Faced with the candid query in her ladyship’s dark eyes, Lenore blushed slightly as she struggled to find words to explain how her betrothal had come about. “I’m afraid matters became rather tangled. As it transpired, I didn’t have a great deal of choice in the matter.”
She stopped, halted by her ladyship’s disgusted snort.
“Great heavens, Lenore! This really won’t do. Don’t tell me you, of all women, have allowed my arrogant nephew to ride roughshod over you already?” Incredulity infused her ladyship’s patrician features with an almost comic quality.
Lenore bit her lip and tried to explain. “It wasn’t so much that—he did not force me to agree. But it seemed, the way things had fallen out, that there really was no alternative.”
With a dramatic gesture, Lady Agatha fell back against the cushions. “Don’t tell me—I see it all. I hesitate to disillusion you, my dear, but that’s precisely why Eversleigh is so peculiarly successful in getting his own way. Things always fall out so that his way seems the only way. It’s a most trying habit. We’re all counting on you to break him of it.”
Somewhat startled, Lenore quickly disclaimed. “I greatly fear, Lady Agatha, that I’m unlikely to wield sufficient influence with His Grace to effect any such transformation.”
“Nonsense!” Lady Agatha viewed her sternly but not unkindly. “And you may call me Agatha. Eversleigh does, except when he’s being difficult. But as for your not being in a position to influence Eversleigh, my dear, I rather suspect you have not entirely comprehended the position you will fill.”
“We have discussed the matter,” Lenore began diffidently. “Within the bounds of my duties, I see little prospect for a…a closer interaction of the sort needed to…to—”
“Just as I suspected!” Agatha reclined more comfortably and prepared to set her charge straight. “Regardless of whatever…” she waved a hand airily, “functional duties my nephew consented to discuss, you may be sure he did not choose you as his duchess, above all others, purely on the basis of your ability to carry out said duties. Jason may be a pragmatist when it comes to matrimony, but I’m convinced he would never offer for a woman he could not deal with on a personal level.”
“I believe we will deal very well together, Lenore”…Eversleigh’s words echoed in Lenore’s mind. Was this what he had meant?
“By personal,” Lady Agatha continued, “I do not mean the sort of association a gentleman may form with, for instance, one of the fashionable impures. That, I need hardly tell you, is something quite different.” She waved the indelicate subject aside. “No. The sort of relationship a man like Eversleigh will expect to share with his wife is one based on mutual respect and trust. If that is there, and I for one am sure it must be, then you need not fear, my dear. Eversleigh will listen to your arguments, your opinions. If, that is, you choose to tell him.”
The prospect her ladyship’s words conjured up held Lenore silent.
“That, of course, is why we hoped you’d accept his suit. Jason needs a duchess with character, and the ability to make herself heard, to act as a balancing force. To make him more human, if you take my meaning.”
Lenore was not entirely sure that she did, but the opening of the door brought a halt to her ladyship’s discourse.
“Yes, Higgson?” Lady Agatha waited while her butler ponderously bowed.
“You wished to be reminded that dinner would be served early, my lady,” Higgson stated, his voice as heavy as his movements. “Miss Lester’s maid is waiting in her room.”
“Thank you, Higgson.” Agatha turned to Lenore. “Eversleigh mentioned that your maid at Lester Hall would not be accompanying you to town and suggested I find a suitable girl. Trencher is my sister Attlebridge’s dresser’s niece. I’m sure she’ll know the ropes. But if she’s not to your liking, you have only to say and we’ll find another.”
Lenore blinked. “Thank you. I’m sure she’ll prove suitable.” Inwardly, she wondered how far Eversleigh’s organisational powers extended.
But, ten minutes later, having been sent upstairs with orders to rest and recuperate before dinner, Lenore found herself thankful her fiancé had had the forethought to solicit his aunt’s assistance. Trencher was a treasure. Of about Lenore’s age, she was small and deft in her movements, severely garbed in dark brown as befitted her station, her pale face intent under a neat cap. She had unpacked Lenore’s trunk, laying her brushes out upon the polished surface of the elegant dressing-table and had ordered a hot bath.
