Page 96 of The Lyon Whisperer
Eloise pressed her lips together.
Having made her case, Amelia gave the gown maker a reassuring smile. “Which is why I said nothing to my husband nor my lady’s maid, nor anyone else about my decision to come consult with you on this matter.” She paused. “Now I ask you again, Eloise. You’re certain you’ve never seen these particular textiles before?”
The woman fingered the scraps, her internal conflict over how far to trust Amelia written all over her face.
Abruptly, her expression turned resigned. “I am.”
“How can you be so sure? One is nothing more than a white cloth, or it used to be prior to the abuse it took. The other boasts a unique print, certainly, but I vow I would be hard-pressed to describe it with it out of my sight.”
“For one thing, the quality of the material is very fine. The white linen weave is superior to any I’ve seen produced locally. Or, on this side of the Channel.” She gave Amelia a meaningful look.
Amelia gasped. “You mean…?”
Eloise nodded sagely. “French contraband.”
“But how can you be sure the origin is France?”
She pointed to the print. “This particular style is very French. The latest trend in men’s fashions.”
“Men’s,” Amelia exclaimed, flopping back in her armchair. “I admit I had not considered that.” She frowned. “In that case, it’s doubtful I’ll be able to help my husband, at all. The only tailor I know of,per se, is my father’s, Mr. Rigby, and I cannot imagine questioning him any more than I can see him going outside the boundaries of the law.”
She refrained from mentioning if her father got word of her taking her investigations to his tailor he would likely disown her.
Eloise narrowed her eyes. “I wonder…The shopkeepers I know, including men’s tailors, all buy materials, buttons, lacework from local haberdashers. There are only one or two I myself use. Mayhap you can visit one of them?”
Amelia brightened. “An excellent notion, Eloise. Perhaps I can inquire after a particular style, or quality, say, for a gift for my new husband.”
A cunning smile curved Eloise’s ruby-red lips. “I’ll give you the direction of the two I most prefer. But remember—”
“Your name stays out of it.” Amelia mimed locking her lips shut and tossing away the key.
Chapter Twenty-One
Amelia stepped outof Madame Eloise’s shop onto a bustling walkway under overcast skies. The scent of rain hung the air, and a damp chill permeated the gusty breeze.
Sally sat atop the coach next to Geoffrey, chatting amiably.
The two hopped down as Amelia approached.
Geoffrey set the stoop and opened the carriage door, helping Amelia and then Sally, inside.
“Thank you, Geoffrey. We have one more stop prior to Dove Street.” She gave him the direction and soon the carriage lurched into motion.
“Where to now, ma’am?” Sally asked.
Amelia wrinkled her nose. “You know I dislike being calledma’amby you Sally. We’ve known each other far too long for that.”
Sally made atut-tutsound. “You’re a married lady now, ma’am.” She lowered her voice before continuing, even though no one else was about to hear her. “I’ll not have people saying my mistress hasn’t the respect of her servants, when all of us would do anything for you, as you well know.”
Warmth suffused her.
Sally arched her chestnut brows and went on. “I also don’t wish to find m’self turned out without a reference by Lord Culver. He likes things good an’ proper, if you take my meaning.”
Amelia nibbled her lip. She did. “I’ll have to give that some thought. But to answer your question, I…wish to purchase a gift for my husband. Madame Eloise was kind enough to offer much needed advice on whom to ask.”
“Your dressmaker?” Sally tittered into her hand. “You mean to buy the baron a gown, ma’am?”
“Really, Sally, I fancy outfitting him in a suit in the latest style.”
