Page 110 of The Lyon Whisperer
He refrained from mentioning the gnawing sense of worry eating at his insides which had led him there in the first place.
Her expression softened. “Sir,” she began in a comforting tone, “there is no need for embarrassment. Neither Eloise nor her staff knew my whereabouts,per se.” She stopped speaking abruptly when he pinched the bridge of his nose.
“So much better knowingno one alive had a clue of your whereabouts.” There went his jaw again.
“There is no call for sarcasm.”
“Speak for yourself,” he muttered.
She lifted her chin in a show of defiance, but the uncertainty in her eyes told a different story. “I was trying to do something helpful. I did not tell you because”—a red stain stole up her neck—“because I feared you would pooh-pooh my efforts, and as it turns out, you would have been justified in doing so.”
He would not allow her tender feelings to sway him, he vowed.Not this time.“Explain.”
“When you told me your solicitor could not help you locate the source of the fabric used as a wick for the accelerant, it occurred to me I might be able to succeed where he failed.”
“Go on.” He was aware of an unwitting curiosity to hear his wife’s tale—even as the urge to take her over his knee for her daring flared through him.
Any lingering chagrin she seemed to have faded as she warmed to her tale. “No modiste, or tailor, for that matter, is going to offer up information that may indicate one of their clients. There’s no faster way to lose standing with the upper crust of society than to gain a reputation for being indiscreet.”
He nodded, reluctantly impressed. “I see your point. What does this have to do with you?”
“I brought some of the fabric scraps we discovered at the site of the fire to Eloise. I have given her much business over the years, and we have developed a rapport. She trusts me, you see.”
“Did you learn anything useful?”
She smiled with triumph despite her earlier statement attesting to her failure. “She recognized neither the print nor the white linen. However, the jacquard pattern and tight weaves, in her expert opinion, indicated the fabric is likely imported, possibly illegally so, and”—she sent him a jaunty smile—“would be used to create a gentleman’s garment, not a lady’s gown.”
He refused to return her smile. “I see.”
“My next move was to visit a haberdashery…”
He half groaned, half growled.
“…armed with the tale I wished to purchase a new suit as a gift for my recently wed groom.” Her smile turned to an impish grin.
He frowned—pointedly.
Her grin faltered. She cleared her throat and went on. “I first had to convince Mr. Smith—he’s the proprietor of Smith’s Haberdashery,” she explained.
He waved his hand in an impatient gesture for her to continue.
“Right, well, your reputation preceded you, sir, and Mr. Smith expressed concern over my choice of pattern for you.” Her eyes skimmed over him, taking in his clothing.
He wore his usual black suit, a charcoal-colored waistcoat, and white shirtsleeves. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Nonetheless, her slow perusal was having an unfortunate, if all too familiar effect on him. With an effort of will, he forced his mind back on track.
“He had somehow acquired the opinion you would prefer something in black to a colorful print.”
An indeterminate grunt sufficed for a reply.
She went on. “Despite his astute observation, I insisted. A patterned waistcoat, or pocket hanky, at the very least. Sadly, he could not help me locate such a fabric. However, he gave me the name of a tailor who he believed could.”
“I suppose you visited him next?”
She nodded. “Hoby and Shepperd’s, on Bond Street. I popped by…em…last week.”
“Last. Week,” he bit out.