“I hope you’ll excuse the liberty, miss, but I thought as how you’d be bone-jarred, having travelled all day.”
Lenore sighed and smiled her approval. She was, in fact, feeling distinctly jolted, but was uncertain as to how much of the effect could be ascribed to her father’s well-sprung coach.
After a soothing soak, Trencher urged her to lie down on the luxuriously soft bed. “I’ll be sure to wake you in plenty of time to get dressed for dinner.”
Perfectly certain Trencher would not fail her, Lenore surrendered to what was, for her, a most unusual luxury. It was not, she told herself, as she climbed up on to the feather mattress, that she was tired. Rather, she could use a period of quiet reflection the better to analyse Agatha’s view of her marriage. Despite these intentions, she fell deeply asleep the instant her head touched the pillow.
When Trencher woke her an hour later, her maid had no comment to offer on her outmoded gowns. Lenore had packed only the most acceptable and had left her pinafores and her spectacles behind. Her days of concealment, she felt quite sure, were past. Viewing her reflection in the long cheval glass, she grimaced.
Trencher noticed. “It’ll only be for tonight, miss. Her ladyship said as how Lafarge’d be sure to be able to make something up straight away for a customer like you. And there’s no company tonight, just you and her ladyship, so you’ve no need to blush.”
After blinking several times, Lenore decided not to reveal her ignorance by questioning Trencher. She reserved her questions for Agatha, waiting until they were comfortably seated about one end of the dining table, with only Higgson hovering nearby.
“Who, exactly, is Lafarge?”
“Ah! Trencher mentioned her, did she?” Agatha looked up from her soup. “Quite the most exclusive modiste in London, my dear. She’s agreed to do your wardrobe, which, let me tell you, would be a boon to any lady. A positive genius with gowns of all types. We’re expected at her salon at ten tomorrow.”
“That’s why I have to look my best?”
Recalled to her soup, Agatha nodded, adding, “The most important person you’ll ever have to convince of your beauty.”
Soup spoon suspended, Lenore stared. “But I’m no beauty.”
Dismissively, Agatha waved the point aside. “Used the wrong word—attractiveness, style, call it what you will. That certain something that some women have that makes them stand out in a crowd. That’s what Lafarge will be looking for. She’s agreed to consider taking you on as a client, but she could change her mind.”
Appalled, Lenore considered this unexpected hurdle. She had rather thought that, as the customer, she would choose her supplier. Obviously, in the case of fashionable modistes, this was not the case.
“Don’t concern yourself over the matter,” Agatha said, pushing her plate away. “No reason she won’t see something interesting in you.”
Lenore had no answer to that.
“I’d thought to take this opportunity to fill you in about Eversleigh and the family. Once it’s known you’re here, we’ll be inundated with invitations—unlikely we’ll get much chance of quiet nights.”
Lenore noted the satisfied glint in her ladyship’s dark eyes. Her hostess was clearly looking forward to being the cynosure of all attention.
“I take it you’re aware of Ricky’s death?”
Lenore frowned. “Eversleigh’s brother?” When Agatha nodded, she said, “Jack told me he was killed at Waterloo.”
“Hougoumont,” Agath
a supplied. “Gloriously tragic. Typical of Ricky, really.”
When her hostess did not immediately continue, Lenore hesitantly asked, “What I wasn’t clear about was why Jack thought that was the reason Eversleigh had to wed.”
“Now that,” said Agatha, helping herself to a dish of mussels in white wine, “is a typical piece of Eversleigh organisation.” She glanced shrewdly at Lenore before adding, “Always felt you were one young woman I did not need to beat about the bush with, so I’ll tell you simply. Eversleigh never intended to marry. Something of a cold fish, Jason, not given to the warmer emotions. At least,” she amended, considering her point, “that’s what he thinks. Deeply cynical and all that. He and Ricky had a…a pact, so that Ricky was to be the one to marry and his son would ultimately inherit the title.”
“And Waterloo dashed that plan?”
“Indeed, yes.” Agatha nodded portentously. “And rather more besides.” She paused pensively, then shook herself and looked at Lenore. “Jason and Ricky were very close, so Hougoumont smashed more than Jason’s plans for a fancy-free future. Even I would not care to mention Hougoumont in Jason’s hearing.”
