Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
“ O xfordshire,” muttered Harriet after consulting several documents and then looking back at the map of military districts. “Jack’s French friend has to be in Oxfordshire.”
She had been up since dawn studying the sheaf of official papers. Names of the prisoners were not listed, but by methodically tracing the movements of captured officers through the various checkpoints, she had figured out which group had come from the battle Jack had mentioned and where they had been sent to serve their parole.
Pushing back her chair, Harriet steepled her fingers and mulled over the matter. She would, of course, go over her notes to be absolutely sure she hadn’t missed anything. However, she was confident the man’s whereabouts was now pinned down.
Far less clear was Jack’s pressing concern. A friend, he had said. And yet, the note she had found under his chair seemed to indicate he was involved in this mystery because of a lady named Camille.
“I am good at piecing together puzzles,” she said, tapping her fingertips together. “But in this I am having a deucedly difficult time trying to discern any pattern.”
Tap, tap, tap. Several more minutes of contemplation brought no brilliant flash of illumination. Expelling a sigh, she glanced at the mantel clock, and then shifted the different piles into an orderly row on her desk. Jack’s conundrum would have to wait.
Because Madame Deauville would not.
“Oooh, this is awfully exciting.” Theo peeked through the windowpane as the carriage clattered to a halt in front of an elegant shop at the top of Bond Street. “I feel as if I have a flock of butterflies flitting around inside my stomach.”
Harriet said nothing, but she, too, was experiencing a sense of nervous anticipation. It was foolish to be in a pucker over a few yards of fabric. She had always thought of fashion as frivolous...
“Mama will fall into a fit of megrims if I end up attired in anything other than lemon or peach pastels,” intoned Theo.
“No she won’t,” assured Harriet. “Your mother wouldn’t dare question Madame Deauville’s sense of style. She wants you to attract a husband, preferably a wealthy, titled one, so she’ll be in alt that the most exclusive modiste in London has consented to design a wardrobe for you.”
Theo sat back. “Why do you think Mrs. McNulty offered to help? I’ve heard that these fancy dressmakers are very discerning about which clients to accept. Their reputations depend on ladies looking marvelous in their creations—and I’m hardly the sort who will show clothes to any advantage.”
“Because she is nice,” answered Harriet firmly. “And because we are going to appear far more beautiful and alluring than any of the Diamonds of the First Water, remember?”
Theo forced a weak smile. “Right, right.”
Despite her own trepidations, she walked briskly to the shop’s ornate door and pushed it open.
At the tinkling of the bell, one of Madame’s assistants looked up from straightening the stacks of pattern books. As she eyed the pair’s unfashionable garments, her smile turned to a smirk. “ Alors , I am very sorry, but Madame Deauville doesn’t accept any clients without a recommendation and an interview.” An audible sniff. “And most certainly not without an appointment?—”
“ Bonjour , Miss Farnum! Bonjour, Lady Theo!” The very picture of Parisian savvy and sophistication, Mrs. McNulty emerged from behind a burgundy-colored velvet curtain, wearing her persona of Madame Deauville like a perfectly tailored ballgown. Not a loose stitch or thread marred the perfection of her performance.
“Marie-Claire, please prepare the West fitting room for my friends.”
The girl continued to stare, her nose crinkling as if someone had flung a piece of bad fish into the shop.
“ Tout de suite !” An impatient clap-clap finally sent her scurrying.
“Lazy slug,” muttered Mrs. McNulty under her breath. “But I keep her because she’s the only one of the lot of us who speaks perfect French. The other girls all learn their accents from her.”
Harriet glanced around the main showroom, taking in the elegant appointments, the gilt-framed mirrors, the Louis XIV furniture, and the exquisite gowns discreetly displayed on mannequins between the folded samples of rich fabrics. Her gaze then fell on the insipid shade of her own dowdy walking dress, a color that was somewhere between biscuit and taupe.
No wonder poor Marie-Claire had looked a little queasy.
Next to her, Theo sucked in her breath. “Oh,” was all she managed to say.
“Come, come, I’ll give you a tour later, but I have my senior patternmaker waiting for you.” Mrs. McNulty consulted the gold watch pinned to her bosom. “And we have limited time in which to work with her.”
She quickly shepherded Harriet and Theo into a spacious room, where a quartet of girls holding an array of pin cushions, scissors and long strips of pale muslin stood waiting to one side of the raised square platform that was set in the middle of the space. On the other side was a diminutive older woman sporting the largest pair of pinch-nez Harriet had ever seen. The oversized lenses and small, beaky nose gave the stranger the expression of a startled owl.
“I was just mentioning to Mademoiselle Franchot what styles I envision for you two,” said Mrs. McNulty. “But now she can decide for herself whether I am right.”
“Mmmph.”
