have to expand the size of her shop?” Maris asked, swallowing the insult. Madame Millet had made the perfectly serviceable dress and matching spencer she was wearing. Six years ago, but still. The stitching had held fast and the trimmings looked fresh enough to her eyes.
“There are ever so many more dowds in England than there should be, I suppose. But you don’t have to be one of them, Lady Kelby. Allow me to escort you to a much better dressmaker. It’s not far.”
How on earth would he know? Patsy and the other women he’d dealt with at the Reining Monarch Society were not wearing any clothes at all as far as Maris could see.
“Do you consider yourself an expert on ladies’ attire as well as antiquities, Captain Durant?” It was best to convince Betsy that Durant was who they would say he was.
“Not especially. You know my first love is all that old historical rubbish, as some might say,” the captain replied, taking the hint. “But I had a few things made up for my sister from Madame Bernard. She was very sympathetic and not too expensive. Although I don’t suppose cost matters much to the Countess of Kelby. You seem willing to pay top dollar for what you want.”
“Not in front of my maid,” Maris murmured, taking the captain’s proffered arm and putting some distance between them and Betsy. “You cannot say such vulgar things when you come to Kelby Hall. You’ll arouse suspicion.”
“Well, I presume you’ll tell people you hired me to muck out your attics. No man works for free.”
“You know nothing of those who are obsessed with history. Some would pay us to get a chance to go through the Kelby Collection.” Henry had been turning away supplicants for years.
“You’re right. I know nothing. That might be a bit of a drawback.”
“I can give you some books. You can read up a little, drop a phrase or two, and the staff should be satisfied.” Maris was quite pleased that she had managed the conversation without stumbling over her words. She was always safe talking about the Kelby Collection.
Captain Durant said nothing for over half a block, but then rounded the corner and paused at a shop window. A collection of small silver objects glittered in an amazing display of craftsmanship. Even Maris, who, unlike generations of true-blood Kelbys, had no appreciable trace of magpie within her, was impressed. He pointed to a velvet-lined tray. “You should buy some hatpins here. I hear they come in handy to repel unwelcome advances from bad men. Speaking of which, what about the villain David? How am I to convince him of my scholarship?”
Maris wished she’d had a dozen hatpins to repel David Kelby five years ago. But they wouldn’t have been enough. The truth was, she hadn’t wanted to repel him, idiot that she was. “He does not live at Kelby Hall. But he does visit when he wants something, which is much too often. You’ll have to be on guard against him.” She turned away from a lacework butterfly with reluctance.
“Did he serve?”
“What? Oh, you mean in the army? Oh, heavens no. He’s much too in love with himself to get in harm’s way.” Maris tried to imagine David killing anyone with a weapon other than his vicious tongue and came up short. Henry believed his nephew was the cause of Jane’s death, but David would never bestir himself to actually put his hands around someone’s throat. He would somehow convince his enemies to strangle themselves.
Well, that wouldn’t work, would it? Once one was deprived of oxygen to the brain, one’s hands would drop and—
Oh, good grief. Where was her mind taking her? Captain Reynold Durant unsettled her even as he continued to steer her down the fashionable side street.
“Here we are. I told you it wasn’t far.” He opened the door, and a delicate bell above tinkled. The shop was empty, thank goodness, because the vexing man was still at her side. No gentleman accompanied a lady to a dress shop unless he was her protector or her husband. Surely he was aware of that.
“Thank you, Captain. You may leave us now.” Maris hoped the chill in her voice was clear enough.
“What, and deprive myself of all the fun? Come in, come in—what is your maid’s name, Lady Kelby?”
Maris was too shocked to speak.
“Betsy, sir,” her maid supplied unhelpfully. If she was worth a fraction of what Henry paid her, she’d push Captain Durant out the door to protect her mistress. But alas, Betsy had a moonstruck expression on her face as she took in the blackguard’s impressive physique and dashing smile.