“I understand.” Lenore stared unseeing at the slice of turbot on her plate.
“Mind you,” Agatha continued, waving her fork to dispel the sudden gloom, “I’m beginning to wonder if that wasn’t an example of the Almighty moving in strange ways.”
Lenore looked up. “How so?”
“Well, I dare say Ricky would have made an acceptable duke—he was trained to it, as was Jason. And the family would have accepted his sons to succeed him.” Pushing a mussel about on her plate, Agatha grimaced. “It’s just that we would all prefer Eversleigh—that is, Jason—to be succeeded by his own son. Particularly, if you were there to ensure said son did not take after his father in absolutely all respects.” Agatha waved her knife at Lenore. “Jason’s plan was well enough, but he was always one to assume others could perform any task as well as he. But Ricky could never have been as decisive as Jason—no, nor as commanding. He simply wasn’t as powerful, as unshakeably strong. And, when it comes to ruling a very large family, and very large estates, it’s precisely that quality which makes all the difference.”
Lenore raised her brows to indicate her interest but made no other reply. As she had hoped, Agatha rambled on, giving her a sketchy outline of the family estates together with an abbreviated history of the Montgomerys, refreshing her memory of Eversleigh’s aunts and their numerous offspring. By the time Agatha waved her upstairs for an early night, Lenore’s head was spinning with the effort to store all the information her hostess had let fall.
She rose early the next morning, still attuned to country hours. Trencher was there, bubbling with suppressed excitement at the thought of her mistress’s visit to Lafarge’s famous salon. As she allowed herself to be gowned in the gold muslin, the most acceptable dress she possessed, Lenore viewed her maid’s affliction with a lenient eye, aware that no such emotion had yet touched her. Breakfast was served on a tray in her room, as was Agatha’s habit. Afterwards, Lenore strolled in the small gardens behind the house, waiting for her hostess, trying to quell the trepidatious flutter of her nerves and the strange yearning for Eversleigh’s large figure to appear, to lend her strength for the coming ordeal—her first crucial step into his fashionable world.
AGATHA’S CARRIAGE pulled up outside a plain door wedged between two shops on Bruton Street. Above the door hung a simple sign—“Mme Lafarge, Modiste”.
Handed down from the carriage, Agatha shook out her skirts and eyed the door shrewdly. “Lafarge only makes for a select few. Hideously expensive, so I’ve heard.”
Joining her hostess on the pavement, Lenore turned to stare. “Isn’t she your dressmaker?”
“Heavens, no! I might be well-to-do but I’m not that rich.” Agatha straightened her straight back and headed for the door. “No—Eversleigh arranged it.”
Of course. Lenore’s lips tightened momentarily. She permitted herself a frown, then shrugged and followed her mentor up the steep stairs beyond the plain door.
Madame Lafarge was waiting in the large salon on the first floor. The room was elegantly furnished, gilt chairs upholstered in satin damask set in a tight circle facing outwards from the centre of the floor. Mirrors were discreetly placed around the walls, interspersed with wall hangings in a soothing shade of pale green. Madame herself proved to be a small, severely neat, black-haired Frenchwoman who stared unblinkingly at Lenore throughout the introductions.
These completed, she reached for Lenore’s hand. “Walk for me, Miss Lester,” she commanded in heavily accented English, drawing Lenore clear of the chairs. “To the windows and back.”
Lenore blinked, but when Agatha nodded, complied, hesitantly at first, then with more confidence as she returned to where Madame waited.
“Eh bien. I see now what monsieur le duc means.” Stepping close, Madame peered up into Lenore’s eyes. “Yes—greens and golds, with nothing pink, white or pale blue. M’moiselle is twenty-four, yes?”
Dumbly, Lenore nodded.
“Tre`s bien. We do not, then, need to be cramped in our choice.” The little modiste’s face relaxed into a smile of approval. Her eyes narrowed as she walked slowly around Lenore before nodding decisively. “A merveille—we will do very well, I am thinking.”
Taking this to mean Madame had found that elusive something in her, Lenore felt some of her tension evaporate.
