Immediately, she had visualized the possibilities. And she’d been right. The red silk, against a stark white bodice and underskirt, was captivating. She’d used just the right lines, in a devilishly clever composition, forcing the eye to travel exactly where Elizabeth wanted it to go.
Lord St. Evert must have purchased the remaining fabric and created, not a waistcoat, which might have been within the realm of reason. No, some demented tailor had made it into a pair of knee breeches. He was a large man, well over six feet. It would be impossible not to notice those dratted red-flowered unmentionables.
Elizabeth frowned. If it wasn’t disgraceful enough—he must don a mustard-green coat, which made the breeches stand out even more. Best of men, indeed! He was a great gangling macaroni who even wore his hair long, as her grandfather used to do, pulled back, but without white powder. If Beau Brummell saw Lord St. Evert’s conglomeration, he would raise a fuss so loud that the atrocity would be broadcast in every London paper by morning. Elizabeth, of course, would be found guilty of fashion-treason by mere association. She wondered if it was too late to thrust herself into the bushes and hide there until everyone left?
Her brother nudged her. Lord St. Evert bowed. This was the part of the introductions where she was supposed to smile sweetly and curtsey. That would mean wiping away the fury and disdain that must be clearly written on her face. Hang it all! He was accompanying a countess, a lady whose widely known reputation bordered on dangerous. One simply could not afford to offend her by fleeing. Elizabeth could not fight six generations of good breeding. She curtseyed.
On the way up from her curtsey, she decided Lord St. Evert should be invisible, nothing more than a young girl’s nightmare. She smiled genially at Lady Alameda as if there were no other person present.
The countess turned to her nephew. “Why St. Evert, how perfectly marvelous! The two of you appear to be a matched set.” She fanned herself coyly.
Elizabeth felt the heat of her distress burning up her cheeks.
Robert laughed. “What are the odds! Did you notice it, Izzie? Captain Ransley, I mean Lord St. Evert, is wearing the same cloth as you.” Her brother slapped them both good-naturedly.
Did I notice? Are you completely daft? “Kindly refrain from calling me Izzie when we are in company.” It was the only almost genteel thing she could think to say.
The corners of Lord St. Evert’s mouth played dangerously close to a grin at her expense. Elizabeth strained not to frown outright. She would not suffer a lined face for this cockatoo’s sake.
The gigantic lout did not take her subtle warning. “It would seem we have the same tailor, Lady Elizabeth.”
Robert chuckled again. “Oh no, quite impossible. You see
she—”
She pinched her brother’s arm with some urgency to stop him from bungling everything. “What my brother means is, naturally, I don’t employ a tailor. As a general practice, ladies require the services of a seamstress or a modiste.”
“Ah.” Lord St. Evert nodded, as if such an elementary point rivaled illuminating instruction from Plato.
Robert nodded amiably. “As to that, my dear old fellow, you ought to have your tailor shot at dawn. Your ensemble leaves something to be desired. Never say you went to Mr. Weston for that coat?”
Lady Alameda fanned a little harder. “Exactly what I told him. Shoot your tailor.”
Lord St. Evert did not appear abashed in the slightest by this criticism. “Heavens no. Wonderful little chap. Found him down by the docks. Works for a tenth of the price Weston demands.”
“Claimed to be a tailor, did he?” Robert tilted his head skeptically. “Do you suppose he might be blind?”
Lady Alameda covered the corner of her mouth with the tip of her fan. “I believe St. Evert puts a rather high value on blindness. Do you not, my lord?”
The man remained impervious. “You mistake the matter. He’s a perfectly fine tailor, most accommodating. Made everything exactly as I specified.” He glanced at Elizabeth, waiting for her response, as if daring her to point out the glaringly obvious fact that a drunken sailor would have given the tailor more agreeable specifications.
She had no use for this nonsense. It was time to escape Lord St. Crazy’s proximity. “Certainly, no one can fault your tailor’s taste in fabric. It’s an exquisite silk.” She smiled and inclined her head with far more graciousness than she felt. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. But now, I’m afraid we must be—”
Robert held her in place. “Izzie, wait, there’s more. I was rehearsing to Lord St. Evert our predicament.”
“You what?”
Her heedless brother had the good sense to look at least a trifle chagrined. He adjusted his collar. “Yes, well, I explained most of it.”
“Most?” It was almost a whisper. Her mouth went horridly dry. Had he told this mountainous fop the whole revolting tale? If so, they might as well grab a paddle, for they were surely headed up the river tick. After the rest of the ton got wind of it, her chances on the marriage mart were over. She collapsed her fan and gripped it tightly at her side. One of the tines snapped under the pressure.
Robert tried to reassure her. “He understood the matter completely and generously offered to help us.”
Elizabeth whipped the fan open and began cooling herself in earnest, regardless of the flapping tine. This was a nightmare. A nightmare. She would soon awaken. Some wretched lark would be trilling something that would make more sense than her brother’s incredible disclosure. “How?” She mumbled, her voice cracking under her mortification. “What exactly?”
“When I told him our address and about the modesty of our rooms, he and his aunt insisted we stay with them for the remainder of the season. Didn’t I tell you? The best of men!” Robert draped his arms around Lord St. Evert