Page 10 of A Secret Correspondence
“The green with gold?”
“Yes.”
“I can see how that would go well with your complexion, monsieur.”
“My tailor thought otherwise, but I did not allow him to dissuade me. I am often forcing him to create things he does not wish to, but I am usually satisfied with the end result.” He shrugged.
“Usually?”
Samuel fought the smile that wanted to curve over his lips. “Occasionally, he will alter it according to his own taste.”
“The first rule of our trade,” she said. “Serve the customer’s wishes.”
“I’m not sure my tailor received the same charter as you. Is that how you operate?”
“Yes. Though I sometimes manage to steer patrons toward a better selection when I am able.”
“Given how well turned out the women of Harewood are, I imagine you are quite the shepherd. Your flock would be grateful if they knew.”
Her eyes flashed, and he detected a hint of concern. “I would prefer they didn’t.”
“Do not worry, madame. Your secret is safe with me. Honestly, I am impressed. You do wonderful work here. It is a service to us all—those who wear your creations, and those who must look upon them.”
Her round eyes narrowed. “You know precisely what to say at all times, do you not, Mr. Harding? I wonder that any woman would take you at your word.”
Surprise struck him in a fierce motion. She was correct, of course. He had a smooth way of speaking to most women. But he had been entirely honest with Madame Perreau from the moment he stepped through her shop door.
The bell rang over through the room, announcing the liveried footman as he entered the shop. He bowed crisply at the waist and held out a folded letter, the wax seal obvious from this distance. Lady Faversham had sent a note. “A message for you, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” Madame Perreau said, taking the letter.
“I’ll be off then,” Samuel said, following the footman toward the door. He felt a reluctance to leave her, for he had enjoyed their natural repartee. She had a smooth way of speaking to him that was gently challenging, causing him to forget about the vast valley between their stations. Not that he cared a whit for any of that, but he knew to be seen flirting with her could bring unpleasant rumors to her door.
Yes, he needed to leave.
“Thank you, monsieur.”
“I suppose I’ll take the cat with me.”
“That would be best.”
“Good day, madame.”
“Good day.” She did not move from her place beside the long counter, her elegant hands clasped before her with Lady Faversham’s letter between them.
Samuel pushed through the door into the chilly autumn air, the cat warm against his chest. He glanced up the High Street, where Keeley was repairing the chandlers’ broken eaves, then ducked his head and turned for his waiting carriage.
If this cat wasn’t Claude, where was she?
It had takena good deal of coaxing and a small bowl of cream, but the cat eventually allowed Paxton, the Harding stable master, to examine her. All things considered, she was not riddled with fleas and seemed healthy enough. She had been found close enough to the Harding property that they could not determine where she would have traveled from.
“We could always use another mouser,” Paxton said, rubbing the back of his neck. “The house might want it, too.”
“Her,” Samuel corrected. “Still needs a name, though.” He had never much been drawn to the French, but something abouthis recent association with Madame Perreau and the spectacle with Claude made him consider similar names. Colette. Odette. Celeste? None of those seemed to fit his scrappy gray feline.
“You become too attached when you name them, sir,” Paxton said.
“That’s the trouble. I am already attached.”
