“Besides,” said Madame Solit, “I have something special. Fabric of fine satin, a little more expensive than the others for the rarity of its color. But we shall see if it suits.” She was moving around the store as she spoke, rifling through baskets, looking under bolts of material.
“Ah ha!” she said at last, hurrying over to drape a shimmer of copper around Beatrice’s shoulders.
“How expensive?” Beatrice asked, looking down at the unusual fabric whose color was warm and fiery. As she raised her arms to look, it seemed to change from golden orange to deep mahogany with her movements.
“Gracious,” her mother said. “It’s splendid.”
“It doesn’t matter how much,” Mr. Carson said, his voice sounding strangely thick.
Beatrice’s gaze locked with his, and a thrill of excitement sizzled through her at his expression.
“That is some pumpkins!” he exclaimed. “Miss Rare-Foure must have a gown made from it,” he insisted. “I may be merely an ignorant man, but even I can see...,” he trailed off. Then he blinked, looked away from her, and drained his wine glass.
“I have to leave you now. Please carry on.” Mr. Carson started toward the door. “We are up to four dresses, if I am counting correctly from the colors you’ve suggested and the one she’s currently wearing. She’ll need at least eight, won’t she? Maybe ten. Send the bill to my hotel. The Langham. Mr. Greer Carson.” His cheeks went a ruddy color.
“Of course, you know all that already.” He reached for the door handle. “I’ll stop into the shop again soon to discuss what comes next. Well done. Good day.”
He hurried outside, avoiding eye contact.
Beatrice watched as her mother exchanged a smug look with the dressmaker. They thought he was well and truly ensnared with her. She didn’t want to shock them by mentioning how this was practically a business deal. With Beatrice’s connection to the Duke of Pelham, Mr. Carson would get his titled lady, and with the American’s assistance, she would get herself a husband ... or at the very least, she’d have fun trying for a Season.
“Some pumpkins,” murmured the modiste, shaking her head. “These Americans!”
***
GREER WASN’T ONE TOmope or feel lonely. Usually satisfied with his own company if that was all he had, in this foreign land, he felt himself growing oddly attached to Miss Rare-Foure. Moreover, while dining alone at The Cock Tavern on Fleet Street, he did feel a little solitary. Around him, men were laughing loudly, engaged in discourse, downing drinks, smoking cigars, occasionally shouting out to the serving wench to bring more baked potatoes, ale, porter, or wine.
In the chophouse, he drank ale and recalled the moment when the toffee-maker had come out of the dressing room in a silky blue dress with lace and ribbons. She’d taken his breath away, and he was positive he’d never seen a prettier girl. And then, when the dress-maker had held the shimmery, copper material close to Miss Rare-Foure’s caramel-colored hair, she’d looked like a goddess.
He’d had to escape the close confines of the dress shop in order to regain control of his senses and not appear to be a drooling, eager greenhorn. She didn’t want a rough-hewn American to sweep her off her feet with passion and lust any more than he wanted a middle-class shopgirl. He needed a titled lady, and she probably wanted a refined, reserved Englishman such as she was used to encountering.
But she had certainly stirred his blood six ways from Sunday.
He tossed down some coins and started for the door when he bumped into a man standing up abruptly from a table.
“Here now!” the man exclaimed. “What are you trying to do?”
“Just trying to leave,” Greer told him, hoping the questioner wasn’t as drunk as a Virginia fence, as his uncle might have said, staggering this way and that. Nor did he fancy a bunch of fives swinging in his direction should the rest of the man’s drinking companions decide they needed to anoint him in the ways of British pugilism.
“American?” came the next inquiry.
“Yes,” he answered tightly. Either this would gain him instant rancor or favor, one never knew with these Englishmen.
By the hard but friendly slap on the back, it was the latter. “Let’s have a drink and you can tell us all about yourself,” was the man’s invitation. “We’re sick of our own tales.”
If Greer hadn’t been feeling all-overish and out of sorts — with no plan except to head back to his hotel room, give Miss Sylvia some attention, and go to bed — he might have shrugged the man off and continued on his way. However, there was nothing to prevent him from enjoying a little local camaraderie.
On the other hand, if he sensed they were trying to honey-fuggle him or engage in any chicanery, he would go.
“It seemed you were leaving,” he pointed out to the big man who’d given him the hearty slap.
“Nah, just going to take a piss.”
“Can’t hold his ale,” said one of the others.
“Or his women,” said another, who looked at Greer over the top of a glass of brandy instead of a pint. This man with his salt-and-pepper hair drawn back in an old-fashioned queue had a shrewder look about him. They all laughed at the words, even the man who was now walking away, holding his hand up to give his friends a particularly rude salute.
“Take his seat while he relieves himself,” another man said. “He’ll find a new one upon his return, and he won’t be angry, I assure you.”