Harriet thought that was a rather unpromising sound.
“ Oui, oui ,” added Mademoiselle Franchot in a gruff voice. “I can’t argue with your discerning eye.” She unwound the tape measure wrapped around her bony wrist. “I would just suggest a few minor alterations to take into account?—”
A squeak of alarm interrupted the exchange as a young seamstress pushed through the draperies, arms flapping in agitation. “Celine asks that you come quickly, Madame. The duchess is upset over the fit of her bodice.”
“Then perhaps she ought not to consume half a dozen cream cakes for breakfast each day,” muttered Mrs. McNulty. “Please excuse us for a moment,” she said to Harriet and Theo.
“But of course,” they chorused.
“Molly, you had better come too.” Her gaze took on the flash of sharpened steel. “I trust this won’t take long, ladies.”
“I would not care to cause a fuss within her shop,” whispered Theo after the two women had marched out of the room.
“I doubt that even a duchess will dare to throw a fit of vapors,” answered Harriet. “Not with Lady Henning’s gala taking place next week.”
The quartet of assistants had dutifully trooped after Mrs. McNulty and the head seamstress, leaving the two of them alone in the fitting room. Curiosity impelled Harriet to move out into the curtained corridor, closer to the heavy velvet, and twitch back a tiny opening, allowing a peek into the main display salon. She had never given much thought to fashion, but the array of gorgeous fabrics, styles and trimmings were tantalizing.
Attired in such finery, would she really feel like a princess with the power to captivate men with her radiant beauty? She felt a flutter in her chest, then quickly reminded herself that enchantments were the stuff of fairie tales. And she, of all people, was far too practical and pragmatic to confuse make-believe with real life.
“It’s all so beautiful,” intoned Theo, who had crept up to join her. They both stood very still, simply taking in all the lush details of the shimmering silks, the gossamer laces and profusion of delicately-colored ribbons.
Harriet found her eye drawn to the display table where a shop assistant was carefully refolding a stack of feather light Kashmir shawls. The swirling paisley patterns of deep jeweltone colors made her long to wrap one around her bare shoulders and see if it were truly as soft as a baby’s breath.
A sigh slipped from her lips, only to be lost in the muted ring of the entrance bell. As the assistant turned to greet the new customers, Harriet heard Theo make a strangled sound.
Shifting her gaze, she immediately saw why. Mrs. Currough had entered the shop—accompanied by Jack and James.
“Perhaps we should withdraw,” said Theo, her cheeks slowly turning a mottled red. “It would be awfully mortifying if they should spot us.”
“ We have nothing to be ashamed of,” replied Harriet, even though she knew her friend was right about the embarrassment of being caught peeping. Still, like a moth drawn to a flame, she found she couldn’t break away.
James and Jack appeared to be having an animated exchange with the Irish Beauty. Harriet couldn’t make out their words, but the laughs and smiles spoke eloquently. She felt a gritty dryness form in the back of her throat as the trio pulled down pattern books and began to peruse the various styles. Suddenly the display room lost all its magic. Her spirits came plummeting back to earth.
“But on second thought, you’re right,” she whispered to her friend, hoping to hide the pinch in her voice. “It would not be dignified to be caught spying like naughty schoolgirls.” Drawing the velvet back into place, she retreated back to the fitting area, wishing that she might flee much farther... preferably to Bombay or Xanadu, whichever was the greatest distance from London and a dark-haired gentleman with the devil’s own smile.
Thankfully, Theo seemed to have sunk into a subdued mood as well. They each took a seat on the two hard-back chairs not piled high with paper patterns and pin boxes and waited in silence for Mrs. McNulty to return.
But to Harriet’s dismay, it was Mrs. Currough who pushed through the burgundy draperies several minutes later.
“Betty invited me to come offer my advice on colors and decorative detail.” She said breezily as she unfastened her elegant pelisse and hung it from one of the brass clothes pegs. “I trust you won’t feel that too many cooks will spoil the broth.”
Harriet mumbled a curt reply.
“I have some ideas as to what hues will look best,” went on the Irish Beauty. “But of course it’s always wise to see how they look in different light.” Off came her kidskin gloves. “This will be great fun.”
Harriet nodded, unable to bring herself to look up from the floor.
Theo was equally quiet.
Mrs. Currough’s brows arched in mild surprise. She busied herself for a moment in straightening out the patterns and fabric samples, then inquired, “Are you two nervous?”
“No,” answered Harriet quickly.
“Ah.” More bustling. “Then might I inquire what has you so Friday-faced?”
“N-nothing.” She tried to force a smile, but found her face felt stiff as stone. “Nothing at all.”
At that, the Irish Beauty turned and set a hand on her hip. “I would not last very long in my profession if I were unable to read the subtle mood shifts of those around me.” Her lips quirked. “And yours, my dear, is hardly subtle.”
