Sybil was obsessed with securing the return of her father’s possessions. It had to do with a cryptic clue for something or other, but it was often difficult to follow the erratic train of Sybil’s thoughts.
“And so you are stalking the gentleman in the hope of learning the whereabouts of this secret location?”
“Precisely. Mr Daventry is not the only one who possesses a cunning mind.”
“You should have a care. Of all the illegitimate sons of the aristocracy, Mr Daventry is considered the most dangerous.”
“Dangerous when it comes to seducing women into bed, but I am hardly his type.” Sybil glanced over Cassandra’s shoulder and almost jumped out of her skin. “Wait. My quarry is on the move. Indeed, Satan’s spawn has stopped to speak to your husband. Blessed saints! They’re laughing like old friends. Perhaps Mr Cavanagh knows about the auction.” Sybil grabbed Cassandra’s hands. “Oh, would you speak to your husband and see if he knows anything about the sale? Now, I must dash. I shall come and visit you in Jermyn Street in the next few days.”
Sybil tucked a strand of hair into her black bonnet and darted past. She lingered in the doorway, peering around the jamb before hurrying out onto New Bond Street.
Cassandra returned to Benedict, feeling as if she had just survived a whirlwind. “Did you m
ake a purchase?”
“No, I wanted to see if anyone had written on the blank page. They hadn’t.” When Cassandra frowned, he added, “Trent met his wife, Verity, when they were solving a mystery involving the book. It’s a long story. I shall relay the tale tonight after dinner.”
“I didn’t know you were acquainted with Mr Daventry.” She couldn’t lie to her husband and so told him about her odd conversation with Sybil. “Has he mentioned an auction?”
“Not to me, but I can make enquiries.” He took her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm. “Are you ready to go home now, or do you need to gaze upon the naked members of the aristocracy some more?”
His amusing comment made her smile. Having him as her greatest supporter made everything seem right with the world. She hadn’t felt this close to him since before she told him he was not good enough to marry.
That thought brought a tear to her eye, and she dashed it away. “I would like to visit Madame de La Tour. Perhaps she might have a suggestion as to what I can wear tonight. I think something vibrant, don’t you?”
His mood turned suddenly subdued.
“Don’t seem so downcast.” She drew him further along the street. “I understand if you’d prefer to wait outside. Most gentlemen find the topic of ladies’ fripperies tedious.”
“Then be thankful I’m a scoundrel who likes ogling scanty undergarments.” Though he spoke in jest, she sensed concern for her welfare was the reason he insisted on accompanying her into the modiste’s shop.
Cassandra knew visiting the madame was a mistake as soon as she stepped over the threshold. The hum of conversation died. Madame de La Tour’s assistants clutched their samples of rich velvets and sumptuous satins and froze. The few customers perusing the madame’s wares turned to face the two newcomers hovering near the door.
Benedict clasped Cassandra’s elbow and propelled her forward, past the sour-faced matron who mumbled, “Foolish gel.”
Madame de La Tour’s modiste shop carried the same air of opulence as an aristocrat’s ballroom. The heavy scent of perfume irritated the nostrils. Light shone through the large windows, bouncing off the full-length mirrors and the teardrop crystals of the chandelier. One almost expected to find a wallflower hiding behind a large potted fern—a bluestocking seated on the burgundy chaise.
The two ladies at the counter said something to Valerine, the madame’s assistant, and then left the shop in feverish haste.
With Benedict by her side, Cassandra stepped closer to the counter. “Good day, Valerine. I don’t have an appointment but would like to see your madame for a moment.”
The young woman responded with a curt nod and disappeared into the private fitting room. A few moments later, Madame de La Tour appeared. She walked towards them with the deportment of a duchess. Her thin face and pointed chin were more in keeping with a stern governess than a modiste.
Still, the madame smiled as she greeted them. “My lady.”
“It is Mrs Cavanagh now. I recently married.”
“Oui, bien sûr. People, they are saying you married Lord Tregarth’s son.”
No doubt news of their nuptials had spread quicker than a fire in a hay barn. Sharing the latest snippets of gossip eased the boredom of having a dress fitting.
“Indeed, which is why I must make an appointment to discuss a new wardrobe.” Cassandra leaned closer, intending to ask how one dressed to appear more alluring, as she had nothing remotely suitable for a demimonde soirée. But the madame’s disinterested look gave her pause.
“I’m afraid I ’ave no appointments available.” The woman swallowed deeply, a clear sign she was lying.
“No appointments this week?” Cassandra attempted to clarify. A mix of anger and mortification surfaced. “Or no appointments you are willing to grant me.”
The modiste shuffled uncomfortably. “You must understand, I dress the debutantes from the wealthiest families,” she said in a thick French burr. “The mere ’int of a scandal and the aristocracy they take their custom elsewhere.”