“Don’t worry about indiscretion, ladies. Madame Bernard has a back room for her best patrons, which you are about to be. I’ll just tuck myself in a corner and offer some advice. Ah, Fleur, ma cher! Here you are. See whom I’ve brought. The Countess of Kelby who is in desperate—one might even say dire—need of you.”
The bell had summoned a large, forbidding Frenchwoman who looked like no one’s “cher,” or much of a flower, for that matter. Her hair and eyes were iron-gray and the rest of her resembled a battleship ready to launch a hundred deadly cannon balls. She glanced at Maris with disapproval.
“Pah. I do not believe this drab could be the Countess of Kelby. I do not dress your loose women on credit, Reyn, so turn about and try to charm another hapless modiste.”
“On my honor, Fleur. You must apologize at once.”
Maris started at Captain Durant’s blistering tone. He had been the epitome of lazy, careless charm since she bumped into him on the street, but he was suddenly rather frightening. Those black eyebrows!
Oh, what if her baby inherited those eyebrows? She’d have to get a special brush.
Fleur Bernard dropped to so deep a curtsey Maris worried if the older woman could rise up again. “Pardon, your ladyship. This coxcomb is ever one for playing tricks upon me. He and his army friends—well, I shall spare you the tales. You are a most respectable woman, yes? I am covered in shame. Please forgive me.”
Not having been born to the peerage, Maris had always felt uncomfortable when a fuss was made over her rank. She thought of herself as her husband’s secretary first and his countess much further down the list. “It’s . . . it’s all right. Please do get up.”
Reyn extended a hand and helped return Madame Bernard to her not inconsiderable height. She was exquisitely dressed. Her dress was black, but there was nothing funereal about it, trimmed as it was with thick lapis and silver braiding which shimmered in the shop lights. If Madame’s own clothes reflected what she could do for her customers, Maris was ready to forget her earlier rudeness and submit to her intense gray stare.
“Come into my private parlor, my lady. Yvonne! Some tea and biscuits for our special customers,” she called to her assistant.
Damn. That was another witness to her folly. But soon people at Kelby Hall would see her with Captain Durant. Maris would pray that if he was successful, her servants, and more important, David, couldn’t count.
“That’s not necessary, Madame Bernard. I’m not at all hungry.”
“C’est rien. Choosing clothes is hard work, Lady Kelby. One must be fortified. Captain Durant, will tea be sufficient, or shall I have Yvonne fetch some brandy?” The dressmaker pronounced his name in the French manner. Maris imagined from his dark coloring he had Norman or Celtic blood. Henry had both. Was that why Durant had been chosen? Or had none of the men Henry interviewed been desperate enough to undertake this particular mission?
No, that wasn’t right. Henry had not explained the nature of his need to the other two. He told her he’d been taken with Captain Reynold Durant from the instant he spied him riding up the drive.
“You do think ill of me to offer me brandy at this hour, Madame. It’s not yet dusk. In fact the sun is shining.”
“It is dusk somewhere, Captain, and you are not known to follow the con
ventions.”
Captain Durant gave a husky laugh, which to Maris’s ears seemed quite wicked. “No, I am not. But I’m giving up my ramshackle ways. The countess’s husband has consented to employ me for a few months, and I’m on my best behavior.”
“If that is the case,” Madame Bernard said archly, “then I invite you to leave my shop at once. Thank you for bringing her to me, but you will not wish to compromise the lady’s reputation and anger her husband. You might lose this desirable position.”
Maris suppressed her grin at Captain Durant’s obvious dismay. He had been most effectively routed. He was not her lover—yet—and had no right to sit and watch her shimmy into dresses.
“But of course. What was I thinking? Ah! I never think things through, Madame. Lady Kelby, forgive me for being so presumptuous. Betsy, I commend the countess’s care into your capable hands. Oh! And just one more thing. You will be pleased to know, Lady Kelby, that the appointment you arranged for me was a smashing success. I visited with the gentleman just this morning. There will be no impediments whatsoever to my performing successfully in my new occupation. I am clean as a whistle. What can that mean, anyway? One would think whistles would be most unhygienic. All that spittle. A bientot.” He tipped an imaginary hat and left.
