Queen of Diamonds, page 12
“Oh, no. I have to go to the placement agencies and interview new employees. I already have far more work than I can accomplish myself. And the new fashion journal comes out next week, so I am expecting even more orders.”
“I will help,” Hellen said, “if you are still willing to pay me a salary so I can give it to my mum. I am not much for sewing, but I watched Lord Harking make appointments and keep accounts. At least I knew how long a fitting would take, and how much you had planned to charge. Harry said your prices were too low, so he raised them.”
So Queenie was even more ahead of her goals. “If you will be my assistant I will pay you a fine salary, and provide your wardrobe too. It would be perfect.” And a respectable, honest living for Hellen, thank goodness.
“Too bad you cannot make Harry your manager. I’ve never seen the like, him taking charge that way, keeping the women from scratching each other’s eyes out, or leaving.”
“And sending out for biscuits was brilliant too. I do not know how I can thank you, my lord.”
“Well, you can call me Harry for a start. Everyone does. Then I may call you Denise.”
She’d been calling him Harry in her head, but this gentleman was too honorable, too straightforward for her lies. She could not give him the truth, but now loathed having an assumed name. “I think it better that we not be so familiar.” It was safer, too.
“Ah, then I shall just have to call you chérie.”
That was not safer.
Queenie quickly fetched the package for his sister from the counter. “And I shall call you my hero for this day.”
He blushed, as he often did when embarrassed, Queenie realized. She found it endearing. She doubted if five other men in all of London ever turned red, except when they had too much to drink. “I truly do not know what I would have done without you.”
“You would have managed, I am certain. But I am no hero, merely an organized type of chap. I can tell you to the newest chick how many hens I have, how many bales of hay and sacks of wool. I enjoy keeping records and making order out of chaos.”
Since he was grinning, nibbling on the last of the biscuits, Queenie said, “I can see you do. Are you certain you do not want a job?”
“If I did not have Harking Hall to manage, I might consider your offer. I like to be useful. In fact, this afternoon was the most pleasure I have had since coming to London except…” He was looking at her lips, where Queenie was licking a crumb from the macaroon she had eaten.
…Except the kiss. So he had not forgotten it either. She hurriedly placed the ribbon-tied package in his hands, an indication that he should leave. “Oh, but I owe you that favor. I am certain I owe you far more, but what can I do for you? If you get your sister’s measurements I shall make her a fine gown. Or trim a bonnet to match the silk. Unless she sent you to purchase corsets and stockings and nightclothes, which I can understand you might not wish to do. I would be happy to complete your errands for you.”
“No, it is nothing like that. I have but one mission in London, and am hoping to succeed tonight. If not I might consider hiring Bow Street. But the favor I am asking is for your company—and yours too, Hellen, and Browne’s if he wishes—to the opera tomorrow night. I seldom get the chance to hear fine music, so I like to indulge myself when in Town. I just do not care to go on my own.”
Queenie was not sure, not sure she should go anywhere with the man she was coming to care for far more than she ought.
Harry misunderstood her hesitation. “I promise this will not be like the Cyprian’s Ball where you were exposed to all manner of rude behavior. I shall hire a private box for us, and no one will treat either of you with disrespect, not while you are in my care. Besides, you can get a chance to show off more of your creations.”
Everyone would think Queenie was his mistress. They already did, after last night. This afternoon in the shop would have confirmed the suspicions, and her customers would not have kept his presence there a secret. A peer of the realm acting as a shop clerk was just too delicious an on dit not to share. And why else would he have done it, if not to please his inamorata?
Far more conversant with the London gossip mills, Lord Harking must know what was being said, Queenie decided. He must not care.
So Queenie decided not to care, either. She knew the truth, and that was what mattered, not what a bunch of strangers thought. If her notoriety cost her business among the haute monde, so be it. To her own surprise she liked her new customers. They treated her with respect, which tonnish females might not do, and they paid on time. They appreciated her skills, and they truly did need to look their best to be successful. Society’s daughters had their dowries and their fathers’ names to barter. They could do without one of Madame Denise’s designs.
Queenie had little to lose by going to the opera with Harry, then, except for the hours she could spend sewing, and more of her heart. She was not strong enough to deny herself one more memory to cherish when he left.
She let herself touch his hand, as lightly as a feather, as briefly as a sigh. “That is the favor you wish, to take us to hear wonderful music, in the grandest theater in the city, with the grandest escorts, while finding new customers?”
“As I said, the opera is far more enjoyable when it is shared.”
“I cannot speak for Mr. Browne, of course, but I would be delighted. Hellen?”
Hellen’s pirouette around Parfait spoke for itself.
“Then we are pleased to accept your offer, my lord.”
“No, it is my pleasure, chérie.”
* * *
Queenie was right about Lord Harking’s notoriety. The next day’s scandal sheets made much of the stand-offish viscount standing in for a store clerk. One cartoon pictured him as a ringmaster in tail coat and top hat, long whip in hand, putting pretty girls through their paces around a dress shop. It was obviously Harking, with his broad chest and shoulders, and dark circles painted on his cheeks. He would hate that, she knew, being held to public ridicule, and wondered if he would change his mind about escorting her to the opera. She could not blame him.
