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  “I think you might spare the time, considering I sent Major Harrison’s bank draft to your brother’s school this morning.” He knew using her love for her brother was an unworthy weapon, but he had no rope or manacles handy.

  Simone sat down, heavily. “You sent the check? But, but how did you know where to send it?”

  By reading the brother’s letters, of course. “Sally brought down a letter you’d written, to be sent with the mail. I addressed my note to the headmaster there.”

  “I’ll have to write to him, to send it back. Dear heaven, what will the man think?”

  Harris adjusted his spectacles. “I understood that the major promised the funds, no matter the outcome of your stay here.”

  “But I do not intend to stay.”

  “A promise is a promise. If not yours, then Major Harrison’s. Further, the deed is done. The mail has been posted. Now, about dressmakers. Do you have a modiste that you prefer?”

  “You must know I have no knowledge of such things. Lady Seldon patronized Madame Genevieve, but I—”

  “No, her taste is abominable. In apparel and husbands. I took it upon myself to make inquiries as to who dresses the ton’s dashers.”

  “But I am not a dasher and I am not staying. I shan’t be going to the house party, therefore I do not need new gowns. I cannot make it any plainer.”

  “That is for you and the major to discuss, Miss Ryland. Meantime, the woman I selected is on her way with pattern books and sample fabrics. She has been paid in advance, to set aside her other customers’ orders.”

  “Have you not been listening? I am not staying!”

  He raised the coffee cup to his lips and smiled as if he knew something she did not, or if he’d tasted something sweet. “Who knows, you might change your mind. You already did once. And ’twould be best to have the new wardrobe begun, rather than rushed, do you not agree?”

  “No, I do not agree with your overbearing organization. I’ll wait to speak to the major, out of courtesy and gratitude on my brother’s behalf, but I will not accept more than his hospitality until then.” She would share his house, but not his bed.

  “I think he might have expressed the urgency of the house party.”

  “He did explain, if one considers such fustian to be an explanation, that he requires an unknown female with a modicum of intelligence to accompany him. Surely he can find someone else, someone more willing.”

  “But I promised— That is, I swore to see his wishes carried out. The major will insist that he promised you a new wardrobe either way, in addition to your brother’s schooling.” He mentioned the brother again, which was more underhanded, but expedience always trumped politeness in the spy business. He’d use guilt, obligation, even sympathy, any port in a storm.

  She stared at her hands, since she could read nothing in the secretary’s shielded eyes. “I cannot refuse the major’s largesse for my brother’s sake, but I swear to repay him eventually. I will not go further into his debt.”

  “The money for the school is not a loan. It is a gift to a worthy student, an outright gift. We—he—makes charitable contributions to less noble causes.”

  She nodded in concession. “Very well, my brother has a scholarship. But I will not accept a shilling more.”

  “Dratted female,” she thought he muttered, but he’d bent down to pick up the cat so she could have mistaken the secretary’s words for dratted feline. Then he exclaimed that a stray cat must have wandered in to take Miss White’s place at the breakfast table.

  “I brushed the cat to rid it of all the knots and mats.”

  “And this elegant creature is what is left? You have wrought a miracle.”

  His delight made Simone smile, despite knowing the secretary was manipulating her for his master’s purposes and pleasures. “She ought to be brushed regularly.”

  “Do you think no one has tried? Miss White has drawn blood on many occasions. I have given up all attempts to groom the beast.”

  “I had no problem.”

  “You see? The major is in your debt, not the other way around. He is inordinately fond of Miss White.” Who was purring loudly, in the secretary’s lap.

  The major was not the only cat-lover, it seemed. Mr. Harris was pouring cream into a saucer, and crumbling bits of toast into it while the cat purred loudly enough to be heard across the table. The sight and sounds made the secretary more human, Simone decided, more approachable. So she asked, “Major Harrison is a very caring gentleman, isn’t he?”

  Caring? Harry ordered assassinations, sent men to certain death, broke every law in the name of patriotism, and did nothing about half the atrocities he saw every day. Caring? He cared about his family, old and new, but the cat was closer to him than many people. “I cannot say.”