Some of the air in the room went with him. Maris put a gloved hand on a display case to steady herself. The captain’s casual confession that he was not syphilitic was welcome, of course, but to announce it in such a way was preposterous.
He was so very improper. Impulsive. Indiscreet. Maris had never met anyone like him.
“Good riddance, oui? Right this way, my lady. The captain, he is full of so boyish charm. Très charmant. One could forgive a woman for losing her virtue to him. You must forgive me for coming to an entirely incorrect conclusion earlier. I should have recognized at once that you are not his type at all.”
The pendulum had swung in an equally insulting direction. First, Madame Bernard had thought her a lightskirt; now she was too unattractive to capture the captain’s attention as his lover.
Maris regretted she had ever sought to improve her wardrobe. She was tempted to leave in a justifiable huff, but somehow was swept into the private room and seated in a plush velvet chair.
“Now tell me what you have in mind, my lady.”
“I don’t really have time for all this,” Maris said, waving her arm at the squares of fabric and pattern books that were artfully stacked on a large drum table. “I was hoping to find something ready-made. My husband is expecting me home tomorrow. And I don’t like to . . . to fuss over my clothing. I like simple things.”
“Ah. I see you are a practical woman, but you do have a lovely figure.” Madame Bernard stepped back in contemplation, a finger on her chin. “I may have one or two dresses in the back that might suit you. But you would be much happier—and more à la mode—if I took some measurements and made a new wardrobe just for you.”
“Oh, no. That won’t be necessary.” Maris didn’t need an entire new wardrobe, just a few things so she wouldn’t be such a dowd. Not that she cared one jot what Captain Durant thought of her. He would soon be taking those dresses off her, anyhow.
There was a knock on the door, and Yvonne entered with refreshments.
“Very well. But humor me, my lady. Allow me to send you one special dress. You will trust me to select the fabric and the color, yes? Think of it as a sample of what I can do to show you to advantage. When you come back to London and have the time, we can sit down with fashion plates. It will take Yvonne no time at all to get her tape. She is very efficient. Please make yourself comfortable. I shall return with the dresses I have on hand, and Yvonne can measure you after you try them on.”
“I . . . all right.” Maris felt beautifully bullied into agreement. Madame Bernard was skilled beyond her artistry with silk and scissors. “I shall pay you for the sample dress, of course.”
Madame Bernard smiled. “Naturellement.” She followed Yvonne out of the room, chattering in rapid French which exceeded Maris’s schoolgirl understanding.
Maris poured the fragrant tea into two cups and passed one to Betsy. The young maid helped herself to an iced cake, but Maris was much too nervous to eat. She always felt awkward at the dressmaker’s. If she had any skill with a needle and thread she would have preferred to sew her own clothes, but she was hopeless.
“This is a fancy place,” Betsy whispered. “Imagine that captain knowing about it.”
“Captain Durant is a most unusual gentleman. Lord Kelby is anxious that he get started on the inventory as soon as possible. He might be staying with us for a month or so.”
“Ooh. He’s very handsome, isn’t he?”
Maris shrugged. “I suppose. But he’s being hired for his historical expertise, not his pretty face.”
“And it is pretty. He’s ever so much nicer than my John.” Betsy bit into her cake, cheerfully deriding the footman she was carrying on with. Maris should have no knowledge of Betsy’s love life, but her maid couldn’t seem to keep her indiscretions to herself. Sometimes Maris felt like the girl’s mother. She was old enough.
Drat. The female servants would probably be swooning every time Captain Durant strutted through the hallways. But by and large, they were grateful to be working in an earl’s household, knew their place, and would keep to it. Henry was a generous employer, as long as someone didn’t meddle with his library.
The household ran like clockwork under the supervision of Amesbury, the butler, and Mrs. O’Neill, the housekeeper. Maris barely had to lift a finger, which was a good thing. Although she’d been raised at Kelby Hall, the intricacies of being a proper countess sometimes eluded her. She was certain a proper countess would not don breeches and dig through hillsides, sweating under the hot Tuscan sun .