She should not be going out for the evening anyway, not with so many orders to fill and gowns to complete. That same cartoon had shown the name of her shop, and brought more shoppers, who became buyers when they saw her designs. She did not cry off the engagement, however.
Instead she visited employment agencies, leaving Hellen to make appointments and excuses.
Harry visited brothels.
Queenie came away satisfied.
He came away disgusted.
She found three ideal employees.
He found no trace of Sir John Martin.
She needed only a messenger boy.
He needed a bath. And a drink.
* * *
Queenie made certain that the three women she hired were not snobbish. Their needlework was excellent, but she needed their characters to be generous, also. Her current clients were what they were, and their money was as good as a gentlewoman’s, better at times. Queenie would have the courtesans treated with the same courtesy a countess would receive, the same respect she herself demanded.
The women were happy to have the positions. They would have sewn sequins on Satan’s red suit if it paid as well. At Madame Denise’s they worked with wondrous fabrics, elegant, exciting designs, and were treated like valuable assistants, not slaves. Besides, without their skills at sewing, two of the females might have found themselves in the same position as the women they sewed for: on their backs.
In less than a day most of the sample gowns were completed, new orders were cut from Queenie’s patterns, and measurements were taken for more. The window mannequin was dressed in Queenie’s gown from the Cyprian’s Ball, turned sideways to show the nearly bare back. She held a sprig of silk forget-me-nots in her hand to replace the violets, which were in Queenie’s bedroom.
The shop was truly in business now, except for a boy to deliver the finished goods, to fetch biscuits for the customers, a mid-day meal for the workers, and thread when they ran out. He could sweep and wash the windows, Queenie thought, saving her from a hundred other little tasks that needed doing. The personnel agency she used did not have such a creature, and none of her seamstresses knew of any.
Queenie had frequently seen a ragged boy in the neighborhood, usually near the alley a few doors down, waiting for an opportunity. She had seen him holding a gentleman’s horse a few times or carrying a package. He looked to be about ten, although he acted older, and was smaller in stature. The next time she walked past, she said, “I would like to speak to you, young man.”
The boy stepped back, ready to dart into the alley. “I only filched one. The nob gave me t’other, I swear.”
“Filched one what?” She could not hire a thief, not when he might be collecting payment on delivery of her finished gowns. “Who gave you another one?”
“T’gentry cull what was here t’other day. He gave me a coin to go to the bake shop for biscuits.”
Ah, Harry. “Would he have known if you had eaten two?”
The boy shrugged thin shoulders. “He never said how many to get, just to spend the blunt he gave me. He weren’t going to count them or nothing.”
“But you can count?”
The boy looked offended. “And cipher some, too. How else could I know I ain’t getting cheated?”
“Quite right. Then I suppose you are mostly honest?”
“I wouldn’t of eaten any, but I was hungry.”
No child should go hungry. “Would you like a position with me, then? I need a lad to fetch and carry, like the biscuits, but also to sweep and clean and make deliveries. Do you know your way around London?”
“Like the back of me hand. Born and bred here, I am.”
“But there can be no stealing, not ever. If you are hungry, you ask. If you accept payment for a delivery, I will know exactly how much money should come back with you, do you understand?”
“I ain’t no fool. You’d kick me out in a flash iffen you got short-changed. And that’s a hanging offense, asides. Or transportation.”
“Quite right. Crime does not pay. I will. And you might make extra in tips when you deliver the packages.”
“And you’d really hire me?”
“On a temporary basis, to see if we suit, to start. But only if it is all right with your parents, of course.”
Now he made a rude noise. He jerked his thumb toward the alley between buildings. “Do you think I would be living there iffen I had a ma and pa?”
“Gracious, you live in the alley?”
“It’s safe, and I got me a tight crate to keep warm. It’s a lot better’n the orphanage or the work house.”
No employee of hers was going to sleep in a crate outdoors, for goodness sake. Even her dog lived better than that. “No. You shall sleep in the shop’s workroom on a pallet mattress.”
The boy shook his head in disgust. “You really need me, lady.”
“Odd, I thought you needed me.”
“I ain’t the one who’d hire a pickpocket and then let him sleep in my house without knowing his intents.”
“A pickpocket?”
“Only when I can’t find no honest work. I told you, a bloke’s got to eat. But I can make sure you ain’t gulled by no one else. And no one’ll break in, neither, not when March is on the job.”
Queenie did not mention that no one would gain entry to the shop or the house when Parfait was there, either, but she did ask, “Do you like dogs?”
He shrugged. “Does yours like boys?”
“If they treat him well and behave properly. So do we have a deal, Master March?”
“It’s just March. That’s the month I got left at the orphanage.”
“No first name, no pet name?”
“Never stayed anywhere’s long enough. No one ever cared. I could never decide on one for m’self.”
Queenie had so many, she wished she could give him one of hers. The poor boy had no home, no family, not even a name of his own. She knew exactly how he must feel. Why couldn’t she give him something besides a place to sleep and a job? She offered him the name of the child she was meant to impersonate, Lady Charlotte Endicott. “How would you like to be Charles March? It is a fine name.”
