‘So true, Madame Laurent. I warrant a ballroom can be just as deadly a battleground as any foreign fields upon which my brother marched.’ Lady Cynthia Burrows gave Thomas a far different glare full of sisterly censure. Her message was clear.Do not dally with my modiste.
Hopefully, his wide eyes and subtle head shake allayed her fears. He was confident in his skills as a lover, but he was also quite certain the sultry older woman would eat him alive and spit out his bones if he ever entered her bedchamber.
Cynthia returned her gaze to the mirror. ‘A lady never enters the fray without being prepared, Thomas. In my case, that means endless skeins of silk.’
‘Indeed. Well, I wish any opponent who tries to best you all the luck in the world. They will need it.’ Thomas winked at her.
Lady Cynthia Burrows pinched her cheeks, reminding Thomas of the cracking smack Miss Blair had given herself the day they met. He found the perplexing woman crossed his mind with alarming regularity. He shouldn’t be thinking of her at all, and yet her face appeared in his imagination at the oddest times. It rankled him, and he pulled his attention back to his sister with difficulty as she continued their conversation, oblivious to his distraction.
‘They most certainly will. Now, what brought you out into the bustling world of the living after hiding away to lick your wounds for so long? And to a dress shop of all places, Thomas. You must really be desperate for my company.’
His cravat felt uncommonly tight. Though the esteemed dressmaker had closed her shop for Cynthia’s fitting, allowing only her staff to remain, he still felt on display. His shoulders tensed. ‘I have not been licking my wounds.’ He had, but he wasn’t about to admit such a weakness to his sister and certainly not in front of Madame Laurent and her young assistant.
‘You have. But let’s not argue.’ Seeming to pick up on Thomas’discomfort, Cynthia adjusted her gaze to the modiste. ‘Madame Laurent, I think we need some of those divine crystal clusters just here.’ She pointed to a spot where the fabric had been gathered and pleated to highlight her small waist and flaring hips. ‘I saw them in your showroom as I came in.’
Madame Laurent tilted her head and squinted at the spot. She pursed her lips and nodded. ‘Oui. You ’ave such an eye for fashion.’
Thomas guessed it was the depth of his sister’s purse, not her sophisticated taste, that Madame Laurent found so appealing, but what did he know of gowns except how to unfasten them?
‘Come with me, Sally.’ The modiste snapped her fingers.
The assistant jumped to her feet, quickly following Madame Laurent out of the private fitting room and into the main salon, where mannequins showcased various dresses.
Turning to face her brother, Cynthia’s concern bled through the mask he knew she had perfected for society. ‘What has brought you here?’
‘I need to request a favour.’ He hated asking for help. It was one of his least favourite things, but not making good on a promise was even worse. Especially when the promise was made to a woman who didn’t believe he could deliver.
Damn Miss Blair for putting me in this predicament. Speaking with Beachley’s daughter won’t prove a blasted thing, and yet, here I am on a fool’s errand.
‘Of course. You know if it is within my power to help you, I will.’ Cynthia was a formidable member of the beau monde who could cut down a debutante in seconds, but she was also the best of sisters who would sacrifice her own security to help her brother just as quickly.
‘It isn’t really for me.’ He felt the need to clarify. ‘I’m helping Superintendent MacDougal with a case for Scotland Yard.’
Her gaze softened. ‘Dear Superintendent MacDougal. How is our friend?’
Cynthia had met MacDougal once when he returned from Crimea. She’d insisted on inviting him to an intimate family dinner to thank him for saving Thomas’ life. It had been an awkward affair, with Lachlan never feeling comfortable at the finery of a marquess’s table, and Cynthia’s husband, the marquess, never quite managing to hide his disdain at hosting a man who didn’t even own a proper dinner suit. Lachlan made Thomas promise to never take him to Cynthia’s house again, even though she kept extending invitations.
‘He is fine. And no. He isn’t available to dine this week, or next, or the one after that.’
Cynthia tsked in annoyance. ‘I don’t understand why we can’t all be friendly with one another. The man saved your life. Surely that should matter more than whether or not he carries a title.’
‘Such questions are for philosophers and politicians to argue about, not such lowly minds as ours.’
Cynthia raised expertly sculpted brows. ‘My mind is of the highest quality.’
‘Of course, forgive me. I was only speaking of myself.’
Her brows retreated from their fighting stance. ‘Hmmm.’
‘MacDougal is currently investigating Viscount Beachley’s death and has asked for my help.’
The name caused his sister to press a hand against her throat, her eyes clouding. ‘Poor Beachley. I still can’t believe it. My dear friend Lady Langley has taken his sweet daughter, Anna into her home. Her Grace was never close to her brother, but when tragedy strikes, family must pull together. With all of the gossip swirling, they’ve retreated to their country estate to try and protect the darling girl from the worst of it.’
‘Damn.’ Thomas stood, his irritation making movement necessary.
Cynthia stepped off the dais and approached him, putting her hand on his arm. ‘What is it?’
‘I was hoping you might prevail upon Lady Langley to allow me to speak with her niece. I know it’s unlikely, but the girl might have seen or heard something that will help us locate her mother. That’s hardly possible if she is tucked away in the country.’
