“No,” he said, holding open the door for her. “Gentlemen usually accompany their mistresses to such a place.”
Bel halted, one slipper balanced on the threshold.
“Don’t look so anxious,” he teased, prodding her inside and up the narrow staircase. “I wasn’t referring to me. If I’d brought a mistress to this establishment, I wouldn’t bring my wife around now, would I?”
“Sir Toby!” As they reached the top, an unseen woman called from the interior. Her voice blended silk and smoke. “Mon dieu. We thought you’d never return.”
“Wouldn’t you?” Bel asked, eyeing her husband warily as she stepped inside. A dazzling sight waited within. Bolts of fabric in every color of the rainbow, lining both walls in perfect, parallel symmetry. After blinking a few times, she realized the fabric actually lined one wall, and mirrors covered the other, creating the illusion. Spools of ribbon and lace filled any available gap between the bolts, and toward the window, a glass case held a glittering array of plumes and brilliants. The crowded, colorful space gave the appearance of disarray, but the floorboards beneath Bel’s slippers gleamed. The corners were the cleanest parts of the room, free of cobwebs or collected dust.
“We heard you had married.” A silver-haired matron clad in violet silk swished forward to greet them, her broad hips trading the rustling weight of her skirts back and forth. As the woman took Toby’s arm, her thin, dark eyebrows rose. “We did not want to believe it. We were so delighted when you escaped that little pale thing, that Sophie. She had an eye for color, that one, but I always knew she would have played you false.” She turned to Bel. “But I see your taste has improved. This one, she is not English?”
“Only half,” Bel told her.
“Ah,” Madame said, looking Bel up, then down. “One hopes it is the correct half.”
Bel gaped at Toby. He gave her a sly grin. “Isabel, allow me to introduce Madame. She’s designed every one of my sister Margaret’s gowns, since her debut Season. I was Margaret’s unwilling escort for many a fitting.”
“Unwilling?” The Frenchwoman pursed her lips in a rouge-red moue. “This does not match with Mirette’s account.”
“Mirette?” Bel bit her lip. Had she said that aloud?
Madame Pamplemousse grasped Bel’s arm. “My niece and apprentice seamstress, come from Paris to learn our trade. Sir Toby corrupted her most horribly.”
“I corrupted her?” Toby laughed. “I was a tender fifteen years old. That niece of yours had three years on me, and a half-dozen beaux on her chatelaine. It was all I could to wheedle a kiss.”
The modiste made a very French sound of skepticism. “What of Josephine?”
“Pray, let us not speak of Josephine.”
“Marie-Claire?”
“Let us not speak of Marie-Claire either.” Toby pressed a hand to his lapel and made a dramatic face. “Do you know, this shop made a pincushion of my adolescent heart. Sent me down the path toward waste and ruin. Forget good intentions. I tell you, the road to hell is paved with toile. But—” His hand caught Bel’s waist. “I have here to protect me my very own angel, who is determined to redeem my corrupted soul.”
Madame Pamplemousse turned her kohl-rimmed gaze on Bel. Her lips curved in a feline smile.
“An angel? I do not think so. Not even half.” She slowly circled Bel, running her palms over the contours of her shoulders, her arms. Then her hips. Bel stiffened.
“Arms to the side, ma chère.” With two well-placed jabs to the ribcage, Madame forced Bel’s arms out. Then, grasping her by the hips, the modiste pivoted her body until they faced the wall of mirrors. Bel felt rather like a marionette.
“To be a true angel,” the modiste said, sliding her hands up Bel’s corseted torso, “you must offer men a glimpse of heaven.” With that, she cupped Bel’s bosom in her palms and thrust upward, until olive skin overflowed her muslin bodice in two generous scoops. Mortified, Bel worked her throat. No sounds came out. Most likely, the woman had cut off her supply of air. Fortunately, Toby had bent over the display case and was not watching.
“Yes, much better,” Madame said, scrutinizing Bel’s reflection. “Lady Aldridge, we will make you a proper corset. One that will have these”—she plumped the handfuls of flesh again
—“floating like clouds.”
The modiste dropped her hands, and Bel’s breasts fell back into her stays with a nearly audible plunk. Immediately, she crossed her arms over her chest to ward off any further assault. She must be nearing her courses. Her bosom was already heavy and achy today, and Madame’s liberties hadn’t helped matters any.
“She needs a gown,” Toby said, turning from his study of plumes. “Suitable for the opera, ready three days hence.”
“The opera?” Bel echoed. “But we can’t!”
“Three days?” Madame clucked her tongue. “Impossible.”
“Certainly we can,” Toby said, striding forward and meeting Bel’s gaze in the mirrored reflection. Turning to Madame, he continued, “And it is possible. I have seen you work miracles before. Don’t tell me those nimble fingers are losing their touch, Maxime.”
“What would you know of my nimble fingers?” She threw him a coquettish glance as she retrieved a measuring tape from a drawer. “You should not have wasted your time with those girls, mon lapin. I would have corrupted you beyond all hope of redemption.”
“Promises, promises,” said Toby, catching the Frenchwoman’s hand and kissing her fingers playfully. Then he murmured something in French. Something that sounded exceedingly ribald
—but then, in French, nearly everything sounded ribald.