He swirled the name around in his mouth and his mind a few times, “How ‘bout Charlie? Sounds more regular, like.”
“Then Charlie it is. Are we agreed?”
The boy stood taller and proud. Having two names and an important job for a lady gave him stature. “Agreed.” He spit in his hand and held it out to seal their bargain.
“Ah, you will need a bath first, and a new set of clothes, and a haircut. What say we shake on the deal afterward?”
Chapter Eleven
The woman was a marvel, Harry decided when he arrived at the shop before the visit to the opera. In just two days, Madame Denise’s Designs was restocked, restored, and ready again for business. New sample gowns hung on the pegs, pins and threads dangling, but available to view. Soft fabrics in rainbow hues draped the counters, and the mannequin in the window was attracting attention from every gentleman who passed by.
A neatly dressed red-haired boy leaped to hold the front door open for Harry and proudly pronounced that Madame and miss would be ready on “t’instant, gov.”
Harry could only guess at how hard the woman had worked to replenish her wares. He thought about his sister-in-law, whose most strenuous effort was in giving orders to the servants, or occasionally arranging flowers after the gardener had cut them. London ladies exerted themselves at entertaining and being entertained, nothing more.
Even the working women he had been visiting slept the days away after a hard night’s labor. Madame Denise Lescartes and her staff must never have rested.
She deserved the holiday. Lud knew Harry thought he did, after hours spent looking for his missing relation in repugnant places. He wanted the night at the opera, at least, to be perfect.
Tomorrow he might have to call in Bow Street, making the world privy to his ugly private business, but tonight, he vowed, would be an evening of beauty: beautiful women, beautiful music. He was not going to let anything interfere with the pleasure of a few hours, with him away from his search, her away from her store.
So he hired the best private box available that night, purchased opera glasses for all, and studied the libretto of the German work so he could appear knowledgeable. He sent flowers, he hired the fanciest coach, he spent hours at his toilette. He engaged a footman from his hotel to attend the box and fetch refreshments so he did not have to leave Madame Lescartes alone, and to see that no one entered without Harry’s permission. No rake or rogue was going to embarrass his guest with unwanted familiarity, Harry swore…or steal her away.
Harry swallowed his moral doubts and his feelings of guilt along with a peppermint drop to freshen his breath. He was not trying to seduce the woman, by Jove, just enjoy her company. He was not enamored, he told himself, merely fascinated by a type of creature he had never come upon before, like an exotic butterfly. He could admire his discovery, he told himself, without wanting to trap it, keep it, own it for himself.
He straightened his cravat and told himself once more how he respected her talent, her intelligence, her ambition…and her charm.
But he was not infatuated. Of course not.
Of course his tongue would not wrap itself around a “good evening” when she entered the shop from the rear hall. His feet would not propel him closer, his fingers were too numb to reach for her hand. But, oh, portions of him strained toward her. Lud, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And she was smiling at him, Harry Harking.
She wore black again, but this time, instead of the back of the gown gone missing, half of the front was. Breasts, snowy mountains that begged to be explored, satiny skin that screamed for caresses, rose above black velvet. What was softer, the fabric or the feel of her? And how could he find out?
Worse, how could he sit beside her without embarrassing her and himself? Unwanted familiarity? Good grief, even he was unfamiliar with such raging, roaring, lust!
“Thank you for the lovely flowers,” she was saying. “They are perfect.”
Harry dragged his eyes from her breasts and his mind from the bedroom—or the floor, the back workroom, the carriage. No, Browne and Hellen were waiting to go, waiting for him to say something.
“Not as perfect as you are, chérie,” he blurted, relieved he could remember a name, an endearment, any word but “please.” He noticed now that one of his costly red rosebuds was fixed in the vee of her neckline. He should have paid more.
The other rosebuds, all careful trimmed of thorns, of course, were woven into a tiara atop her short black curls, with three plumed red feathers at the back adding the height and formality de rigeur at the opera. A black lace shawl trimmed in bands of red velvet foamed over her nearly bare shoulders. And her slippers peeking from under the flounced hem of her gown were red, making him wonder what color stockings she wore. And wonder if spending an evening at the woman’s side, in public, would kill him.
Hellen was twirling in front of Browne, who appeared nearly as tongue-tied as Harry. She was dressed in white lace, like the young girl she was, with Harry’s white rosebuds fixed at her waist. The contrast was poignant, the innocent maid in virginal white, the sophisticated woman of the world in black that had little to do with mourning and everything to do with nighttime. And yet Harry knew that Hellen was open to suggestion, while his chérie was open for store business in the morning, and nothing else. Besides, as Hellen circled, laughing and begging for compliments, a long strand of perfect pearls bounced against her rounded chest. They were a mistress’s bounty, Harry thought, not a young girl’s birthday gift. He hoped, for the besotted Browne’s sake, that the pearls were borrowed from Hellen’s mother.
Madame Lescartes wore no jewels. Harry was delighted.
