“What about those fabrics over there?” Raphael gestured to an open shipping container lodged against the only other door in the room.
Jacques Pierre frowned. “Oh, no. Impossible. That’s next month’s premier selection for my preferred clients.”
“Perfect,” Raphael said. “I believe we qualify.”
“No. Please. I can’t have those out in society. Not yet.”
Raphael was indignant. “Why not? The wedding party didn’t use them, did they?”
“No. However—”
“I like the emerald-green fabric,” Raphael said, turning to Francine. He gazed lovingly at her. “It matches your eyes.”
Jacques Pierre huffed and climbed down from the ladder. “Fine. Ravage my business, why don’t you?”
“Jacques Pierre, you owe me a debt. When I helped you—for free, I might add—you told me anything, anytime, for any reason. I’m calling in that promise. Perhaps you never expected me to collect.”
The proprietor’s shoulders sagged. “You’re right. I never expected you’d want or need anything I could provide.” Jacques Pierre straightened and a new expression shone on his face, one of determination. “However, I am a man of my word. You shall have whatever you want for the coming nuptials. I’ll do my best to see you are the talk of the wedding.”
“Thank you, Jacques Pierre.”
Francine moved closer to stroke her palm over the emerald-green fabric Raphael had selected. It was lovely. Similar in color to her jade dress, the fabric had a golden shimmer. “I do love this fabric,” she said, not sure if she should upstage her family. “Perhaps a simple design would suit it best. I’m certain if my mother was involved in the selection of the wedding trousseau, the designs were complicated or very intricate.”
“Youdoknow your mother’s style, Miss Francine,” Jacques Pierre said. “Let me show you a book I have of elegant designs your mother didn’t bother to entertain.”
“Perfect.”
Francine flipped through several pages of unique designs with her chosen fabric in mind, and found the perfect one. “This one.”
The design was a long sheath dress with a sweetheart neckline and black lace-covered cap sleeves. Simple. Elegant. Understated. Exactly Francine’s style.
Jacques Pierre nodded his approval. “It will be lovely, and original. I haven’t made a dress like this yet and with the new shimmer fabric you’ll have a one-of-a-kind dress, at least until it’s seen at the wedding.”
The designer found an equally nice suit for Raphael, then moved the wheeled shipping container aside to reveal another door. Inside, the large adjoining room held racks and racks of readymade high-end clothing. They selected several outfits to wear while searching for their fake honeymoon destination. Francine had forgotten how much fun clothes shopping could be and lost herself as they tried on various items.
Once all their selections had been made, Jacques Pierre promised to have them packaged and sent to the Borg Stein Slot, the ritzy place Raphael had arranged for their stay on Ichor-Delta.
Outside the designer shop, the driver waited to whisk them to their lodgings. She wasn’t sure what to expect, but her mouth fell open when she saw where they were staying.
“This is a castle.”
“Yes. It’s an old castle, but recently updated to play host to rich folks who want to pretend to be royals of old.”
Francine looked down at her traveling clothes. “They will take one look at me and send me to the maid’s quarters or possibly the kitchen to be a dishwasher for the cook staff.”
“No, they won’t. You’re with me. Everything will be fine. Besides, you look great.” She wished she’d worn one of the outfits they’d selected from Jacques Pierre’s ready-made collection to walk through the lobby of the extravagant establishment.
The fancy vehicle pulled through a set of ornate iron gates and stopped beneath the curved archway of a stone porte cochere. As she waited in the vehicle, Raphael paid the driver and arranged for castle staff to take care of their bags. He opened the door and took her hand to assist her out.
He offered her his arm and they strolled inside, heads held high, just like theywereroyalty. Half of pretending to be rich was attitude. Stone carvings swirled across the cathedral ceiling. Every inch of the lobby space screamed privilege or possibly “poor people beware—if you break it, you can’t afford it.” Even so, Francine pretended she was still a member of the Duvall Five. It was like putting on an old shoe, not a comfortable one, per se, but a familiar one.
No one at the registration counter blinked an eye at them. She didn’t know if Raphael had acquired this lodging because someone owed him a favor or if he’d actually paid a king’s ransom for it, but once they were on their way to their room, she relaxed. Clearly, no one was going to grab her and thrust her into any hotel service position for looking out of place.
They followed a porter down a luxurious hallway graced on either side by shallow alcoves filled with historical coats of arms and paintings of ancient royals.
The porter unlocked their door just as Francine heard another door open nearby, turned to look, and froze when she spotted the elderly gentleman leaving the room next door.
Uncle Bandore! The Duvall Five’s favorite uncle and a supreme gossip like no other in the family.