From behind the draperies at the back of the room came a chorus of feminine giggles. Ribald it must have been.
Bel sighed. She wondered if she would ever grow accustomed to watching Toby flirt with other women. The envy nipping at her elbows was absurd, she knew. Like Madame, most of his partners in this sort of repartee were not even especially young or attractive. They were simply women Toby sought to amuse or flatter, for one reason or another. She doubted he was even aware of it, this constant trade in compliments, any more than he tracked the pennies that entered and left his pocket. He gave the ladies what was, in essence, a glittering token: a fleeting moment of feeling desired by the most attractive man in London. In return, they gave him … pretty much what ever he wished. And as she was well aware of her husband’s desirability, Bel could not argue that it was an unfair trade.
At least he did not treat her the same way. He gave Bel more than moments, she reminded herself. He gave her whole nights of tender affection and asked nothing in return. And it wasn’t as though she expected his wholehearted devotion. It wasn’t as though she wanted his love. Therefore, she should not be jealous. In fact, she ought to encourage his use of charm—
the same talent, albeit differently employed, would ensure his political success. But still. Those giggles grated on her nerves, to an alarming degree. She really must be nearing her courses.
Growing even more tetchy at that thought, she protested, “We can’t go to the opera this week. You can’t expect the polls to close early again.” He’d surprised her that afternoon, arriving home shortly after luncheon due to some unexpected event. “What was the reason, again? The returning officer’s wife took ill?”
If he heard her question, he did not acknowledge it. “On the day of the opera, I’ll simply leave early. A few hours’ absence from the hustings won’t damage my campaign. It may hurt the tavern keeper’s profits, but that can’t be helped.”
“This way, my lady.” The modiste beckoned her toward the rear of the shop. “We will take measurements.”
Bel ignored her. “Well, even if your schedule will accommodate frivolity, mine will not. The Society is planning our demonstration of chimney-sweeping machinery on Friday. There are leaflets to be printed, invitations to be delivered. I must speak with Cook about the refreshments, and—”
“Isabel.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. It was a weighty, authoritative gesture, and it made Bel keenly aware of how childish she sounded. “It’s an opera,” he said calmly. “Not a bacchanal. Why does the idea distress you so?”
“I… I don’t know.” And she honestly didn’t. But it did distress her, greatly. She didn’t like being in this shop, perfumed as it was with Toby’s amatory past. She wished they could just leave. “I don’t need a new gown,” she tried again. “I have a closet full of gowns at home.”
Toby dismissed them all with a shake of his head. “Debutante gowns. Virginal, modest, pretty. You’re a married lady of wealth and influence, and you ought to look it. Worldly, bold, exquisite.”
Bel frowned. None of those words described her in the least.
Madame Pamplemousse tugged at her again. “Come then, my lady.”
“Just a moment,” Toby told the modiste. “Isabel, tell me about your demonstration. What is its purpose?”
Had she not told him a dozen times? Didn’t he listen to her at all? Her voice clipped and impatient, she answered, “To demonstrate the modern advances in flue-cleaning machinery. To convince the influential ladies of society that climbing boys are inefficient and obsolete. To keep poor children from suffocating to death in chimneys.”
“Yes. And worthy goals, all. But do you really think the machinery’s efficiency will be the persuasive factor? No, of course not. Perhaps if you were inviting housekeepers it would be, but the ladies of the ton care little for function. They care for fashion. To persuade them to take notice of automated brushes, you must make those brushes appear beautiful, desirable, and au courant. More to the point, you must appear beautiful, desirable, and au courant—and therefore, worthy of emulation. The first two qualities, God has already provided. Let us entrust Madame with the third, hm?”
Bel gave up. It seemed ridiculous, the idea that her purchasing an opulent gown would somehow save the lives of miserable waifs. But the argument was so tangled now, she didn’t know how to unravel it.
Toby spoke to the Frenchwoman. “She needs rich color, and sparkle, and the most stylish cut.”
“Yes, yes,” Madame tutted, herding Bel toward the room’s fabric partition.
“I want her shining like the jewel she is,” Toby called after them as they ducked behind the velvet drapery.
“First I was an angel,” Bel muttered as two young maids beset her, prying apart hooks and unlacing tapes. “Now I’m a jewel?”
“My lady,” the modiste said in a lilting whisper, “be happy your husband admires you so and wants others to admire you, too. Take care you do not drive him to call you unpleasant names. Take care you do not drive him into another’s arms.”
One of the maids made a comment in French. Bel couldn’t understand the exact words, but she gathered the general implication: The girl’s own arms would be open and available, should Bel fail to heed Madame’s advice.
More giggling.
Bel growled.
“What’s that giggling about?” Toby called in a teasing voice. “Must I come back there and supervise?”
The maids tittered at the suggestion.
“No,” Bel answered sharply. “All is well.” Except for this unreasoned, bitter jealousy in her heart. She flung her arms wide to aid the young women in removing her clothes. “Let’s do this quickly, please?”
Madame Pamplemousse lifted her voice. “Sir Toby, be seated. There are newspapers behind the counter, should you require diversion.”
“Are there?” The sounds of his footfalls and rustling paper filtered through the draperies. His tone became one of amused discovery. “Yes, indeed there are. Including the most diverting publication of all… The Prattler. What are they saying about me today, I wonder?”
