“Lucy Locket? As in the vulgar street rhyme?” Phillipe asked.
Henry nodded. “Just so. Miss Locket requires a dress fit for calling on a duchess, but with an astonishing caveat.”
Jacques raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“She must have it by this afternoon.”
Both men laughed.
“Monsieur Beaumont!” said Phillipe. “Your humor remains intact, I see. Again, how might we be of service?”
“I mean exactly as I say, messieurs.”
“But sir, that is not possible given the shortness of…”
Henry interrupted the complaint with a dismissive hand wave. “Let us be frank. I know with certainty that your business has suffered immensely over the past several years, what with Britain locked in a death struggle with France, and you being, well, you know…French. Crown and country and all that. I offer you an opportunity for a quick sale should you have something suitable on hand. For example, something that a customer ordered but abandoned when her husband learned either the cost of the dress or the nationality of the dressmaker. What say you, good sirs?”
The two men huddled and exchanged rapid French, which Lucy followed perfectly well. When they again faced Henry, Jacques smiled.
“I believe we have something that will suit the girl. We have a fine silk dress near her size for a mere ten pounds.”
“Ten pounds?” spat Henry. Lucy touched his arm and shot him a conspiratorial glance, hoping he would trust her. He narrowed his eyes and nodded. She addressed the Frenchmen.
“Messieurs, just now as you spoke, you said the dress was of inferior quality and worth no more than four pounds. Is that not so?”
The men gawked. “Mademoiselle! You speak French?”
“Fluently, sirs, and Italian as well. And I believe four pounds seems reasonable for an unclaimed dress of inferior silk. Does it not, Mr. Beaumont?”
Henry smiled. “Yes, I believe four pounds will do nicely, and an additional pound for the alterations. Do we have an accord?”
The brothers exchanged mutual shrugs. “Why not?” said Phillipe. “Shoppers are light today. But look, we must hurry if we are to meet your impossible schedule.”
Phillipe led Lucy to an alcove housing a small bureau on which sat a bowl of water, a washcloth, and soap.
“Mademoiselle, if you would please remove your garments and wash yourself…”
“In the presence of three men?”
Phillipe smiled and grasped the curtain she had not seen initially. “After I close the curtain, of course. We are dressmakers, not brothel keepers.”
Lucy glanced sheepishly at Henry and stepped inside the alcove, after which Phillipe drew the curtain. She did as he requested, stripping to her undergarments and scrubbing arms, legs, face, and neck. Then she called through the curtain.
“I am finished. What now?”
An arm protruding through the curtain startled her, and she nearly upset the basin. Phillipe spoke from behind the arm.
“Put this on.”
She stared in horror at the corset in the man’s hand. “But I cannot!”
Henry’s exasperated voice rose from outside the curtain. “Come, Miss Locket. You behave as if you have never worn a corset.”
“But I have never worn…” Her explanation died, leaving awkward silence. Henry cleared his throat.
“See here. It is merely an article of clothing and not so very dangerous. What is that compared to a duel with swords?”
She swayed a few times before reluctantly yanking the item from Phillipe’s hand. The arm withdrew. After first stepping into the torture device backward, she managed to draw it up in the proper orientation.
