Page 98 of The Lyon Whisperer
It took her a fair bit more time than she’d anticipated to come to the conclusion this particular haberdasher was not the source of the fabrics the arsonist had used.
However, she did not consider the time wasted. Mr. Smith provided her the name of a tailor who he claimed could procure any style of fabric she could imagine, which sounded promising indeed.
For his trouble, she ordered several yards of superior black superfine, which the tailor of her choosing would purportedly use to produce a new suit for Chase.
She exited the shop, eyeing the carriage, then the growing congestion of vehicles lining Bond Street. She gauged the distance to the tailor Mr. Smith recommended as a short, two block walk.
That settled it.
“Geoffrey, I have one more, small errand. The shop is quite close. I shall take the opportunity to stretch my legs and return momentarily.”
“Ma’am? Shall I hop down and help Sally out of the carriage to join you?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Too much trouble.” Besides, she hadn’t a moment to waste if she wanted to arrive to her meeting on time. She set off at a brisk pace.
She found the shop easily. A wrought Iron sign depicting scissors and a measuring tape, and proclaiming the establishmentHoby and Shepperd—Fine Gentleman’s Tailoring,hung over the door.
She swept inside on a gust of wind into a masculine space with dark carpets, ruby-red papered walls, and heavy furnishings.
Two gentlemen shook hands near the back of the shop. One wore a measuring tape around his neck. She waited until the other man in sports tweeds passed her en route for the door, lifting his hat in polite greeting.
The man wearing the tape measure, brows arched in query, rounded the counter toward her. “Good afternoon, madam…?”
“Lady Culver,” she said, moving farther into the shop. “I’ve come upon recommendation from Mr. Smith of Smith’s Haberdashery. As I explained to him, I would like to commission a special suit for my husband, as a gift. I have a particular pattern in mind for a waistcoat and pocket kerchief and am having a dastardly time finding what I seek.”
“I’ve no doubt we can accommodate you. Describe the pattern?”
Excitement rippled through her, but she kept her expression neutral. “A fine weave, of course, in a jacquard print.” She watched for any sign of reaction.
He pursed his lips. “Jacquard print? I must say you are well informed as to the recent fashion trends, are you not?”
“I like to think so.”
“The local artisans from whom I purchase my wares have little in the way of jacquard prints.”
“Pity.” It had been worth a try.
“However, I have another source, a company which deals in imported goods from”—he hesitated—“the continent. It will cost a pretty penny, you understand?”
“Perfectly,” she replied. “Do you have a sample to show me? Before we proceed, I’d like to ascertain the pattern is to my liking.”
“Sadly, no. If you leave your direction, however, I can arrange to come to you once I have one or two bolts in my possession, at which time we can also take your husband’s measurements.”
In a flash she envisioned the debacle of the tailor arriving with the jacquard print in tow, claiming the need to measure her husband for a fictitious suit. They’d never find the true source of the fabric should that happen, and all her investigative work would be for naught.
“No, no, that won’t be possible. My husband and I are frequently out of town. I will return in one week’s time. Will that suffice for you to procure a sample?”
She arrived atnumber 7 Dove Street, Lady Harriet and Margaret’s posh Mayfair home, right on time.
The housekeeper answered the door and directed Sally to the kitchens where she would enjoy a relaxing few hours drinking tea and sharing gossip with the other companions and lady’s maids who had accompanied the various members of the club.
Amelia handed off her pelisse, cap, and gloves and sashayed into the drawing room on a tide of excitement.
“If it isn’t the belle of the Colliers’ ball,” Margaret exclaimed, moving from behind Lady Harriet’s desk where she had been studiously reading over her friend’s shoulder. She took Amelia’s hands and kissed her on both cheeks.
“Good afternoon, Margaret, Lady Harriet,” Amelia said.
A quick glance toward the seating area, a semicircle of armchairs and a medium-sized sofa, all centered around a table laden with cakes, a silver tea service, finger sandwiches, and, of course, a stack of leather-bound books, told her Lady Georgina and Charlotte had already arrived.