“It’s nothing important.” Aware of how false her voice sounded, Harriet added, “That is, it’s nothing that I care to talk about.”
Mrs. Currough’s gaze turned even more pensive. Harriet had the uncomfortable sensation that it could penetrate to the shadowed places deep within—places that even she didn’t dare to explore.
“I see.” The Irish Beauty slanted a look at Theo and then at the draperies. “Would this ‘nothing’ perchance have to do with my interlude with Lord Osborne and Lord Leete?”
Harriet’s throat felt too tight to answer.
The silence was apparently far more eloquent than words.
Perching a hip on the tea table, Mrs. Currough folded her hands in her lap. “I happened to encounter the gentlemen as I was coming from my carriage. We have met at several parties and are acquaintances.”
Close acquaintances, no doubt , thought Harriet. The knot in his stomach tightened, and tears prickled against the insides of her eyelids as suddenly the idea that she might ever be alluring seemed absurd. How could she ever hope to compete with an Irish Beauty or a sultry French siren?
“Lord Osborne and Lord Leete are perfectly free to form any friendships they so choose,” she said stiffly. “It can be of no concern to me.”
“And yet it is,” said Mrs. Currough gently.
Harriet felt her defenses crumble in the face of such kindness. “O-Only because it makes me realize how foolish it is to think a plain, outspoken hellion like me could ever master the art of appearing alluring.” She swallowed hard. “Not that I wish to appear alluring to them. I’ve known them both since childhood and they think of me as naught but the pesky little sister of their schoolfriend.”
Understanding seemed to glimmer in the other woman’s eyes. “I have a feeling they will soon learn to look at both of you in a new light.”
Theo straightened her slumped shoulders. “But I... I...”
Mrs. Currough cut off her stammering. “Just to clear up any misconceptions, your gentlemen friends asked my advice on a gift—for Lord Osborne’s sister. She has a birthday coming and he wanted to give her a special gown.”
“Oh,” croaked Harriet and Theo in unison.
“But as neither of them knows satin from sarcenet, they appealed to me to help them pick out a style.”
“You must think me a complete nodcock for acting like such an idiot,” stammered Harriet.
“Be assured that we all act like idiots over men.” A wry smile blossomed on the Irish Beauty’s lips. “Though I’m not sure they deserve it.”
Her pithy humor seemed to dispel the dark cloud hanging over the room. Harriet laughed and was quickly joined by Theo.
“But we females have a way of getting our revenge.” She rose with a sensuous whispering of lace and silk. “We can drive them to distraction with our airs of mystery and grace.” She tapped a fingertip to her forehead. “But as I’ve told you before, the belief must come from within. The rest is easy.”
“But what if I don’t feel mysterious,” asked Theo.
“Like all skills, it takes practice,” replied the Irish Beauty. Mrs. McNulty’s voice punctuated the sound of approaching steps in the corridor. “And now is a good time to begin.”
“The duchess has finally been put in her place,” announced the dressmaker as she stomped into the room. “Though I was sorely tempted to consign her to the hottest hole in Hades.” Taking up a handful of shimmering silks, she held them up to the light. “Now, let us turn our hands to more pleasant tasks. Mrs. Currough, what do you think of this smoky emerald color for Miss Farnum...”
Jack took a grateful gulp of sherry. He and James had been ushered into the private parlor reserved for gentlemen patrons, and a shop assistant had served refreshments. “Ye Gods, who would have guessed that fashion is so bloody complicated,” he groused. “Is there really such a thing as a mutton sleeve, or was the seamstress just pulling my leg?”
“I have no idea.” James downed his drink in one swallow. “Georgie had better appreciate the sacrifices I make for her.” Staring into the empty glass, he grimaced. “Wellington could probably outfit a regiment of Hussars with what I paid for one ballgown.”
“Apparently Madame Deauville is the most exclusive dressmaker in Town, so I imagine she can charge a king’s ransom. I’m told ladies are willing to do most anything short of murder to win a place on her very limited list of clients.”
“Knowing how seriously ladies are about appearing stylish, I’m not sure murder isn’t in the realm of possibility,” quipped James.
Jack went to the sideboard to refill their glasses. His friend’s harried chuckle seemed to stir an echo. It came again—a light, melodious sound that tugged his mouth up at the corners. Cocking an ear, he paused to listen.
Yes, definitely laughter. Something about its ring tickled against his consciousness, and he found himself thinking of Harriet. Which was a contradiction if ever there was one. Harriet didn’t give a fig for fancy dresses. She was, he conceded, anything but stylish. Neither the colors nor the cut of her clothes did her any favors, but somehow what he pictured now in his mind’s eye was the curl of her smile and the sparkle of mischief in her eyes...
