Mrs Mulligan straightened her shoulders as if ready for a challenge. She eyed Vivienne’s figure. “Something delicate, ethereal. Something to boost a lady’s confidence.”
“Money is no object.”
Mrs Mulligan’s eyes shone like polished gems. “I’ll need a few hours.”
“I shall wait.”
Vivienne thought to remind him of their need to visit Mr Howarth. “But we have an urgent appointment across town.”
“We can call on him tomorrow. Based on what we’ve discovered today, it might be best to visit under cover of darkness.”
No doubt Mr Sloane feared someone would follow them to Mr Howarth’s premises and the man might vanish into thin air, too. Besides, attending the masquerade would allow them to cross the countess off the suspect list.
“Is there something specific you wish your wife to wear, sir?” Mrs Mulligan asked while rifling through the magazine.
“My wife is free to make her own decisions. She may choose whatever her heart desires.”
Vivienne hadn’t a hope of listening to her heart when it galloped like a wild horse. Mr Sloane was as skilled at sentiment as he was tongue tangling.
“And what of you, sir?” Mrs Mulligan said. “A wife should complement her husband. It will be difficult to match anything with a plague doctor.”
“What about a corsair? Would that make your job easier, madam?”
Vivienne liked the idea of him embracing his ancestry. And seeing Mr Sloane in pirate garb would surely cause his cousin discomfort, presuming Charles Sloane attended the masquerade. But then the countess had claimed it was to be the social event of the year.
“Much easier, sir. I have the perfect coat in mind.” The woman turned her attention to Vivienne. “Shall we retire to the salon and discuss your ideas? I shall lock the shop so we’re not disturbed.”
Mr Sloane cleared his throat. “Just one more question, Mrs Mulligan. Might you have a plague mask I can purchase?”
The shopkeeper shook her head. “Alas, someone purchased three such masks, and I have yet to receive the replacements.”
“Three?” Mr Sloane frowned. “That’s an excessive amount for an unusual mask.”
The woman shrugged. “The fellow was half-cut
when he bought them, slurring and stumbling about the place. He fell into the console table and knocked over my fancy gilt clock.” She laughed. “Happen he got home and couldn’t remember how he came by them.”
“Did he give his name?” Mr Sloane said abruptly.
Mrs Mulligan seemed suddenly suspicious.
“You must put my husband out of his misery,” Vivienne said. “He’s wagered fifty pounds on the fact he can purchase a plague mask before the masquerade.” She tapped Mr Sloane on the arm. “Mr Mallory is determined to win the bet and must have purchased every mask in town.”
“The gentleman placed an order for two more masks.” Mrs Mulligan removed a leather tome from under the counter and turned to the relevant page. “Oh! No, I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”
“Mistaken?”
“His name isn’t Mr Mallory. It’s Mr Wicks.”
Chapter 11
“I canna recall seeing the lass so excited.” Buchanan joined Evan in the hall. “Seems she wants to keep her costume a secret, though I heard Mrs McCready say she’ll catch her death in the flimsy gown.”
Anticipation burned in Evan’s chest. The wait was killing him. For twenty minutes he’d paced back and forth at the bottom of the marble staircase, dressed in his corsair costume—grey coat with gold buttons and trim, an open-necked shirt and a brown leather belt thick enough to carry the weight of three pistols.
“If it’s flimsy, I doubt she’s coming as an Elizabethan courtier.”
Whatever the costume, Evan would make her come tonight. It was impossible to suppress his desire, impossible not to gather her into his arms and plunder her pretty mouth. They’d be married within a week. Why postpone the inevitable?