Regency Rogues and Rakes: Silk is for Seduction / Scandal Wears Satin / Vixen in Velvet / Seven Nights in a Rogue's Bed / A Rake's Midnight Kiss / What a Duke Dares. Loretta Chase
and soft.”
“They were, indeed,” Marcelline said. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted two women approaching the shop. It would not do for Lucie to be interrogating her about the Duke of Clevedon in front of customers, but it wasn’t easy to distract her daughter from a fascinating object, especially a large, expensive fascinating object. “I shall tell you all about it down to the last detail, but I’m perishing for a cup of tea. Shall we go upstairs, and will you make Mama a cup of tea?”
“Yes, yes!” Lucie jumped up and down. “I’ll send Millie to the pastry shop. We’re so glad you’re home, and we shall have a party, a wonderful party, with cakes!”
Hours later, when Lucie was safely abed, the sisters gathered in the workroom.
There they drank champagne, to celebrate Marcelline’s return—with her quarry, no less—and while they drank, Marcelline described her experiences with the Duke of Clevedon in all their lurid detail. Though her sisters were virgins, so far as she knew—and she couldn’t imagine why they wouldn’t tell her if they were not—they were by no means innocent. In any case, one could hardly expect them to help her deal with the complications if they did not fully understand what had happened.
“I’m truly sorry,” she said. “I had promised I wouldn’t bollix it up—”
“So you did,” said Leonie. “Yet none of us expected him to be quite so…quite so—”
“Everyone said he was handsome,” said Sophy. “But really, he’s beautiful. He took my breath away.” She patted Marcelline’s hand. “I’m so sorry you had to restrain yourself. I’m not sure I could have done it.”
“It’s not his beauty,” Marcelline said.
Both sisters eyed her skeptically.
“It’s his curst ducal-ness,” she said. “Those fellows are the very devil to manage. They’re not merely accustomed to having their way: The alternative simply doesn’t enter their heads. They don’t think the way normal people do. Then, too, he can think. He’s quicker-witted than I had allowed for. But what sort of excuse is that? I should have adjusted my methods, but for reasons that still elude me, I didn’t. The fact is, I played it very ill, and now Sophy must turn my error to account.”
She went on to explain the advertisements she and Jeffreys had devised immediately after the comtesse’s party—a lifetime ago, it seemed…before the storm…when he’d looked after her…
His hands, his hands…
“I’ll plant a story in the Morning Spectacle,” Sophy said. “But it may be too late to make tomorrow’s edition. Confound it, you haven’t left us much time.”
“I came as quickly as I could. We were nearly ship-wrecked!”
“Sophy, do be reasonable,” said Leonie. “And only think, if the storm delayed their packet, others were delayed as well. The mail will be late. That gives you as much as an extra day, if you’ll only be quick about it.”
“We can’t rely on the mail’s arriving late,” Sophy said. “I’ll have to find Tom Foxe tonight. But that might answer very well: a late-night summons…a story whispered in the dark. I’ll wear a disguise, and let him think I’m Lady So-and-So. He won’t be able to resist. We’ll have the front of the paper, a prime spot.”
“The ladies will flock to see the dress,” said Leonie. “We may even see some as early as tomorrow afternoon. I know for a fact that the Countess of Bartham reads the Spectacle devotedly.”
“The dress had better be on display, then,” Marcelline said. “It needs repairs. Jeffreys was able to clean it before the packet sailed, but she was too sick afterward to stitch the bodice. And I lost at least one papillon bow. What else?” She rubbed her head.
“We’re perfectly capable of seeing for ourselves what needs to be done,” Leonie said. “I’ll work on it while Sophy goes out to her clandestine meeting with Tom. You’d better go to bed.”
“You’ll want to be rested,” Sophy said. “We’ve got a—”
She broke off, and Marcelline looked up in time to catch the look Leonie sent Sophy.
“What?” Marcelline said. “What are you not telling me?”
“Really, Sophy, you might learn to curb your dramatic impulses,” Leonie said. “You can see she’s weary.”
“I did not say—”
“What haven’t you told me?” Marcelline said.
There was a pause. Her two younger sisters exchanged reproachful looks. Then Sophy said, “Someone is stealing your designs and giving them to Horrible Hortense.”
Marcelline looked to Leonie for confirmation.
“It’s true,” Leonie said. “We’ve a spy in our midst.”
On Monday night, Lady Clara Fairfax received a note from the Duke of Clevedon, informing her of his return to London and of his wish to call on her on Tuesday afternoon, if convenient.
The family were not usually at home to callers on Tuesday, but the usual rules did not apply to the Duke of Clevedon. For one thing, as her father’s former ward, his grace was considered a part of the family; for another, he was no better at following rules than her brothers were. Papa had forbidden Clevedon and Harry to go abroad three years ago, citing the raging cholera epidemic. They went anyway, leaving Papa no alternative but to shrug and say Clevedon needed to sow his wild oats, and since Longmore was bound to do damage somewhere, it might as well be in another country.
The Tuesday appointment was not, in short, inconvenient to anybody else, and Lady Clara told herself it wasn’t inconvenient to her, either. She had missed Clevedon, truly, especially when Longmore was behaving in a particularly obnoxious manner and in dire need of one of the duke’s crushing setdowns—or, better yet, his powerful left fist.
But Clevedon in person was a different proposition than Clevedon via letter.
Now that he was here, she wasn’t sure she was ready for him to be here.
But any doubts or shyness she’d felt vanished the instant he entered the drawing room on Tuesday. He wore the same affectionate smile she knew of old, and she smiled at him in the same way. She loved him dearly, always had, and she knew he loved her.
“Good grief, Clara, you might have warned me you’d grown,” he said, stepping back to look her over, quite as he used to do when he came home from school. “You must be two inches taller at least.”
He didn’t remember, she thought. She’d always been a tall girl. She hadn’t grown at all since last he saw her. He was used to French women, she supposed. The observation, which she wouldn’t have hesitated to put in a letter, she wouldn’t dream of uttering aloud, most certainly not in front of her mother.
“I should hope she is not such a gawky great Amazon as that,” said Mama. “Clara is the same as she ever was, only perhaps a little more womanly than you recollect.”
Mama meant more shapely. For a time, she’d claimed that Clevedon had “run away” because Clara was too thin. A man liked a woman to have some flesh on her—and she would never have a good figure if she would not eat.
It hadn’t occurred to Mama at the time that Grand-mama Warford had died only a few months earlier, and Clara, still grieving, had no appetite and did not particularly care what Clevedon thought of her figure.
But a great deal did not occur to Mama. She’d ordered tray upon tray of refreshments, and plied Clevedon with cake, which he took politely, though Mama ought to know by now he did not have a sweet tooth. And while she fed him sweets he didn’t want, she dropped what she thought were exceedingly subtle hints about Clara’s numerous beaux, with the obvious intent of stirring his competitive instincts.
In