  “He took in Miss White, and the Judds, I understand. He helped Mrs. Burton establish her business, and aids many of her employees, from what they said. He must have a good heart.”

  Which had only started working again recently. “Like most of us, he cares for his own.”

  “Exactly. I am neither kith nor kin to him. Nor a charity case. I truly must be on my way.”

  Truly? As soon as the Aide’s minions could return with reports of Miss Ryland’s background, as much as could be discovered in so short a time, he was willing to let her go, or chance revealing what no more than a handful of people knew. He’d never reveal his family’s secret, of course, only some of the government’s workings. With her help he could uncover a subversive plot, if Lord Gorham’s gathering truly harbored such a scheme, and expose an extortionist. Then his work would be over and he could be who he wanted to be.

  “Please wait,” he said. “He needs you. I am not at liberty to say why, but I think, that is, I know he needs you a great deal.”

  *

  No woman could need so many clothes.

  Yes, she could, insisted Sally and the dressmaker and the two seamstresses sewing in the corner. A back parlor had been turned into a linen-draper’s fitting room and workshop, with Jeremy and another groom bringing in trunks of gowns, bolts of cloth, stacks of pattern books.

  But it was only for a brief house party.

  Among a vain crowd with deep pockets, oui. The women—and half the men—would change ensembles five or six times a day, to parade among the same people they saw in London. Madame Journet added another ball gown to the growing pile of dresses that needed minor alterations. Not only had the popular modiste set aside her customers’ orders for Mr. Harris, it seemed, but she’d been bribed enough to make over their half-completed gowns for Simone. Some fit nearly perfectly, having been taken in or taken up just that morning, at great expense, Simone was certain. Sally had sent measurements from the blue gown before cock’s crow, on the efficient Mr. Harris’s orders. Madame Journet had set her needlewomen to work instantly. She’d even hired extra sewers, their wages added to the gentleman’s account.

  Aside from all the money she had already earned, now the Frenchwoman had a stake in Miss Ryland’s debut. Whatever business from irate customers she might lose, she’d gain back threefold when the beau monde caught sight of the latest star on the demi-monde’s horizon, wearing madame’s designs. Miss Ryland was going to outshine them all, Madame Journet declared, and meant to make certain. Simone’s success would be a feather in the modiste’s cap, and a fortune in her purse. Besides, when a message from a certain gentleman arrived to call in a favor, she was only too happy to respond with her finest, most elegant creations.

  She’d brought whichever would look becoming on a redhead with dusky skin. No whites or pastels—the debutantes could keep their come-out gowns. No clashing oranges or reds. Those were for females with no color of their own. But the browns, the greens, golds, and antique lace, those were magnifique for mademoiselle.

  On a whim she’d also brought a daring froth of black silk studded with brilliants that was meant for an entertainer who was older, far more sophisticated, and considered the most beautiful
woman in all of London. Mademoiselle outshone her. They all agreed that the gown would be wasted on a jaded old hag treading the boards, when it made Simone look like a queen, the queen of the night. Her dark eyes gleamed with diamond flecks, her skin glowed warmer, her hair more vibrant. And that was before the master coiffeur arrived.

  Another French Émigre, he’d often acted as ears for the war office. Ladies were known to rattle on when they were in their boudoirs with a trusted servitor. He’d been happy to pass on information that might lead to the overthrow of that usurper, Bonaparte. Now he was happy to make monsieur’s chérie amie overshadow every other woman at the Cyprian’s house party.

  No, he would not cut off that glorious mane. Quel horreur! Besides, he had orders from monsieur. But he trimmed a bit here and a snip there. He used a curling iron while Sally watched and the seamstresses sewed and Madame Journet made lists for matching bonnets, gloves, stockings, fans and undergarments. Oh, and jewels.

  No jewels. Simone was insistent on that.

  What, go to a marquis’s house dressed as a peasant? Ruin madame’s creations? Not put a diamond tiara atop monsieur’s glorious new curls when she wore the black gown? Make her patron look miserly?

