Master of Love (10 page)

She felt his gaze on her for several long seconds before he pushed back from his desk and stood. “As you wish, Miss Higginbotham. Please excuse me whilst I find Danvers and make the arrangements.” He gave her a short bow, his dark eyes hooded now and his voice clipped. He felt rebuffed, she could tell, and was displeased, but would arrange the transfer of funds, and that was all that mattered.

She had the money, but she had lost her dignity.

Worse, she was plagued by the stupid feeling she'd lost a friend.

She returned, head high and back stiff, across the library to her worktable.

I will not cry,
she chanted to herself in her mind.
I will not cry.

'Twill all come right, some day or night
.

Chapter 6

A
t the back of Rexton House in his lordship's study, amidst the mess of the carpenters' scaffolding and the aromatic scent of fresh-cut oak, Edward Danvers was busy declining invitations to four balls, two dinner parties, and a musical soirée. People were beginning to talk about how the Master of Love wasn't getting about these days and hadn't been much seen in Lady Barrington's company. Danvers heard bets were in play on the identity of the new lover keeping Rexton abed. As secretary, he was far too loyal to gossip—and far too heartened by the lingering gaze of his employer on their new librarian to be swayed by any such tittle-tattle. Miss Higginbotham was a very different sort than the sophisticated and bored society wives Rexton was rumored to take on, and Danvers was beginning to entertain hopes she might help lift the restless sadness well hidden behind his master's society façade.

“Daydreaming, Danvers?” His employer came striding in.

“No, sir”—Danvers rose to greet him—“just pondering how many hearts will break when you're not in attendance at Lady Manningsworth's evening of Mozart Tuesday next.”

“Somehow they'll survive,” Rexton drawled. “Danvers, you're going to do me a favor. Two in fact.”

“Certainly, my lord. Sounds like it might be interesting.”

“We'll see. Frankly, I hope not.” Rexton tapped a rolled copy of
The Times
against his trouser leg absently. “First, I need a bank draft for whatever we owe Miss Higginbotham. In full, to be paid immediately.”

Danvers straightened in surprise. “Is there a problem? You're not dismissing her, are you?”

“Hell no. But she apparently needs the payment now.”

“She asked you for it?” He grimaced. “That must have galled her.”

“Yes, poor thing, so we're not going to make a fuss about it.”

“Of course, sir. I understand.”

“But I do want you to suss out why she needs the money. It seemed rather serious. And she didn't want to tell me anything about it.”

Danvers came round from behind the desk. “Do you think she could be in some sort of trouble?”

“I hope not. She's apparently quite alone and supporting her household with very little assistance. Her father seemed to leave them almost destitute at his death.”

“Poor planning on his part.”

“Yes, so see what you can find out. Make some inquiries, but be discreet. Maybe that footboy of hers can tell you something—Lord knows he only shoots daggers at me.” Rexton turned to leave. “I'm off to my clubs to track down Bedford. He's the freehold landlord of most of Bloomsbury, so he may know something as well.”

“Don't worry, we'll get some answers. I've got an idea or two.”

“Excellent.” Rexton saluted him with
The Times
on his way out. “And, Danvers? Brush the sawdust out of your hair. You look like a cabinetry apprentice gone to seed.”

It didn't take Danvers long to put a plan in action. First he asked a footman to inform him when Billy went down for tea to the kitchens, in what he knew had become a daily routine. While waiting, he wrote out the bank draft and sent it with another footman in a discreet envelope to Miss Higginbotham. When the first footman returned with news the boy had gone below stairs, Danvers ambled off, armed with the pretext of tomorrow's luncheon arrangements to discuss with Cook.

His first stop, however, was the tidy sitting room where Mrs. Stooks, their housekeeper, sat working on the household accounts. Like all the female employees, she adored the viscount, who treated her with an irresistible mix of respect, gallantry, and teasing flirtation. While Danvers realized he lacked his employer's overwhelming charm, he still knew how to play his cards.

“Mrs. Stooks, his lordship needs a favor, and we think you're exactly the one to help.”

