Chapter 8
Eight
Catherine shivered. Madame Beauchamp’s shop was as cold as ever, even with the glow of a little stove in the fitting chamber and the sunshine from the skylight above Catherine’s head. It was probably the skylight that was letting in so much of the chill.
With the worry and fuss of getting Arabella off with the Dalrymples, Catherine had delayed the final fitting of her blue silk gown.
Only now, with Sir Francis Ffoulkes’ house party looming, had she finally arranged an appointment with the modiste.
But when Catherine had arrived at the shop, Madame Beauchamp had been alone, opening the door quickly, causing the bell hanging over the door to jangle loudly, and then shutting the door again just as quickly and locking it.
Perhaps the absence of all Madame Beauchamp’s helpers was the reason why the fitting was taking so long?
Catherine had been standing on the platform in the large fitting chamber, wearing just her petticoat, for at least a quarter of an hour.
First, Madame Beauchamp had issued a stream of filthy French curses because her seamstresses had made the blue silk dress too long.
She had taken shears and viciously slashed a foot from the unhemmed bottom.
It was still too long, but Madame herself would pin it as part of the fitting.
No, no, no. Madame Beauchamp insisted Catherine must wear a particular low-cut chemise and special stays with quite daring cups.
She would fetch them now for la Veuve Lovelock.
She, Madame Beauchamp, had commissioned the custom undergarments, knowing Catherine would need them for her new dress.
Take off those stays and that chemise immédiatement, she had commanded, wagging a long, bony finger before whipping out of the room.
Catherine hardly liked to admit she was afraid of Madame Beauchamp, especially when the woman was wielding scissors.
So when the modiste barked “Restez!” without even a s’il vous pla?t, Catherine took her literally and did not even step off the platform to get something to cover her bare shoulders and breasts.
And now she was in this awkward position.
Cold. Half-naked. Stranded on the platform.
Well, at least there were no pins poking into her.
And she should be able to stand on the platform indefinitely.
Years ago, she had played Hermione in The Winter’s Tale and appeared frozen as a statue for quite a long time.
That was all she was good for these days, being a mute statue.
Catherine could hear voices through the thin walls of the fitting chamber and wondered if another customer or another seamstress had arrived. The talk grew louder, more agitated.
The door opened, and Catherine covered her breasts with her arms and turned her head towards the door, ready to smile and pretend she was not vexed by her chilly wait.
But the person who backed into the fitting chamber was not Madame Beauchamp nor any of her seamstresses.
It was the most dangerous man in London.
Most dangerous for Catherine, that is.
Jamie.
He gave her a brief view of his profile before he crouched slightly with his back to her, listening at the crack of the door.
James, the boy-man with the gray eyes and the lazy grin.
The one who had wandered into her dreams and played with her lust demon there so she would wake up, gasping, wet and clenching between her legs, released.
She had met him several times last spring since he was friends with her then future son-in-law Thomas Drake.
That had been—oh, horrors!—when the Earl Drake had been courting her, Catherine.
And she had foolishly encouraged Thomas’ calls, hoping he would bring his friend with him because then she could have a few minutes of being in the same room with James.
A few minutes when she might surreptitiously gaze at James Cavendish, Marquess of Daventry, and imagine doing wicked things with him.
A few minutes when she might unwisely let the lust demon out of its shackles.
Just for an exploratory sniff. A romp. Nothing more.
But Catherine had not tempted James. He had expressed no interest in her, despite his reputation as a rake. And that was for the best, she told herself, even as the lust demon bit and scratched and screamed as she dragged it back into its cage.
Desperate for money, Thomas Drake had proposed marriage to Catherine. She had refused his offer, only for him to enter into a highly profitable marriage of convenience with her frail, eccentric stepdaughter Harry.
Catherine now bitterly regretted ever allowing Thomas or James to call at her house.
Thomas, because the well-known libertine had taken the innocent Harry away from Catherine’s care and protection.
