“None whatsoever,” agreed Colin cheerfully. “I believe my plan is a good one. I shall lure Ellen back to my rooms, allow her to have her wicked way with me, and then present her with more money than she has ever seen in her life, along with an invitation to join me on an all expenses paid six-month tour of southern France and Italy.”
“What could possibly go wrong?” asked Ambrose with a cynical lift of his eyebrow.
“From your side, very little. Miss Sinclair will be deprived of her right hand, we will learn more of her intentions and how to thwart them, and there will be no more obstacles on your road to love with the fair Frances. From my side, I dare say Ellen will eventually rob me blind and leave me for a dashing Italian nobleman, but such is life.”
Ambrose winced, not at the idea of Colin being cheated and abandoned, but at the mention of the word “love.”
“I should very much like Frances to be happy,” he said carefully. “Neither of us married for love, but she is my wife, and I must take care of her.”
“As you will,” replied Colin with a shrug of his shoulders, in no mood to argue over semantics when he had such adventures ahead of him. “I’ll call for a writing set and start on my letterto Ellen. Do you think Simmons would object to going out and getting some ladies’ underwear for me…? You think he would?”
“I shall do it while you write,” Ambrose pronounced. “I think I know better what you have in mind, as well as where a woman of taste would shop for such items.”
“Perfect. It would not do at all to try and lure a woman like Ellen with a pair of thick woolen stockings such as my grandmother wore.”
“What size, approximately?” Ambrose asked and Colin made a not-very-useful gesture with his hands, indicating only that he remembered the curves of Ellen’s body.
Still doubtful over such a madcap scheme as his friend had devised, Ambrose donned his coat and left the club.
Although he walked in the direction of the Bond Street shopping district where his first wife had always bought her clothing, the Duke of Westall had no intention of braving the busy crowds there. Instead, he turned off the main road slightly earlier and strolled along a side street towards a smaller women’s outfitter he had learned to know only after Charlotte’s death.
A neatly written sign in the shop window promised the latest Parisian styles in day and nightwear and Ambrose smiled,thinking that a Parisian silk and lace nightgown was probably exactly what Colin had in mind.
A bell rang as he pushed the door open, and a short, respectable-looking French woman with a grey-bun came out from a backroom, with fabric and ribbons over one of her shoulders. She smiled when she saw him and dropped a neat curtsy in response to the polite inclination of Ambrose’s head.
“Bonjour, Madame Rousset. Comment ça va?”
“All the better for your visit, Your Grace,” laughed the little Frenchwoman. “Welcome back. How may I serve you today?”
“I am looking for a present for a lady,” Ambrose said. “Something intimate but stylish.”
“Ah, you have a new duchess, do you not?” she laughed knowingly. “I read of it in the newspaper.Félicitations!”
Ambrose nodded, finding himself in a bind. He could hardly admit that he was buying underwear for a woman other than his wife without Madame Rousset leaping to entirely the wrong conclusion. While he had certainly shopped here for gifts for lovers after his wife’s death without any shame, he did not want to be classed among the men who deceived their wives.
“Thank you, Madame. I do indeed have a new wife and I wish to give her a little surprise,” Ambrose said, following Madame Rousset into the warren of rooms behind the main shop.
Frances would indeed be surprised to be presented with a French nightgown, and if Ambrose had found it hard to give her the pearls, he did not know yet how he would manage it.
“You think of something smaller today, like silk stockings, or garters perhaps? For larger items, it is better that she visits so I can measure.”
“Well, I was thinking more of a nightgown. In fact, I think I shall buy two,” Ambrose proposed, solving his conundrum. “If they don’t fit, I shall bring my wife here to have them adjusted.”
“A lady cannot have too many nightgowns,” Madame Rousset said solemnly, possibly thinking him mad but knowing him to be rich and happy to sell him what he wanted on his own terms. “You know your wife’s size?”
Closing his eyes, Ambrose could easily picture the slim curves of Frances’ waist, hips and shapely breasts. From past experience with women’s nightgowns, he could probably have guessed sizing to within an inch or two. However, from Colin’s rough steer, it seemed likely that Ellen was rather larger. A gown fitting one woman would not fit the other.
“Forgive me, Madame, we are only married a month,” Ambrose excused himself. “I should buy two different sizes, just in case.”
The Frenchwoman tutted indulgently and made a quick remark in French about gentlemen’s understanding of women’s clothing.
“For a surprise present, you should always consult a lady’s maid,” she advised him, beginning to lay out some nightgowns on a table for inspection. “I tell this to all my gentlemen. The lady’s maid will know all her secrets, including the size of her dresses.”
Ambrose laughed a little harder than the joke merited but then straightened his face and began to look seriously at the nightgowns. Despite his best intentions, he visualized Frances wearing each of them, and then wearing nothing at all as he slid the sheer material from her shoulders to pool at her feet…
The Duke of Westall left the little shop with a package of four of the finest French nightgowns in various designs and sizes.
Chapter Twenty-Six
