supposed to care; he was supposed to be jealous. Why was he so indifferent? She would find out if it killed her.
* * * *
However, had Lady Penelope seen the Duke’s next place of appointment, it would have been him she would have wanted to kill. The bell of the fashionable Bond Street shop tinkled as Devlin stepped into the cream and pink-tinted establishment of Madame Celeste, modiste extraordinaire to the wealthiest of Society’s women. Madame Celeste was a small, dark, plain Frenchwoman who also something of a magician. She could transform the ugliest of debutante ducklings into a beautiful swan simply by correctly matching fabric colour to customer. Sallow skins and dull complexions appeared as strawberry or peaches-and-cream under Madame’s expert guidance. Amazingly, her skills with a needle enabled her to rectify the deficiencies of Mother Nature in many an under-endowed bosom; she could also reduce overly abundant waistlines and hips with an exquisite combination of deft pleats, tucks and other sleight-of-hand tricks. She was greatly in demand and charged accordingly.
Madame Celeste rustled forward and raised her eyebrows when she recognised her visitor. She sent all her bills—and there were many—to him for Lady Penelope’s extensive wardrobe. It was very unusual for a man to appear in her hallowed portals himself, unless he had a special request. Usually her special requests came from elderly gentlemen with a need for female garments to fit themselves. However, the young and very handsome Duke of Wyndlesham was no such man. She bowed to him and waited.
Now that he was here, suddenly the task seemed far more formidable than he had anticipated. Devlin stared at Madame Celeste, feeling helpless; she gazed back with an impassive expression.
“Perhaps M’sieur is looking for some charming accessory of fashion for his…mother?” she hazarded, by way of breaking the ice.
“Er…no!” He was abrupt. “This is for a younger lady…much younger.”
“Ah,” she smiled. Madame Celeste’s discretion was legendary and many clients, knowing their secrets were as safe as if locked in the vaults of the Bank of England, freely spilled the sensational details. The Duke coughed and reddened. Madame Celeste came to the rescue.
“A young relative, perhaps?” she asked diplomatically.
“Yes, exactly so,” Devlin replied, relieved at the woman’s perspicacity. “A young lady, a…er…distant cousin, who is residing with my mother in the country.” He wondered why he was telling the woman all this, but somehow Madame Celeste had that effect on people. “There was an accident…a storm…and her dress was ruined.”
“Ah, pauvre, jolie femme .” Madame nodded as if she understood the whole situation. “And the clothes they are so expensive. One cannot afford to have an outfit ruined. Perhaps it was even a favourite outfit?”
“I don’t know, perhaps?” Devlin said. “She looked very…er …charming in it.”
“La couleur ?” Madame Celeste asked. “Maybe we can find something near to make her feel better.” She bustled behind the counter, pulling out rolls of cloth, spreading a rainbow of colours before his eyes. “You shall tell me her colouring and size, M’sieur . The rest you can leave to me.”
A vision of Fenella’s beauty floated in front of him as Devlin began to describe her. Any of his friends and associates would have been utterly amazed to peer into the window and observe the Sixteenth Duke of Wyndlesham, nicknamed “Devil,” the reigning champion of the Four-in-Hand Club, poring over fabrics, looking at pattern sheets and earnestly discussing the merits of pearl buttons over covered buttons.
* * * *
The package arrived at Deverell House a week later. Fenella and the Dowager were sitting under their favourite tree, when Blenkins brought it to her. It was a very large white box, tied up with a gold ribbon, and with a distinctive motif on the lid.
“For me?” Fenella
* * * *
However, had Lady Penelope seen the Duke’s next place of appointment, it would have been him she would have wanted to kill. The bell of the fashionable Bond Street shop tinkled as Devlin stepped into the cream and pink-tinted establishment of Madame Celeste, modiste extraordinaire to the wealthiest of Society’s women. Madame Celeste was a small, dark, plain Frenchwoman who also something of a magician. She could transform the ugliest of debutante ducklings into a beautiful swan simply by correctly matching fabric colour to customer. Sallow skins and dull complexions appeared as strawberry or peaches-and-cream under Madame’s expert guidance. Amazingly, her skills with a needle enabled her to rectify the deficiencies of Mother Nature in many an under-endowed bosom; she could also reduce overly abundant waistlines and hips with an exquisite combination of deft pleats, tucks and other sleight-of-hand tricks. She was greatly in demand and charged accordingly.
Madame Celeste rustled forward and raised her eyebrows when she recognised her visitor. She sent all her bills—and there were many—to him for Lady Penelope’s extensive wardrobe. It was very unusual for a man to appear in her hallowed portals himself, unless he had a special request. Usually her special requests came from elderly gentlemen with a need for female garments to fit themselves. However, the young and very handsome Duke of Wyndlesham was no such man. She bowed to him and waited.
Now that he was here, suddenly the task seemed far more formidable than he had anticipated. Devlin stared at Madame Celeste, feeling helpless; she gazed back with an impassive expression.
“Perhaps M’sieur is looking for some charming accessory of fashion for his…mother?” she hazarded, by way of breaking the ice.
“Er…no!” He was abrupt. “This is for a younger lady…much younger.”
“Ah,” she smiled. Madame Celeste’s discretion was legendary and many clients, knowing their secrets were as safe as if locked in the vaults of the Bank of England, freely spilled the sensational details. The Duke coughed and reddened. Madame Celeste came to the rescue.
“A young relative, perhaps?” she asked diplomatically.
“Yes, exactly so,” Devlin replied, relieved at the woman’s perspicacity. “A young lady, a…er…distant cousin, who is residing with my mother in the country.” He wondered why he was telling the woman all this, but somehow Madame Celeste had that effect on people. “There was an accident…a storm…and her dress was ruined.”
“Ah, pauvre, jolie femme .” Madame nodded as if she understood the whole situation. “And the clothes they are so expensive. One cannot afford to have an outfit ruined. Perhaps it was even a favourite outfit?”
“I don’t know, perhaps?” Devlin said. “She looked very…er …charming in it.”
“La couleur ?” Madame Celeste asked. “Maybe we can find something near to make her feel better.” She bustled behind the counter, pulling out rolls of cloth, spreading a rainbow of colours before his eyes. “You shall tell me her colouring and size, M’sieur . The rest you can leave to me.”
A vision of Fenella’s beauty floated in front of him as Devlin began to describe her. Any of his friends and associates would have been utterly amazed to peer into the window and observe the Sixteenth Duke of Wyndlesham, nicknamed “Devil,” the reigning champion of the Four-in-Hand Club, poring over fabrics, looking at pattern sheets and earnestly discussing the merits of pearl buttons over covered buttons.
* * * *
The package arrived at Deverell House a week later. Fenella and the Dowager were sitting under their favourite tree, when Blenkins brought it to her. It was a very large white box, tied up with a gold ribbon, and with a distinctive motif on the lid.
“For me?” Fenella
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