  Great heavens, why was no one listening to her? Madame Journet chuckled when Simone begged her not to start any new gowns until Major Harrison returned. The master hairdresser rolled his eyes when she demanded a simpler style, one she could fix herself. The seamstresses giggled when she insisted the necklines be raised or filled in. No one paid her the least attention. She might as well have been a mannequin they were dressing, or a doll. Like children at play, they were exuberant and self-absorbed, uncaring of the cost or her debt to Major Harrison, or how hard she’d find it to refuse his offer.

  Then she saw the riding habit. Someone had listened to her, or the longing in her voice. It was the latest style, with a divided black velvet skirt, a jacket woven of the finest wool two shades darker than her red hair, trimmed with black frogging. Black lace spilled over the high, military collar. Simone sighed just looking at it.

  The gowns were all beautiful: silks and satins, with muslins for daytime, with ribbons and lace and puffed sleeves and scalloped hems. None of the women she’d worked for had owned anything half so becoming, so au courant, so luxurious. She’d never imagined even attending a function where such frocks were the norm. But the riding habit…? That was a dream.

  Simone thought of open fields and fresh air and riding astride, of a freedom she’d not known since girlhood, racing bareback on the pony her grandfather had given her, to her sedate father’s dismay and her mother’s understanding. Now she imagined riding cross country with a handsome, dark-haired gentleman by her side. He’d ride a magnificent black stallion. And she’d be mounted on a—

  “…chair, miss. Do step up, so I can take an accurate drawing.” The bootmaker had arrived. Like the dressmaker, he brought a trunk filled with finished shoes to see if any fit her small foot. Now he wished to trace a pattern for the slippers he’d make to match her new gowns.

  Simone held her breath to see if any of the riding boots fit. One pair was only a shade too wide, and the bootmaker quickly inserted a felt lining. Perfect. The hairdresser kissed his fingertips. Sally clapped her hands.

  Even the seamstresses put aside their work to circle her chair as if it were a throne. The habit’s skirt’s hem was only basted, the tiny black shako hat was still missing its feather, her hair was trailing ringlets that had not been gathered into a lace snood yet—but Simone knew she’d never looked better.

  Until the apothecary’s assistant arrived with an assortment of lotions and face paints, brushes and colored papers. Simone did not bother demurring, not after seeing the results so far.

  “Mademoiselle is trés bon, no? She is meant for a man’s admiration.”

  “Monsieur will be pleased, oui.”

  The coiffeur and the modiste were speaking in French, not realizing that Simone could understand. She understood all too well. They thought she was a perfect courtesan.

  Chapter Eight

  “You have to speak with her, Daniel. Convince her to stay.”

  Daniel Stamfield set his glass down and leaned back in his soft leather chair, staring at his cousin. Harry was a cousin from the wrong side of the blanket, but the right side of McCann, to have such a cozy suite of rooms above the exclusive gambling club. He was enigmatic, and the best man to have at your back, now that Daniel’s other cousin, Rex, was settled down. Married and a father, who could believe it? Certainly not Daniel, who was nowhere ready to put on leg shackles. Hell, no. But a mistress? Almost as bad, from what he could see everywhere he looked. Expensive, demanding, and only a little easier to get rid of than a wife.

  “Don’t see why you want to keep one woman, with so many others out there.”

  Harry gave him a dark look, from eyes that matched Daniel’s own, deep blue with a black rim around the iris. For that matter, Harry looked a lot like Daniel, with the same wavy black hair and straight nose. They might have been twins instead of cousins, except that Daniel was taller and broader and heavier, and Harry looked far older than the four-year difference in their ages. Of course he did, Daniel reflected, with the weight of the country, if not the world, on his shoulders. Now he wanted a mistress, and an unwilling one at that. The man was a riddle, that was for certain. And not the only one. “You’re saying the prettiest girl you ever saw doesn’t want to become your mistress?”

  “That’s what I said, dammit.”

  “I thought they all wanted to climb into your bed.”