And James, because she was still infatuated with the gorgeous lordling even though she had not been near him since Harry and Thomas’ wedding.
She had seen him only in her dreams, and his ongoing presence there was disturbing enough to change the course of her life, to cause her to seek the refuge of marriage to Sir Francis Ffoulkes.
But this was no dream. James stood within ten feet of her. His thick, curly, brown hair with glints of gold. The perfect skin over his jaw. Those square shoulders in his green tailcoat. That youth, that beauty.
And there was something different about him. Something new. She did wonder at . . . his intentness. There was no sign of the silly fellow. The tipsy fop was gone. He seemed to be all business.
The boy-man had vanished. There was only man.
A devastating wash of desire spread over her, and a pulse began to throb between her legs.
Her chill fled as warmth radiated up from her groin to her bosom.
Paradoxically, her nipples, previously erect from the cold, became even more prominent with these licking flames, poking into her forearms shielding her breasts.
She had to have this man. This James. She must. She was eighteen years of age again, staring into the maw of ruinous lust.
She sneezed. Just a little sneeze. She couldn’t help it.
He turned. His eyes, those gray pools that now seemed almost green to match his coat, went from alert and defensive to astonished.
She was immediately enraged. She didn’t want him to see her like this, up on a high platform, half-dressed, covering her breasts with her arms, unprepared for him. Better to have been fully naked, she thought, solidly on the floor. Then I might have some idea of who I am.
But she knew who she was. A weak woman. A wanton woman. A depraved woman. In lust with a man who had seemed wholly inappropriate before and now only seemed wholly desirable.
But he didn’t want her. He had made that clear. She was too old for him. And she flushed with anger all over again.
He closed the cracked door and put his finger to his lips.
He wanted her quiet.
She’d show him quiet.
She very deliberately took her arms from her breasts and put her hands on her hips, elbows out, fully displaying herself. Except for the dratted petticoat.
He gulped. His eyes skittered away.
Ha. She had discomfited him. She had produced the desired effect. Let the rake be on his back foot for once.
James trailed the limping Marquis DuBois de Laval through the streets of Soho. The man seemed to be heading towards Westminster or Mayfair.
He knew the ambassador from France on sight, having met him at various court-related functions, but today he was following René DuBois because James had seen the man enter and then leave Sir Francis’ town house this morning.
He had no knowledge of a connection between the two men, and it seemed suspicious the French Ambassador would pay a morning call on a rather insignificant, if wealthy, baronet.
Perhaps DuBois’ association with Ffoulkes was the whole reason Bulverton was interested in Ffoulkes?
James had been given no direction by Mr. Bulverton in regards to Ffoulkes, just to gather gossip and to stay close.
But James was impatient. When was he going to be trusted to do more?
Hadn’t he proven himself? It was time for him to act independently in matters of surveillance.
He had begun by watching Ffoulkes, his house, his carriage.
The Marquis DuBois de Laval was easy to stalk since he had a slow, unusual gait.
He used a walking stick and wore a wooden leg, having lost a good part of the original limb while fighting for France under Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte.
DuBois’ knee had been smashed to pieces by a small-caliber ball, and he had requested the army surgeon amputate the leg on the battlefield.
One story making the rounds in London was that his valet had wept upon seeing his master’s injury and DuBois had said, “What are you crying about, man? You have one less boot to polish!”
James thought that was a rather cracking thing to say, even if it had been said by a Frenchman.
James strolled and gazed into shop windows and even went into a jeweler’s to inquire about a particular watch, secure in the knowledge DuBois could not get too far ahead of him.
Coming out of the shop, however, he almost missed the ambassador turning down an alley.
James quickened his pace, and when he reached the alley, he slowed, shooting a nonchalant glance down the length of it.
No sign of DuBois. Blast. Where had he gone?
James walked around the corner to look at the shop fronts and try to determine which establishment would most likely have drawn DuBois. A milliner, another jeweler, a tobacconist, a dressmaker. The very same dressmaker’s that had given James pause a few weeks ago.