Page 95 of The Lyon Whisperer
“Ma’am?” Sally asked, as he closed the trap.
“It’s a fine day. I fancy doing a bit of shopping as we have time to kill before my meeting in Mayfair.”
Unbeknownst to anyone, Amelia had purposely left Warren House much earlier than necessary to reach Lady Harriet’s residence on time.
The idea had come to her after Chase explained, none too happily, that his solicitor had gotten precisely nowhere in tracking down the source of the fabric scraps they’d salvaged in Copsham. Not one of the shopkeepers questioned claimed any knowledge of the materials. None had seen them. None had any notion where they might have been produced.
Amelia called poppycock to that.
Modistes relied on the upper crust for their very existence. They also understood thehaute tonwas a fickle lot. If they were to remain in business, seamstresses and tailors catering to the monied classes must have skill and fashion sense, of course.
But they also, by necessity, needed a stellar reputation for exclusivity, and, above all, discretion.
If word got out they doled out the names of their clients willy-nilly, especially in conjunction with a criminal act, they would be out of business faster than a seamstress could say, “Oui, madame,” in her questionable French accent.
Chase’s solicitor never had a chance of success. If Chase would have consulted with her previously, she could have advised him.
What was needed here was an intimate connection—the sort she had with her modiste, Madame Eloise of Bond Street. The woman would talk to her.
She had not told Chase of her plan. She didn’t want to get his hopes up, and, perhaps, she wanted to see the look on his face when he realized she had succeeded where his solicitor had not.
After directing Sally to the chocolatier on the corner, Amelia opened the door to Madame Eloise’s establishment. Bells jangled overhead, announcing her arrival.
One of Eloise’s seamstresses looked up from helping another of the shop’s patrons, a red-haired woman who stood before a floor-length mirror while the seamstress held a swath of pale-pink fabric across her midsection.
“Oh, if it isn’t Lady Amelia. Pardon me, mum,” the seamstress—Ellie, if Amelia remembered correctly—set her bundle aside and dashed through a curtain divider to the back of the shop.
Eloise herself bustled through the curtains a moment later. “Lady Duval, oh, pardon, Culver,n’est-ce pas?” she enthused in her best French accent. “Welcome, welcome. ’Ow may I ’elp you today, madame? We did not expect to see you so soon after delivering your trousseau.”
“I rather hoped I could discuss a gown I wish to have fashioned.” She eyed the red-haired woman, briefly. “In private?”
“But, of course,” Eloise replied, as Amelia had known she would.
After all, Amelia had made purchases in the woman’s shop totaling in the hundreds of pounds over the last several years.
Eloise clapped her hands above her head. “Do not disturb us under any circumstance,” she announced to the room in general, and held the curtain aside for Amelia to pass.
They did not speak until they’d reached Madame Eloise’satelier, where she met with her customers and sketched her designs.
Eloise gestured toward one of two luxurious, pink-and-gold damask-covered armchairs situated across from her desk before sitting herself.
“Now zen, madame, what have you in mind zat requires utmost privacy? I confess ze suspense is killing me.”
Amelia reached into her bag and pulled out two scraps of fabric. In an instant the smell of rancid animal fat scented the air.
Madame Eloise blinked and, to her credit, refrained from comment about the offensive odor. She did not mask the flash of recognition at the sight of the cloth nearly so well.
Amelia spoke in a low tone. “I can see by your expression my husband’s solicitor made his way to your shop, Madame Eloise. He told my husband he made the rounds, starting with the highest quality modistes and tailors in London. Naturally, your shop would rank top of the list.”
She sniffed. “But, of course.” She cocked her head and gave Amelia a frankly curious look. “A man did visit my shop. He did not, however, mention the name of his employer. It is your husband, Lord Culver, who wishes to discover the origin of these fabrics?”
Remarkable how the woman’s accent had given way to one decidedly Welch.
Amelia nodded. “Yes.”
“I see.” The woman glanced toward the drawn curtains. “I have never laid eyes on the pieces. But even if I had, you understand my position,n’est-ce pas? If it got out I discussed my clientele…” She let her words dwindle.
“I understood immediately the predicament facing the shopkeepers questioned.” She fixed Eloise with a frank stare. “Just as I understood how much my patronage meant to you when I put it about that I would frequent no one’s shop but yours after the unfortunate incident with your ex-client who preferred to slander your establishment rather than pay for the gowns you’d made her.”