  “This one is different.” Harry blew a smoke ring from his cigarillo over his head, looking like the devil with a halo.

  Daniel raised his glass. “Then maybe she’d prefer my bed.”

  Harry knocked Daniel’s bare feet off the low table, almost making him spill his cognac. “No. She is too delicate for an ox like you. And I need her at Gorham’s.”

  “Why? If the gal ain’t willing, she won’t do you any good.”

  “She’ll be perfect, if she’ll go.”

  “Then use your charm. Rex’s wife Amanda likes you well enough to name you godfather to her son, and you even wrapped your father’s wife around your finger, eventually. Lydia Burton and all her chicks think you can walk on water.”

  “I’ve known Lydia for ages. That’s different, almost like family, like the others. Besides, it’s not that Miss Ryland doesn’t want to be my mistress. She doesn’t want to be any man’s mistress.”

  Daniel needed another swallow of cognac for that. “Holding out for a ring, is she?”

  “Holding onto her virtue, more like.”

  “Prigs are the worst kind, I say. Leave them to their cold comfort and find a warm, willing female to cuddle.”

  “This isn’t about cuddling, you clod. Not everything involves sex. Gorham’s party concerns national security, the Regent’s reputation, life and death.”

  “And sex.”

  “And sex,” Harry agreed. Private matters were hard to hide in a family that knew truth from lies. “So you go talk to her, tell her what a good chap I am. Or Major Harrison, I suppose.”

  “You’ve made a muck of it this time, haven’t you, with your wigs and beards and glasses. No wonder she doesn’t want to bed that old goat.”

  “I told you, she doesn’t want to bed anyone.”

  “So how am I supposed to convince her? You know I ain’t in the petticoat line. Not with respectable females, anyway. Although if the bird flew over to Lydia’s, I don’t see why she’s all prunes and prisms now.”

  “She has scruples, which, I might remind you, is an admirable trait.”

  “Hey, I’ve got scruples. Just because I don’t want to work with Bow Street or the magistrate’s office doesn’t mean I’m some kind of villain. I don’t go seducing innocent females, do I?”

  “Damn it, I am not asking you to marry the woman, just go talk to her. I need her at Gorham’s.”

  �
�You still haven’t explained why.”

  “Because I like her, damnit!”

  “Ah.” Daniel had another drink, then grinned at his half-cousin and one-time superior officer. “Caught at last, eh?”

  “Nothing of the kind.”

  Daniel put his feet back up on the table so he could scratch his itchy toes. He grinned wider. “Top over teakettle, I’d wager. What do you want me to do?”

  “She’ll be bored in the house, with too much time to fret. Take her somewhere—”

  “To balls and parties? Gads, you are asking a lot.” Getting Harry’s would-be paramour into the polite world meant he’d have to go too. “You know I hate all that bowing and backstabbing gossip. Makes me itch, don’t you know.”

  “I know. All those social lies give me a sour taste for days after. But that’s not what I mean. I don’t want her out in the public eye, not yet. She’ll like museums and such.”

  “But I won’t, deuce take it. Cousins and all, but I’ve got my limits. You can escort her yourself to those dry as dust places. Museums, faugh.” He needed another drink to wash away the dust by suggestion.

  Harry studied the burning tip of his cigarillo. “I cannot keep lying to her.”

  “But I can? Gives me a rash just thinking about it. Tell the gal the truth.”

  “Which truth, that lies taste like dirt in my mouth and make you scratch your arse? She’d think me insane, if she did not run as fast and as far as she could.”

  “Not that truth. Tell her about who you are, and why Gorham’s party is so important to you.”

  “I’m not ready yet. I feel that I can trust her, I hope so, but my men are still checking facts. There’s something about her fellow lodger that’s unsettling, and the fireplace poker incident does set a bad precedent. I need a few more days to be certain.”

  “Well, show her your handsome face meantime. It’s not as pretty as mine, of course—” they were both spit and image of the Earl of Royce and his son Rex—“and she’ll toss her cap over the windmill before you can say Jack Rabbit. I don’t see why you didn’t meet her as Harry anyway.”