“Heavens no,” she sighed.
Once again, his rough chuckle made unwanted parts of her tingle.
“If you need me, you know where to find me. I’d advise you to finish that list because once it is codified, there will not be any additions or subtractions.”
“Is there anything else, your highness?” she asked wryly.
“Yes,” he looked over his shoulder. “Prepare for the wedding.”
“May I help you,monsieur?” The assistant to the most in-demand dressmaker in London greeted him with a curtsy.
Instead of replying, Dorian’s head slowly shifted from left to right, taking in the large bow window, the sparkling plate glass windows, and the gleaming ash wood counters and cabinets that lined the shop’s perimeter. The dark cerulean curtains matched the upholstery on the chairs.
“My lord, forgive me for asking, but are you lost?” the girl asked.
“No,” Dorian replied. “I was simply assessing the quality of the work I will get here. Where is the modiste, Madame Laurier?”
“With a customer, my lord—” the girl began.
“Yvette, dear,” the dressmaker entered the room, her simple grey gown and fierce chignon showed her status. “Mind your manners. His Grace is no mere lord.”
The poor girl nearly tripped over her feet to drop into another curtsy. He stopped her with a look. “I appreciate the sentiment, but you needn’t pay me so much homage. Madame, may we?”
“Oui,” she gestured to the workroom behind her. “Please.”
He ducked his head under the threshold and entered a room with mannequins, bolts of cloth on the walls, and walls dripping with trim, lace trefoils, and all manner of flummery women had on their gowns.
“How may I help you, Your Grace?”
“I need a wedding gown for my fiancée,” he said directly. “Do you have a mannequin that can demonstrate her size?”
The lady’s brows lifted as she moved beyond a line of mannequins. “I am a tad surprised you haven’t brought the fortunate lady with you.”
“She is indisposed at the moment,” he said while drifting to the mannequin the third from the end. “This is her, but her bosom is fuller.”
“I see,” the modiste nodded. “Do you have her measurements?”
“Yes,” Dorian replied, his eyes latching onto a bolt on the wall. “And as for the cloth, I have a few requirements…”
An hour later, he stepped into the office for Richmond and Teller, a duo of private investigators who had a reputation for impeccable social intelligence and utter discretion.
By all appearances, this office looked like a well-appointed peer’s study and not an investigator’s office; the large, mahogany desk, set in front of one of the large bow windows, commanded the room.
A pair of leather sofas were arranged facing each other in the center of the room, as though they graced a drawing room, not a solicitor’s office. A few, elegant side tables complemented the sofas. Beyond the front room, Dorian spotted a second office equally as adorned as the front room.
“May I help you, Your Grace?”
A man exited the second room, a book in hand. He was dressed in a subtle tan waistcoat, buff trousers, and brass cufflinks winking at his wrist. His hair was shorn close, and a pair of round spectacles rested on his nose. His expression lit with recognition and interest.
“I have a very inordinate request,” Dorian replied. “Am I speaking with Richmond or Teller?”
“Teller, Your Grace,” the man replied. “The reclusive Duke emerges at last.”
“Am Ireallya recluse?” Dorian asked, not quite able to meet Teller’s knowing gaze.
“But you aren’t one for society, either,” Teller told him. “That is neither here nor there, though. How may we be of service, Your Grace? May I offer you a cup of tea, coffee perhaps?”
“I won’t be here long enough for the kettle to boil,” Dorian waved a cursory hand. “I need you to find a man with hair the shade of bleached wheat who used to live in the St. John’s Wood area.
