Leonie read, “‘The reader will wonder at our entering into minute detail regarding the fair attendee’s attire. But no lesser tribute, we feel, would suffice for a dress that inspired its wearer not only with the confidence to decline the addresses of a duke but with the fire of poetry, for no lesser description could properly characterize the speech with which she so unequivocally rejected his offer of matrimony.’”
Thence followed Lady Clara’s rejection speech. In this context it read like a scene from one of Lady Morgan’s novels.
Marcelline put down her coffee cup and rubbed her head. “He’s the Duke of Clevedon. She loves him. He’s the world’s foremost seducer of women—and he botched it. Well, goodbye Duchess of Clevedon.”
“Goodbye to the duchess, perhaps,” Sophy said. “It may take him a while to find another. But look on the bright side. Lady Clara will come back to Maison Noirot. She understands what we do for her. You read what she said to him. ‘I’m different.’”
“Her friends will come, too,” Leonie said. “Every woman who was at that ball will want to see the creations that could give a woman confidence enough to reject a duke. Sophy, my love, you’ve outdone yourself.”
“Leonie’s right,” Marcelline said. “Excellent work, love. Brilliant, actually. I would have stood there with my mouth hanging open and my mind completely blank. But you saw how to turn it to account, as you always do.”
“Your mind never goes blank,” Sophy said. “We’ve all mastered the art of quick thinking. And this was the easiest thing in the world. But now we’ve got to give them something to see. What dress shall we put out?”
“Leave it to me and Marcelline,” Leonie said. “You need to get more rest. The ton will be all atwitter about last night, and the other scandal sheets will rush to copy this piece. It’ll be all over London by afternoon. It’s going to be a busy day, and you’ve had only a few hours’ sleep.”
Marcelline had had no sleep, but they didn’t need to know that. She’d been lying awake in her bed, reminding herself she’d done the right thing, the only thing. If there had been an alternative, she would have jumped at it. But there wasn’t: She and her sisters had devoted themselves to winning Lady Clara’s loyalty. They’d given their utmost to make more of her than she realized she was.
Clevedon had to marry her. That was the whole point.
That was why Marcelline had pursued him in Paris, mad scheme that it was. The Duchess of Clevedon was their direct route to success. She’d end Dowdy’s dominance. Then the perverse incompetent who called herself a dressmaker would no longer have the power to undermine them.
That was the plan. The Duchess of Clevedon had been the main objective.
Lady Clara was not going to be the Duchess of Clevedon—not after that speech, in front of an audience. But Sophy had rescued them, which meant that the essential plan, of dominating London’s dressmaking trade, remained.
Marcelline’s feelings didn’t come into it. Her feelings were her problem.
Sophy, on the other hand, had spent the night on her feet, working, after a long day in the shop spent mainly on her feet, working.
“I’ll admit I met with a bit more excitement than I’d expected,” Sophy said. “I told you I’d maneuvered to a prime position near the French windows, where I could hear every word. No one noticed me. No one notices servants. Then, when I was coming away, I ran into Lord Longmore.”
Both Marcelline and Leonie looked at her, eyebrows aloft.
“Not literally,” Sophy said. “But there he was. I expected he’d look right through me and continue on his way the way they all do, as though nobody was there. Servants, like shopkeepers, are nobody, after all. But he stopped dead and said, ‘What are you doing here?’ You could have knocked me over with a feather, but I never blinked. ‘Working, sir,’ said I in my best maidservant voice—you know, the one with the hint of the Lancashire country girl. ‘What, did they turn you off from the shop?’ said he. ‘What shop?’ said I. And then, as deferential as you please, I suggested he’d mixed me up with another girl. But he wasn’t having any of it. He gave me a hard look, and I was sure he’d keep at the interrogation, and give me away, but then his mother started shrieking, and he rolled his eyes and went that way.”
“You’d better watch out for him,” Marcelline said sharply. “He’s not the fool he makes out to be, and the last thing we need is another one of us getting mixed up with an aristocrat.”
“I don’t think he wants to get mixed up with me,” Sophy said. “I think he wishes us all at the devil. I think he may even believe we are the devil.”
“Let’s hope the ladies of the beau monde don’t feel the same way,” Leonie said.
“They won’t,” Sophy said. She got up and started for the door. “I believe I will go back to bed. But don’t let me sleep for too long. I don’t want to miss the fun. Oh, and if I were you, I’d put out the grey dress.”
Downes’s shop, later that same day
Mrs. Downes grimly regarded the dress lying on the counter. “How many does this make?” she asked her forewoman Oakes.
“Six,” said Oakes.
“Lady Gorrell threw it at me,” said Mrs. Downes.
“Shocking, madam.” Oakes, who’d witnessed the event, wasn’t at all shocked. Had she been the one to learn she’d paid a premium price for a dress exactly like one her friends had seen at Covent Garden Theater last year, she’d have reacted the same way.
Oakes had warned her employer. The sleeves, she’d pointed out when she saw the patterns—allegedly sent by Madam’s associate in Paris—were in last years’ style. Mrs. Downes had assumed either that Oakes was an idiot or her customers wouldn’t notice. Many of them, accustomed to trusting her implicitly, didn’t. At first. But they were quickly set straight.
Only one dressmaker in London made such memorable attire for ladies, and that dressmaker was not Mrs. Downes. Her customers’ eyes were soon opened by their more observant friends and relatives, who recalled seeing such and such a dress at a banquet, the theater, Hyde Park, and so on. Of a dozen orders so far, six owners had returned their purchases, furious about having paid high sums for not merely copies, but copies of last years’ fashion. Mrs. Downes had been hoaxed, beyond a doubt, beautifully hoaxed.
Oakes wondered how much her employer had paid for old patterns, and how many customers she’d lose as word got about.
It was time, the forewoman thought, to find a new position.
As Clevedon had expected, the shop was mobbed that day.
He passed it on his way to White’s Club and again on his way to the boot makers, the hat makers, the wine merchant, and others. He’d shopped for things he didn’t need, simply to keep in St. James’s Street. He was waiting for Maison Noirot’s eager throngs to melt away.
He’d read the Morning Spectacle, as had most of the Beau Monde, apparently. He wasn’t amazed at Foxe’s having got hold of the story. The man was noted for that. The detail was another matter. Clearly, Foxe had planted a spy in their midst.
The spy could be none other than Miss Sophia. The story—entirely about the dress, lovingly described, with the dressmaking establishment prominently mentioned—was in her dramatic style. To have done all that in time for today’s edition, she had to have been on the spot.
That, actually, was a relief.
His one great worry was that last night’s debacle would mark the end of Maison Noirot. The ton would blame Mrs. Noirot for leading him astray, and they’d shun her, as she’d warned him time and again. Clara would never return to the shop, and Mrs. Noirot would be marked down as a temptress and a harlot. Henceforth