Pritchett raced to her lodgings, packed, told her land-lady a story about a dying relative, and took a hackney to the Golden Cross Inn at Charing Cross. From there she sent a message to Mrs. Downes, explaining that she intended to board the very next coach to Dover, and if Mrs. Downes wanted any articles from her, she’d better get there quickly. The Royal Mail had left for the General Post Office at half-past seven, but if all went well, Pritchett could hire a post chaise, and would not have to wait for tomorrow’s day coach.
Mrs. Downes made her appearance before too long.
She made it clear she didn’t like being summoned at a late hour to a public inn, and liked still less transacting business in the coach yard. About them, despite the hour, horses were being harnessed, coachmen and postboys fraternized, inn servants came and went, prostitutes tried to lure passengers, and bawds hunted for innocent country lasses.
Ignoring the dressmaker’s sour look, Pritchett went straight to the point. “I got more than I expected. Found her portfolio, which they usually keep under lock and key.” She took out a drawing.
Mrs. Downes pretended to barely glance at it. “I heard about the fire,” she said with a shrug. “She’s finished.
These are worthless.”
Pritchett put the drawing back into the portfolio. “She has insurance and money in the bank. She’ll be back in business in a matter of weeks. She’s the most determined woman in London. If you don’t want these, I’ll take them with me. I shouldn’t have any trouble doing well with them in the provinces. The patterns are worth their weight in gold, and I know the trick of making them. I can expect to do a great deal better than twenty guineas. Yes, you’re quite right. They’re more good to me than they are to you.”
“You said twenty guineas,” Mrs. Downes said.
“That was for the sketchbook,” Pritchett said. “And tonight I was in a hurry enough to make it twenty for the portfolio as well. But now you’ve annoyed me.”
“I ought to report you. They hang people for arson.”
“I wonder what would happen if I said you put me up to it,” Pritchett said. “We’ll never know, I suppose. There’s my coach.” She nodded at a vehicle entering the inn yard. “Fifty guineas. Now or never.”
“I don’t carry that sort of money with me.”
Pritchett tucked the portfolio under her arm, picked up her bag, and started to walk away. She counted under her breath, “One. Two. Three. Four. F—”
“Wait.”
Pritchett paused without turning around.
Mrs. Downes walked very quickly toward her. Not a minute later, a very large purse changed hands, and a very short time thereafter, Pritchett stepped into the coaching office to order a post chaise.
Though she and her sisters had made a plan before they collapsed, exhausted, in their beds, Marcelline slept poorly.
She’d watched while one of the maidservants bathed Lucie—and the other one bathed the doll, taking off her filthy little gown and sponging her off—even sponging the soot from her hair—as though it was the most normal thing in the world. They took the doll’s dress away to clean, along with Lucie’s clothes. Then Lucie had to see the dollhouse. By that time, she had three maidservants wanting to look after her. They moved a dainty little bed into a pretty little room adjoining Marcelline’s. And that was where Lucie had wanted to sleep: not with her mother, but in state.
Her child was safe, probably safer than she’d ever been in all her short life. All the same, Marcelline had nightmares. She dreamed that Lucie hadn’t escaped the fire, and Marcelline had gone to the mouth of Hell, screaming for her daughter, and she’d heard horrible laughter in answer before the door slammed in her face.
The next morning, when the maid came in with chocolate, Marcelline discovered that she’d slept much later than usual. It was past nine o’clock, she was told, and Lucie was having breakfast with the duke.
She leapt from the bed, rejecting the chocolate. “Where are my sisters?” she said.
They’d agreed to rise by half-past six. The seamstresses had been told to go to the shop at eight. By now they would have arrived and found a charred spot where the shop used to be.
“Mrs. Michaels said we were not to disturb you, Mrs. Noirot,” the maid said. “But Miss Lucie was asking for you, and I was told I might wake you.”
Noirot didn’t burst into the breakfast room, and she didn’t seem any more flurried or disordered than usual. Her hair was slightly askew, as always, but in a manner Clevedon felt certain was deliberate, not careless. No matter what happened, she couldn’t present herself with anything less than style.
Her face was pale, her eyes deeply shadowed. She couldn’t have slept well. He hadn’t slept well, either, and he’d awakened in low spirits.
But then he’d come down to breakfast and found Lucie, with Joseph the footman’s assistance, investigating the sideboard’s contents. Seeing her made him smile, and lightened his heart.
Now she sat at his right, enthroned upon a chair piled with pillows. She was happily slathering butter and jam on bread. Her doll sat next to her, on another chair piled with pillows.
“Ah, here is your mother,” Clevedon said, while his heart pounded. So stupid it was to pound that way, like a boy’s heart upon seeing his first infatuation.
Noirot went to her daughter and kissed her forehead and smoothed her hair.
“Good morning, Mama,” Lucie said. “We’re going to drive in the carriage after breakfast. There is a very good breakfast on the sideboard. Joseph will help you lift the covers. There are eggs and bacon and all manner of breads and pastries.”
“I haven’t time for breakfast,” Noirot said. “As soon as your aunts come down, we must leave.”
Lucie’s blue eyes narrowed, and her face set into the hard expression Clevedon had seen before.
“And you will not make a fuss,” Noirot said. “You will thank his grace for his kindness—his many kind-nesses—”
“She’ll do nothing of the kind,” Clevedon said. “We were having an interesting conversation about the dollhouse. She’s scarcely had time to play with it. She was too sleepy last night. And I promised to drive her in the carriage. I do not see what the great hurry is to be gone.”
At this moment, the two sisters entered, looking cross. Doubtless they’d been awakened before they liked, and they were hungry.
“We need to get quickly to the shop and see what can be salvaged,” Noirot said. “Someone must be there to meet the seamstresses—if they’re there. We should have sent them word last night, but I didn’t think of it until this morning. I need them. We need to find a place to work. We need to make Lady Clara’s dress.”
He ought to wince at the mention of Clara. He ought to feel ashamed, and he did. But not enough to be thrown off the course he’d devised last night, to keep his mind off what had happened in the workroom, and off what he wanted, still, though he’d got what he wanted and was supposed to be done with this woman.
“I dispatched Varley, my man of business, to your shop early this morning, along with a parcel of servants,” he said. “They reported that the structure as a whole survived, though the damage is extensive. But the contents that were not reduced to ashes are black, wet, and reeking, as I suspected. We retrieved a set of iron strongboxes, which will be carried up to your rooms as soon as the filth has been cleaned from them.”
“Carried up—”
“Varley rescued some account books or some such from wherever you’d hidden them, as well.” He gestured at the sideboard. “Everything is in hand. Pray take some breakfast.”
“In hand?”