Abruptly, Madame clapped her hands. To Lenore’s surprise, a young girl put her head around one of the wallhangings. A torrent of orders delivered in staccato French greeted her. With a mute nod, the girl disappeared. A bare minute later, the wallhanging was pushed aside to admit a procession of six girls, each carrying a semi-completed outfit.
Under Madame’s supervision, Lenore tried on the garments. Madame fitted them expertly, extolling the virtues of each and the use to which she expected each to be put, gesticulating freely to embellish her words. The ground was littered with pins but her advice could not be faulted. Agatha sat regally on one of the chairs, actively interested in all that went on.
It was not until she was trying on the third outfit, a delicate amber morning gown, that the truth dawned on Lenore. She was unusually tall and slender yet the dresses needed only marginal adjustments. Her head came up; she stiffened.
“Be still, m’moiselle,” hissed Madame Lafarge from behind her.
Lenore obeyed but immediately asked, “For whom were these dresses made, Madame?”
Lafarge peered around to stare up at her face. “Why—for you, Miss Lester.”
Lenore returned her stare, recalling that Madame had not even bothered to take her measurements. “But…how?”
Lafarge’s black eyes blinked up at her. “Monsieur le duc gave me an…” Her hands came up to describe her meaning. “An understanding of your comportment and your taille, you understand? From that, I was able to fashion these. As you see, his memory was not greatly at fault.”
A shiver travelled Lenore’s spine but she was unsure of the emotion behind it. Agatha had been right—Eversleigh was far too used to organising all as he wished. The idea that her wardrobe would bear the imprint of his hand, rather than hers, was far too much for her to swallow.
Parading before the glass and admiring the way the long amber skirts swirled about her, Lenore made up her mind. “I should like to see these other gowns you’ve made up.”
Besides the three gowns she had already tried on, a green muslin walking dress, a teal carriage dress and the amber creation, Lafarge had made up three evening gowns. Trying on the first of these, Lenore felt a definite qualm. Studying her reflection, the way the fine silk clung to her body, emphasising her height, her slimness and the soft swell of her breasts, she wondered if she would ever have the courage to actually wear the gown. The neckline was cut low, barely avoiding the indecorous. Aside from the tiny puffed sleeves, her arms were entirely bare; she could already feel gooseflesh pr
ickling her skin. The other two gowns were in similar vein.
“You wish to view the rest as well?”
Turning, Lenore stared at Lafarge. “Madame, what, exactly, has His Grace ordered?”
Lafarge spread her hands. “A wardrobe of the very finest—all the materials to be the very best as suited to your station. Dresses, gowns, coats, cloaks, nightgowns, petticoats, chemises, peignoirs.” Lafarge ticked the items off on her fingers, then spread them wide. “Everything, m’moiselle, that you might need.”
Even Agatha looked stunned.
Lenore had had enough. “Have any of these items been made up?”
Sensing that her hopes for the soon-to-be duchess were teetering on some invisible precipice, Lafarge hurriedly summoned her girls with all the items thus far created on His Grace of Eversleigh’s orders.
Lenore ran her fingers over the delicate materials. As she held up a chemise, a peculiar thrill went through her. The garment was all but transparent.
Watching her client closely, Lafarge murmured, “All was created at monsieur le duc’s express orders, m’moiselle.”
Lenore believed her but did not understand. Eversleigh had ordered a wardrobe that tantalised—for her. She frowned, laying aside the chemise to pick up a peignoir with a matching nightgown. As the long folds unravelled, her breathing seized. Slowly, deliberately, she turned so that Agatha was granted a full view of the gown. “Surely this is not what other women of the ton wear?”
Agatha’s face was a study. Not knowing whether to be scandalised or delighted, she grimaced. “Well—yes and no. But if Eversleigh’s ordered them, best take ’em.” When Lenore hesitated, she added, “You can argue the point with him later.”
When I’m wearing them? Lenore quelled another distracting shiver.
“They are not, perhaps, what I would create for all my young ladies, but, if you will permit the liberty, m’moiselle, few of my young ladies could appear to advantage in these. And,” Lafarge added, a little hesitantly, “Monsieur le duc was very definite—he was very clear what he wished to see on you, m’moiselle.”