“Halloooo!”
Jack’s head snapped around. “Er, what?”
“I said, stop woolgathering and bring me my drink. Shopping works up a great thirst.”
“Sorry.” Jack lingered for a moment longer, listening to the muffled notes fade away. After pouring a generous splash of spirits, he shook off his reveries and rejoined his friend. “Do you care what a lady is wearing?” he asked abruptly.
“No,” James flashed an evil grin. “I’m far more interested in what she’s not wearing.”
“Finish your sherry,” said Jack. “Then I suggest we quit this henhouse and head to White’s, where they serve something more potent than these dainty feminine tipples.” He suddenly felt in need of something fiery to drown the disquieting sense of unease that had started to churn in his belly.
It was worry over Camille, he told himself. But loath though he was to admit it, thoughts of her had been tangled of late, his loyalties stretched and a little frayed by her evasiveness. If only Harriet could pin down some answers, perhaps that would help dispel the uncertainties.
James thumped down his empty glass. “An excellent suggestion. Let us go.” He rose from the leather armchair. “Before they think of a way to squeeze another guinea out of me.”
They headed down the corridor leading to the side entrance, the heavy draperies of the fitting rooms stirring in soft undulations as they passed.
“What arcane feminine transformations take place behind those bits of velvet remain a complete mystery to me,” murmured James.
“There is much about the female mind that is baffling,” replied Jack, thinking of Camille. “Perhaps it’s best that we don’t know all the frightening details.”
Lapsing into a pensive silence, he and his friend quickened their steps. They had just turned the corner when up ahead, the fabric fluttered wildly and two ladies emerged from one of the inner sanctums amid a flurry of cheery waves and goodbyes.
“Oh!” Harriet’s smile gave way to wide-eyed surprise.
Harriet?
Jack blinked, wondering if his eyes were deceiving him. “What are you doing here?” he blurted out.
“Shopping,” she replied.
“But you never...”
Her chin rose a notch.
“Er, that is...”
“That is lovely,” finished James smoothly. “Did you find something that pleased you?”
“Yes,” responded Harriet in a tone that seemed to dare him to challenge her. “I purchased a new shawl.”
Jack decided to stay silent.
“And you, Lady Theo?” asked James politely.
“I did as well,” she said softly.
The four of them stood for a moment in awkward shuffling until Harriet abruptly took his arm. “Might you escort us out to our carriage? I was going to send a note to your townhouse, but since you are here, I have some further information about... the matter we’ve been discussing.”
James promptly placed Theo’s gloved hand on his sleeve and turned their steps for the door.
Jack waited until they had stepped outside before moving to follow them. “Well?” he asked eagerly.
“I am almost certain your missing officer is in Oxfordshire. I need to do a bit more research and rechecking the lists to be sure, but my instincts tell me I’m right.”
“Your instincts are usually bang on the mark,” he mused. “My thanks, Harry.”
She kept her gaze looking straight ahead. “Give me another day or two to confirm it. There is, of course, no guarantee that I’ve found your man. The transfers use numbers, not names. But going on the information you’ve given me it’s the best I can do.”
“It’s hugely helpful,” Jack assured her, slanting a sidelong glance to try to read her profile. It wasn’t often that Harriet’s voice gave nothing away.
“I am always happy when I prove helpful.” Was there an undertone of something sharper than her usual irony? Of late, her moods had become strangely quixotic.
He was still watching her face as they passed from the subdued light of the corridor into the brilliance of the cloudless day. “You...” he began, only to find his attention captivated by the shawl draped around her shoulders. The subtle play of patterns and colors had come to life in the dancing, diamond-bright sunshine.
“You are looking very well in your new purchase,” he murmured slowly, as his eyes adjusted to the glittering light. “Those colors suit you—they bring out the sparks in your hair.”
“Sparks?” Harriet raised her brows.
“Yes, flame red ones, as well as burnt orange, dark bronze, and, well, all sorts of shades I can’t name.”
“Good heavens, you make me sound like Athena, the Goddess of War,” she quipped.
“Yes, Athena—that suits you as well.” He smiled. “Seeing as the ancient Greeks also considered her the Goddess of Wisdom.”
It might only have been the reflection of the sun off the finely-woven wool, but it seemed like a blush had crept up to her cheeks.
“Have you ever wondered,” she asked slowly, “why the Greeks made their Gods and Goddesses so complicated?”
It was likely meant as a distraction, not a question, and yet he found himself answering. “Mayhap because they recognized that all of us mere mortals have the same sort of conflicting natures tangled in our heads.”
Harriet turned to face him, surprise quickly segueing into an inscrutable expression. She looked about to reply, but seemed to reconsider. Instead, she merely said, “I’ll send you final word as soon I’m confident that the lists have yielded all their secrets to me.”