“You and every upholsterer in the business,” Bernadette said with a snort. “A few months ago, Wilmer came out of nowhere and became an overnight sensation. To do research on the latest household décor, I went to their warehouse. I wanted to speak to the person in charge but kept getting passed from clerk to clerk. It was like one of those Russian dolls. I finally got to a supervisor, a fellow named Mr. Russell, who told me that the Wilmer family spent most of their time abroad and to direct any questions to him.”
Charlie made a mental note of the supervisor’s name.
“A strange way to do business,” she said. “Do you know how they gained popularity?”
“I think they were quite clever, actually. They understood that there is a prosperous, if not quite wealthy, middle class hungering for fashionable goods that don’t cost an arm and a leg. Upholstery that looks good and is of sufficient quality to pass muster. At the same time, you can afford to replace it when the next trend comes along.”
Charlie nodded slowly. “They found an audience hungry for their goods. But how did news spread about their products?”
“As far as I can tell, the usual way. By word of mouth,” Bernadette replied. “In my experience, a craze is started by a select few. Arbiters of fashion, if you will. Once those with social influence are seen with the item—be it a frock, wallpaper, or, in this case, furnishings—the rest follow like lemmings.”
“Who made Wilmer fashionable?”
“Oh, let me see.” Bernadette tipped her head, as if running through mental notes. “There was Ginny Farnsworth—of the mining Farnsworths. She was one of the first to own a Wilmer brocade set. But she told me she’d first seen a settee in the home of her friend, Anne Marks, the wife of the wine merchant. And Mrs. Marks, who is a bit of a fussbudget, gushed over the quality of her Wilmer damask and said she’d first seen a Wilmer at the home of…oh, who was it… Right. It was Isadora Rigby, wife of Ellsworth Rigby, industrialist extraordinaire.”
Recognition tickled Charlie’s nape.
The Rigbys have enough money to front an operation like Wilmer. To buy a manufactory.
“Strange that she’d prefer middling goods when her husband’s rich as Croesus,” Bernadette went on. “I’ve only met Mrs. Rigby once, at a tea. I took her for a proud lady who made it a habit to do as she pleased.”
“What else do you know about her?”
Bernadette pursed her lips. “She’s half-French, I believe. She met Ellsworth Rigby abroad, and after he made his fortune, they bought that estate in Hamstead. They travel most of the time, so it is unusual that they’ve been in London these past few months. Then again, most everyone is here for the Great Exhibition?—”
“I must go.” Charlie shot up. “Thank you, Bernadette.”
“I am happy to help.” The American rose as well. “Given your interest in Wilmer, you might want to check out their displays at the Crystal Palace.”
Charlie froze. “What displays? I was told that they are not exhibitors.”
“Not officially. I believe I mentioned I was granted early access to the exhibits? Well, last week, the superintendent, Mr. Owen Jones—no relation—gave me a tour. He told me that the banners intended to decorate the balconies had been lost in a fire at the supplier’s warehouse. A real tragedy and no one knows what happened. Mr. Jones was quite frantic. Luckily, Wilmer stepped in and offered to provide banners in the same pattern and color as the originals. At cost, too. Mr. Jones was ever so relieved.”
Dear Lord. Wilmer has access to the exhibition.
“Is everything all right, Lady Fayne?” Bernadette stared at her, looking faintly alarmed.
“Thanks to you, it might just be.”
Charlie hurried off.
Keep going. Almost there.
Gritting his teeth, Jack worked the edge of the shovel against the ropes binding his hands. He’d managed to prop the tool up against the wall; sitting, he sawed at the ropes with the dull edge. Each movement aggravated his bruised ribs and assorted injuries, a gift of Isadora Rigby’s brutes.
“It will get much worse for you, darling,”she’d cooed.“If your meddling friends don’t leave us alone.”
“We will never stop hunting you,”he’d spat.
She’d laughed, the ruthless glint in her eyes oddly familiar.
“Who is the hunter, and who is the prey?”She’d made a tsking sound.“Hewitt Lancaster—Primus to you—thinks he is in charge, and he’s fooled all his dutiful minions to believe the same. But I will let you in on a secret.”
She’d leaned closer, running a pointed fingernail along his cheek. He’d forced himself not to cringe, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a response.
“I am mymother’s daughter. He seduced her, a revolutionary dedicated to the cause, then betrayed her. He used her to get to her people—militants fighting forla liberté. Then they turned their backs on her too. For the rest of her life, ma mère lived as an outcast, shunned by everyone. She whored herself, and still we were so poor we foraged in rubbish heaps, slept buried in garbage for warmth. But I grew up knowing the truth, and I promised her that I would never forget. There is no such thing as justice. No such thing as loyalty. Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité—pah, nothing but an illusion to soothe the masses. The only thing that exists is power, and I will use that power to show the world what life is truly about: chaos and destruction.”
The ruthless conviction in her dark gaze made something click in Jack’s brain.
