She’d used him then and she’d use him now. An instrument. That’s all he was, she told herself.
She turned to the younger brother. “My lord, I advise you to return to Warford House. What you need to do is help your family memorize a simple excuse for Lady Clara’s not being at home to visitors. A severe cold or some such—the sort of thing that makes people keep a distance.”
He looked at his older brother.
“Have you any better ideas?” Longmore said. “Do I need to point out to you that Miss Noirot has a good deal at stake in this? Clara’s the shop’s favorite customer. Everything they make for her is special for her. If she comes to harm, they’ll have her confounded trousseau on their hands, and they’ll go all to pieces—because no one can wear those clothes as Lady Clara can.” He mimicked Sophy as he said the last bit. “Not to mention they’ve hopes to sell her more, once they devise a scheme for disposing of Adderley.”
“It’s so like you to make jokes at a time like this,” said Lord Valentine.
“I’m not joking—as you’d know if you were the one blackmailed and browbeaten into escorting our sister to buy her curst clothes.”
“It’s no joke,” Sophy said. “My sisters and I want Lord Adderley out of the picture. We want your beautiful sister to marry someone with a massive income. She truly is our best customer, and we truly will go all to pieces if she can’t wear the beautiful bride clothes we’re making for her.”
No joke. Horribly true. Truer than they could guess.
Longmore turned away from his plainly bewildered brother. “Miss Noirot, you said you wanted a description of the cabriolet. I suggest you find a pen and writing paper. I ordered that vehicle specially for her, and I recall every last detail. And if I happen to miss anything, Valentine will let us know. He believes I ought to have bought a carriage for him.”
A short while later, the three Noirot sisters were in Sophy’s bedroom, helping her pack. She’d told them about Lady Clara and her plan—such as it was—for finding her. She’d hoped they’d come up with a better solution. Hers, she felt, was far from satisfactory on numerous counts.
But Marcelline and Leonie, who saw the problems as clearly as she did, hadn’t anything better to offer.
“I don’t see an alternative,” Marcelline said. “It’s not only dangerous to her reputation to advertise this disappearance, but it’s physically dangerous as well. Any number of scoundrels would start looking for her, too. She could be held for ransom—and that’s the best case.” She paused in the act of folding a chemise. “Mon dieu, her poor mother.”
Marcelline had a daughter she’d nearly lost. Twice. She knew what Lady Warford was enduring at this moment.
They all understood why the marchioness had locked herself in her daughter’s room.
Lady Clara was no more than a customer, yet Sophy was sick with worry.
“Speaking of scoundrels,” she said as she rolled up stockings, “I’d like to know what Adderley did to set her off.”
“Does it matter?” Leonie said.
“I wish I’d known before she bolted,” Sophy said. “It might be ammunition.”
“You can find out when you find her,” Leonie said. “And you will find her. You have to.”
“Of course Sophy will find her,” Marcelline said. “But my loves, what the devil am I to tell Clevedon? He’ll be frantic. You know how dear Lady Clara is to him.”
He’d lost a sister at an early age. When the Fairfax family had taken him in, Lady Clara had become a sister to him. They’d always been close. Though they’d had some turbulence a short time ago, Lady Clara had attended his wedding to Marcelline, and she seemed to have accepted them as family … as sisters, almost.
“Give him something to do,” Sophy said. “I told Longmore I’d dispose of Adderley. But I can’t be in two places at once. Ask Clevedon to find out quietly all he can about Adderley. I need as much information as I can get.”
“What can Clevedon find out that isn’t public knowledge, such as Adderley’s gaming habits and the state of his finances?” Leonie said.
“That scene on the terrace was not one reckless act of passion,” Sophy said. “I knew something was wrong. I’m positive it was planned. Adderley should have fought desperately for the woman he loved, but he let Longmore hit him, and he let Lady Clara protect him. Let Clevedon get to the bottom of it. He can find out as much over a casual game of cards as I can eavesdropping at parties and talking to demireps.”
She took up the hat she planned to wear, and sat down to attach a veil to it.
“Maybe I can look more deeply into Adderley’s financial affairs,” Leonie said.
“You and Marcelline will have enough to do, running the shop while I’m away,” Sophy said. “I’m sorry to leave everything to you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Leonie said. “You have to find her. That’s the priority.”
“Lady Clara’s part of our family now, whether her mother likes it or not,” Marcelline said. She frowned at the hat Sophy was working on. “Speaking of families, love, we need to have a little talk before you go.”
Though he’d made good time crossing London after Fenwick came to summon him, it was nearly half past eight o’clock when Longmore drove his phaeton to the Gloucester Coffee House in Piccadilly. The sun was setting.
As happened every night at this time, an atmosphere of drama and excitement prevailed. The seven western mail coaches were about to depart, and everybody here was either part of the show or part of the audience.
Longmore knew that the commotion had been worse a few years ago. Then, all thirty-five Royal Mail coaches left London at the same time—eight o’clock—along with a number of stagecoaches. While having the western coaches leave half an hour later had reduced the congestion somewhat, it did not make this an ideal time and location for meeting “Cousin Gladys.” Finding a nondescript female wasn’t easy in a crowd, and at this time of night, there was always a large audience watching the mail coaches’ departure.
Then he noticed more than the usual flurry in one group of onlookers. Men were shoving one another out of the way, tripping over their own feet, and coming perilously close to falling under hooves and coach wheels.
In their midst stood the explanation.
Instead of her usual camouflage, Sophy this evening flaunted the latest in insane styles from Maison Noirot. The color of her dress was a muted lilac. Nothing else about it was muted. A wide collar spread out over her shoulders. Under that was another collar or cape sort of thing that reached to her elbows. Beneath it bulged sleeves the size of ale casks. Yards of black lace dripped from the collars of the dress and along the front. Green stuff meant to look like sprouting leaves sprang up from the crown of her white hat. Green bows and white lace lined the brim’s interior front, framing her face—or what you could see of it, past the alluringly draped black veil.
It was completely ridiculous.
It was oddly fetching.
“By gad,” he said. “By gad.”
She spotted him then, and walked unhurriedly toward his carriage, hips swaying more, he thought, than altogether necessary amongst this rowdy crew. An inn servant followed, carrying her portmanteaux.
“That’s her,” Fenwick said from his place in the back.
“So I see,” Longmore said.