She looked up, already smiling.

In short order, Danvers determined that not only did Mrs. Stooks have a friend whose cousin's sister-in-law kept house for a physician in Bloomsbury, but she was confident she could deliver the goods on the inner workings of the Higginbotham household by this time tomorrow. Promises of full discretion secured, he headed down the hall to the busy kitchens.

“Billy, I have a question for you, lad.”

The boy looked at him suspiciously but got to his feet and wiped scone crumbs off his face with a sleeve. “Aye?”

“I heard you and Miss Higginbotham mention that a talented dressmaker lives or works with you. Is that indeed the case?”

“Why do ye need to know that?”

Cook overheard and scowled at the boy. “Billy, answer Mr. Danvers and keep a civil tongue in your head whilst you're at it.”

“Perhaps it would reassure you, Billy, to know I inquire on behalf of Lady Rexton, his lordship's mother, who returns next month from the Continent. I work for her ladyship as well, and as a lady of fashion, she is constantly on the lookout for new dressmakers to patronize.”

Billy took a moment to digest this information, scrutinizing Danvers and chewing on the last of his scone. “Well, Mam'zelle Beauvallon is lookin' for new customers. And she's a Paris dressmaker. She's Miss H.'s friend,” Billy concluded, clearly intending that piece of news as the ultimate recommendation.

Danvers gave the boy credit. He was right to be suspicious—Danvers did have ulterior motives, although not ones to the detriment of the lad's mistress. An overly chatty servant, giving up details of the household's business, was not a good thing. Billy, however, didn't seem motivated by a servant's code of conduct so much as a deep personal attachment to his mistress. His loyalty bred a certain lack of deference toward his betters, but it was commendable nonetheless.

After squeezing more information from the ever-wary Billy, Danvers had Graves hail him a hansom and set out for Bloomsbury. The afternoon had turned into one of those warm spring days, all the more lovely for their rarity, when London's sooty gray skies cleared blue with the promise of summer. He dismissed the cab in High Holborn and walked into the square to get a better sense of the Higginbothams' situation. Although Bloomsbury hadn't been the height of fashionable address since the end of the last century, when its aristocratic families moved west to St. James's, Mayfair, and Belgravia, it offered a perfectly respectable middle-class neighborhood. The Higginbotham home at number 17 formed the end of the row of attached town houses along the north side of the square. The house looked trim and neat as he strolled closer, and he could see its roof tiles had recently been relaid. The paint could have used a little freshening up, but the home was no worse for wear than many of the solidly upright lawyers' and merchants' and writers' homes and occasional businesses of the square. He held open the gate to the central garden for a nurse accompanying two men on crutches from number 6, whose front held a brass sign announcing Dr. William Little's Orthopaedic Hospital, converted from a private home in the row.

As Danvers approached the Higginbotham residence, he saw its smaller side entrance sported the shop sign
COUTURE BY BEAUVALLON
. He mounted the steps and knocked. When the door opened moments later, his mission momentarily fled his mind.

The dark-haired young woman in front of him was exquisite.

She looked at him from green eyes that sparkled with intelligence. “Bonjour, monsieur. May I help you?”

Her French accent slid down his back to lodge at the base of his spine and play dangerous havoc with his concentration. He had to blink several times to find the coordination to doff his hat and bow. “Good day, mademoiselle. My name is Danvers, and I work as secretary to the Avery family, on behalf of both the viscount and his mother. Are you Mademoiselle Beauvallon?”

She frowned. “Yes. Is there a problem? Is Callista hurt?”

“Not at all,” he said, reassuring her. “All is fine at Rexton House. I am here regarding a commission from Lady Rexton. May I come in?”

She hesitated a moment, assessing him with more curiosity than wariness, before stepping back to wave him inside. “Certainly, Monsieur Danvers. Callista has spoken warmly of you.”

