Biggs hurried to the wardrobe. “Just making a point, sir. P’rhaps you ought to wear a nightshirt to bed, like a proper gentleman.”
“London is corrupting you, Biggs. A gentleman may wear whatever the hell he wants or nothing at all if he chooses. What time is it, anyway?”
“Eight of the clock, your honor.”
“What can she be doing at this hour?” Valen pulled on his trousers.
“I’ve no notion. Will you be requiring the short sword, my lord?”
“Most assuredly. And the pistol, I think.”
“Pistol. Right you are. Will you be wanting me to come along then?”
Valen buttoned the top of his cambric shirt and slid into the long coat Biggs held out for him. “I would if you weren’t gadded up like a butterfly in that blasted livery. But no, you’ll slow me down if I have to wait.”
Biggs’s shoulders slumped slightly.
“Perhaps next time. Now, tell me, did you observe her direction?”
“O’ course I did. Watched her from the window.” Biggs followed him down the stairs, relating everything he’d seen.
Valen rubbed at his unshaven chin. He had a fair notion where Lady Elizabeth might be headed.
11
Smashed Strawberries and Buttercup Silk
Elizabeth hurried down Water Street. Early in the morning, it bore nothing of the pleasant bustle it would acquire later in the day. The scant passersby trudged dourly about their business without exchanging a nod. She pressed the handle and entered the shop. “Mr. Smythe?”
The curtain dividing the room stirred. Mr. Smythe pushed it aside. “Ah! You’ve arrived at last. This way, my lady.” He waved her into the back room. “He’s here, and none too happy for the wait.” Mr. Smythe hurried to the door she’d just entered and threw the bolt, locking it. “Quickly. We must be discreet.”
“I should be more comfortable out here at the counter.”
“He won’t like it. Has all the prime goods in the back room. Spread out on a table like a veritable feast. I told him you were a lady. So he’s done it up proper. But he don’t have all day. Getting an itchy foot this very minute.”
“Very well.” She ducked hesitantly under the curtain into the dimly lit warehouse area. There was, indeed, a grand display of silks spread on a long table. Beside the colorful array of fabrics stood a gentleman clad in an elegant black coat. She knew in a trice, simply by the cut of his coat and his bearing, the cloth would be too expensive. Still, perhaps, she might bargain with him. Elizabeth could not resist fingering a soft, nearly translucent, peach sarcenet. It felt as if it had been woven from a cloud. “Divine.”
He inclined his head to her, as would a man of rank. “You have excellent taste, Lady Elizabeth.”
She detected the faintest hint of a French accent, expertly disguised. An Englishman might affect a French accent, but he would not then strive to hide it. “And you are?”
“A simple merchant, at your service.” He bowed without any of the self-consciousness of a tradesman.
“Hmm.” She turned over the corner of a cream-and-purple paisley so deftly woven that she could find no trace of the warp threads. “This is exquisite. So exquisite, in fact, that I am certain your wares are beyond my touch.” She turned to go.
“Before you leave, my lady, allow me, if you please, to show you a very special silk. It is as if it were made expressly for you.”
She hesitated. What would it hurt to look? On the other hand, it might hurt a great deal. She’d already seen two pieces of cloth she would not easily forget. Her lack of funds made it all quite impossible. “I am very sorry. Mr. Smythe promised me something unique. I had no idea he would find such fine-quality silks. These are not mere fabrics. They are works of art. You deserve far more for them than I can give.” She brushed the curtain aside and hurried out.
Mr. Smythe rushed after her. “Lady Elizabeth, wait. Can you not at least look at the silk he selected for you? A man of such superior discrimination. Are you not curious?”
His words brought her to a halt beside the counter. She could not deny it—she was curious. Elizabeth turned around. An act she would regret for the rest of her life.
The Frenchman held in his hands a neatly folded pile of buttercup-yellow brocade. Its raised pattern was an intriguing tangle of vines with thorns and blackberries, woven of a soft sunshine yellow. Elizabeth caught her breath and could not look away.
“Yes. I thought as much.” He spoke softly, as if he were seducing her, unfurling the cloth onto the counter. “It is perfectly suited to your dark hair and the snowy cast of your skin. You and this silk were made for one another. Allow me to show you.”
He turned her toward an oval mirror on the wall and draped the cloth over her shoulder and under her chin. He was absolutely right. Fascinating. She ought to have been born wearing that color.
The Frenchman stood over her shoulder looking into the glass with her. “You see what I mean? It is—” He froze, frowning at something in the glass.
Elizabeth noticed it then, the reflection of a man outside the window, peering in at them, Lord St. Evert.
The merchant spun around. The silk, forgotten, sailed to the floor, brilliant warm yellow sliding across the dirty brown boards. Elizabeth clung to the length still draped over her shoulder.
The Frenchman, no longer charming and seductive, turned on Smythe, full of anger. “You bastard! You betrayed me.”
Elizabeth gasped at his sudden fury.
Smythe backed up, nearly crashing into the bins behind the counter. “What are you on about? I ain’t betrayed no one.”
“Then what is he doing here?” He gestured toward the window. Lord St. Evert had turned away, but still stood out on the street. “I know this man.” He spit on the floor, nearly striking the yellow silk. “Did you think his feeble disguise would fool me? I do not