Or solicit sexual favors from a complete stranger to perpetrate a fraud.
No, he wasn’t a complete stranger. She was beginning to know the captain a little, even if he flummoxed her.
Maris drank her tea and did not have too long to wait before the women returned, each carrying three gowns.
Maris objected immediately to the rainbow of colors. “I usually wear gray or brown, Madame Bernard.”
“As if I could keep my clientele with such dismal stuff,” the dressmaker said dismissively. “You are still young, if not in the first blush of youth. Thank heavens, for white would wash you out.”
Maris agreed. Her come-out dresses had made her look like a sickly ghost. The earl had financed her debut, cajoling his now-deceased maiden sister to sponsor her and Jane. At twenty, Maris had already been on the shelf and mortally shy in society. Seventeen-year-old Jane had not taken either. Despite being the daughter of a wealthy earl, she was even more reticent than Maris, crippled with a stutter that made the simplest conversation impossible.
Tails tucked between their legs, the girls had returned to Kelby Hall, swearing never to leave its confines again. Within four years, Maris was unexpectedly its chatelaine. Her friend Jane remained a confirmed spinster until David Kelby seduced and abandoned her.
“We shall try the wine silk first, I think,” Madame Bernard said, scattering Maris’s unhappy memories. “Your skin is fashionably pale, so you need no powder. But some rouge and lip salve would not go amiss. Yvonne, show Lady Kelby’s maid our pots and brushes. Between the two of you, you should find the perfect colors.”
Betsy rose, brushing cake crumbs from her black skirts. She wouldn’t know one pot of paint from the other. Maris didn’t require much from her but to do up her hard-to-reach buttons and brush her mud-brown hair free of tangles. Not a proper countess, she did not have a proper lady’s maid. Betsy had helped Monsieur Richard in the kitchen until she’d dropped one too many platters, and Maris had taken pity on the girl, spiriting her upstairs.
“I’ve told you I like simple things,” Maris said.
“Simple is one thing—ugly is quite another. There is no reason for a lady with your standing in society to
appear so plain. You are la comtesse. This dress? Bah! It is not fit even for your little mouse of a maid. Take off that dreadful hat.”
For an instant, Maris wished for Captain Durant’s presence. Surely he would not let Madame Bernard hector her so? But she had no champion, not even her “little mouse of a maid.” Maris pulled the pin from her hair and placed the hat on top of the tower on the drum table.
“Ah. Just as I thought. You are a brunette, Lady Kelby, and fortunate that you can wear bold colors without them overpowering you. The woman should wear the clothes, not the other way around. Garnet, emerald, bronze—these will suit you. No pastels. No blue, although perhaps a deep navy.” Madame Bernard made quick work of Maris’s buttons and Maris found herself in her plain linen underthings, earning a disapproving cluck from the dressmaker.
“Even if no one sees what is underneath, it improves a woman’s confidence to know good quality is next to her skin. I shall get Yvonne to pack up some pretty chemises for you. And a proper corset. This one will not do.”
Any response Maris could have made was blocked by a wash of dark ruby silk over her head. When her face emerged, her arms were being thrust into long tight sleeves. When she was hooked into the dress, most of her bosom was exposed by the low square neckline. The design was simplicity itself—as she had requested—but surely she would not be expected to show so much flesh?
“I see from your expression you are not happy. But does your husband not wish to admire his wife?” asked Madame Bernard.
“He . . . I . . . we lead a very quiet life. He is a scholar, madam, and we do very little socializing. He has not been well.” Henry would not be smitten with this gown or any other.
“Poor soul. All the more reason to cheer him up, n’est pas? Your breasts, they are formidable, even in this sad corset. But if you wish, we might add a little ruffle on the bodice. I have some scraps of the fabric still and it would be a matter of minutes to have Yvonne run something up for your modesty. You will remain in town until tomorrow?”
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