The side hall into which they entered had been transformed into a ladies' dress shop. Several bonnet forms with baskets of silk flowers, ribbons, and feathers lined a long sideboard against one wall. Comfortable armchairs and low tables laden with pattern books and fashion plates made a grouping leading into the shop's main area, which Danvers took to be the former dining room. The double pocket doors were pulled open to show off a lovely space with a large central table laid out with fabric. More bolts of various colors and textures lined shelves along the back wall, where dressmaker's dummies stood draped in half-pinned gowns. In a smaller room to the side, which must have once been the butler's pantry, Danvers caught sight of his reflection in a long cheval looking glass.

“The fitting room?” he ventured to ask, impressed by the transformation she'd wrought. Marie Beauvallon, he suspected, was an altogether impressive young woman. “How did all this come about?” he said.

The Frenchwoman made an elegant shrug, but her pride in the space she'd created shone through in her smile. “I trained as an apprentice in Paris at a grand salon. After my mother died, the modiste's son wanted to take me on as his
amie spéciale,
” she said matter-of-factly. “When I turned him down, she claimed it was my fault for tempting him and dismissed me without a reference.”
That
clearly still stung, as those lovely green eyes narrowed. But her bosom swelled most gratifyingly as she took a deep breath. “Callista had recently moved back to London, so I wrote to her proposing to come set up an atelier here. Now”—she gestured around her domain—“we have all we need for an intimate little shop.”

Her smile shot straight to his gut. He followed blindly as she led him toward a well-appointed liquor cabinet still in place in the dining room corner. “Including offerings for gentlemen in attendance on their ladies. May I pour you a sherry? Or we have a quite nice claret, if you'd prefer.”

He cleared his throat enough to accept the claret. At the moment, French wine—and all things French, including the candor of this unexpectedly delightful female—seemed infinitely appealing. The red wine, however, might have been Thames bilge water for all he knew, distracted as he was by the fluid grace of her movements as she poured and invited him to sit. Lord, she was stunning! All sleek and curvy and deliciously feminine in some tight-fitted green day dress with braided black trim. He decided then and there to commission not just one gown but an entire small wardrobe on behalf of Lady Rexton. He told himself it would please both his employers, but truth be told, the added bonus was it would allow him to work with this charming creature. He suddenly wanted to get to know much better the lovely Mademoiselle Beauvallon.

He gathered his forces and launched his campaign. “I have the honor of serving as business agent to the viscount's mother, Lady Rexton. She travels frequently to the Continent, especially to your home country. Her ladyship is particularly enamored of French fashion.”

“
Bien sûr,
everyone knows the French have the best designs and sense of style.” She rolled one shoulder charmingly, accepting her nation's fashion leadership as obvious and ordained.

“Lady Rexton is well-known for her own style. She likes to lead the pack, so to speak. Her gowns are frequently written up in the society pages and set trends for the season.”

Marie's wide lips twitched. He could tell she knew where he was leading her and that he expected her to jump at his bait. But he was being too eager and transparent about how smitten he was. With a forcible sense of reining himself in, he paused and leaned back in his chair. “I thought perhaps you might have some names of French modistes in London that I could recommend to Lady Rexton.”

Her brows raised at that arrow, although the smile still played about her mouth. “If the lady wishes to be at the forefront of fashion, with designs that are fresh and daring, there is only one name I can recommend,” she replied with smooth confidence. “My own.”

He toasted her with his glass, giving her marks for boldness. “Yet you have so little experience and reputation, mademoiselle. I'm not sure Lady Rexton has ever frequented a shop so far east in the city. As you can imagine, she usually shops in Bond or Regent Street.”

The Frenchwoman's nostrils flared, but she was nowhere near ready to throw in the towel. “How would you describe Lady Rexton's personal style, monsieur?”

That question gave him pause. “Umm, fashionable?”

The smile returned to tease at her lips. “What I mean is, does her ladyship prefer a very proper silhouette, or something more daring and sensuous?”

Danvers thought of the two young bucks Lady Rexton had juggled last season and the plunging décolletage over which her son had frowned more than once. “Daring. Definitely daring, showing lots of . . .” He waved his hands around his own chest.