Secluded with the Rogue

Chapter 7

Seven

C alvin cursed himself. Inviting Mrs. Lépine into his rented rooms was the opposite of avoiding distractions. It was inviting trouble.

And yet, from the moment she’d appeared at his door, inevitable.

He ushered her past his bedchamber and toward the small parlor he’d converted into a temporary workshop.

As soon as she stepped into the parlor, she shrieked and stumbled backward, straight into Calvin’s chest.

He caught her, his arms sheltering her instinctively. Her hair was still damp from her bath and smelt of orange and nutmeg. He tried not to notice how well she fit against his body.

“What is it?” His cheek nestled against her head. “What has happened?”

The parlor looked as it always did. A bit messy, perhaps, with folded piles of fashionable prototypes and samples of expensive fabric laying on every surface, but he hadn’t expected it to cause terror .

Mrs. Lépine let out a short, embarrassed laugh. “That man... I thought... When I glimpsed him from the corner of my eye...”

It was Calvin’s turn to chuckle in embarrassment. “A thousand apologies for not explaining sooner. That’s Duke, my manikin. He’s a lay figure made of wickerwork, and the most patient model a tailor could have. He doesn’t even mind when I poke him with a needle.”

“ Are you a tailor?”

It wasn’t until she slid around to face him that Calvin realized Mrs. Lépine was still wrapped in his arms. He should let her go. He would have let go, if she had pushed away from him instead of turning toward him. His hands now rested at the small of her back. Her face was a mere hand’s width from his.

“What was the question?” he rasped.

Her chin tilted up, bringing her lips even closer to his. All he would have to do was drop his head a few inches and his mouth could claim hers.

“You’re a tailor? Out here? Who are your clients?”

“No clients,” he managed. “The designs I’m creating are... a speculative experiment.”

Her eyes were too close to his. He couldn’t stop looking at them, drowning in them.

“You’re very talented.”

All she had seen was a waistcoat and a wicker manikin. She had no idea if Calvin was a talented clothier. Unless she wasn’t talking about his designs. Then what would she mean he was talented at? Holding her close? Unbuttoning her gown?

He released her at once and turned to fiddle with the fireplace so she would not sense his consternation. “Would you like tea?”

“Tea?” she echoed blankly, as though she forgot the meaning of the word.

“I’ll put the kettle on.”

There. That was a calm, platonic, definitely-not-kissing-the-beguiling-widow action to take. Calvin had come to Houville to prepare for his presentation without disruption. He would serve his beautiful distraction a quick cup of tea, and send her on her way.

“You keep tea in your room?”

He glanced over his shoulder in surprise. “Don’t you?”

She bit her lip. “My room hasn’t even a fireplace.”

He suspected that was not the full story, and cursed himself for wanting to know what the full story really was.

“I travel with everything,” he said, rather than press for information. “When I’m working on a project, sometimes I don’t leave the workroom for days on end. I’ve fallen asleep on that sofa as many times as the bed.”

She glanced at the sofa with interest.

He deeply regretted mentioning beds at all.

“You mentioned you don’t have clients,” she said, and then paused as if Calvin would know what to say next.

He did not. The shrilling of the kettle saved him from having to pretend to. He removed it from the heat, only to remember he had a month’s supply of tea but only one cup and saucer. When he’d packed for “everything,” he had not anticipated entertaining a pretty woman who could not remove her clothes without Calvin’s help.

“I don’t want tea,” he announced, and shoved the saucer her way. The sooner she drank it and left, the sooner he could return to his work and life as usual.

She frowned. “Surely you?—”

“I have only the one cup.”

“Of course you do,” she murmured, which made no sense at all. How many people did she know with only one teacup?

“Mrs. Lépine,” he began.

“I’ll pay you,” she blurted out.

He blinked. “You’ll what?”

“Just until Ursula recovers, or the snow melts, whichever comes first,” she explained, as though that explained anything. She didn’t touch her tea. She plucked at her fingers as if removing an invisible set of gloves. “You have no clients and I have no lady’s maid. It’s perhaps not perfect, but... I’ll give you four guineas a day to continue buttoning me every morning and unbuttoning me at night.”

Four guineas was more than the average maid or footman earned in an entire month.

Calvin would have unbuttoned her for free.

“Five guineas,” said Mrs. Lépine, as though he had argued. “You are not a lady’s maid, and I respect that. I shall also expect you to adhere to absolute discretion.”

“Shall you?” he said, his voice dangerous.

“If it’s not enough, just tell me your price,” she said, as though he had answered an employment advert and was now being unreasonable. “Six guineas? Seven?”

Despite his fancy clothes, she saw him as someone to be purchased like a servant. Not a man who could give his word as a gentleman. Calvin’s word carried no weight because he was no gentleman. He was a stranger to be pitied, or to be bought.

“The terms are,” she continued as though he had dared to negotiate, “when we leave here, we do so as strangers. Not only won’t anyone know you assisted in Ursula’s place, you’ll deny ever having met me at all.”

“Will I?” Each word was cold and flinty. “Ten pounds a day, with a fifty quid minimum, paid up front.”

There. Now she would know how it felt not to be trusted to keep one’s word. Besides, fifty pounds was a ridiculous sum. The annual wage of a butler. Enough to commission two dozen serviceable day dresses with nary a button.

Not the sort of coin one offered a posting house guest so that one could pretend one had never met him without fear of the dirty secret being found out.

“Very well.” She opened her reticule.

Who the devil gadded about with fifty quid in their reticule?

Someone who thought ordinary men like him could be purchased and discarded, like a day-old newspaper.

“Why don’t we sign a contract?” he asked with exaggerated solicitousness. “Will that set your mind at ease?”

Without waiting for a response, he set his writing slant atop one of his traveling trunks and put pen to paper.

“Ten per day... Fifty on signing... Buttons... Absolute discretion... Proceedings limited to Mrs. Lépine presenting herself at Mr. McAlistair’s door... We the undersigned solemnly swear to never again acknowledge the other’s existence once the roads clear or the maid resumes service, whichever comes first.” He signed his name with a flourish and held out the plume. “Madame?”

“Thank you,” she said without irony, and signed her name. “Now it is binding.”

She placed five ten-pound notes onto his slant and picked up the “contract” by a corner, lest the ink smear.

Calvin didn’t know whether it was better or worse that she didn’t seem to realize how offensive it was to try and purchase a fellow guest like a servant.

No, not to try . She’d achieved it. The contract was in her hand.

Well, what did he care? He was fifty pounds richer. He hadn’t been planning to start an acquaintance with Mrs. Lépine, much less continue on once they departed the Hoot pretty to look at, painful to touch. He would stay on his path and leave her to hers. It was better for both of them.

She picked up her tea, realized it had gone cold, and set it back down in the saucer unsampled. “Will you show me more of your work?”

He stared at her. Would he what? She’d just paid a proper ransom to keep him in his place, and now she wanted a tour of his haberdashery? And Calvin thought he didn’t know how to avoid awkwardness with other people.

Maybe... maybe Mrs. Lépine didn’t know either. Maybe she was worse . Maybe what she needed most wasn’t help with buttons, but kindness.

“It must be brief,” he reminded her. “I’m very busy.”

She nodded eagerly and set the contract on the sofa cushion next to her reticule.

How much blunt was left inside? A fistful of hundred-pound notes? Did she even realize he could not exchange her ten-pound notes for ready cash unless he visited the Bank of England in London?

Perhaps that explained Mrs. Lépine. She was from London. Her clothes indicated wealth, although Calvin of all people knew how little stock to put into a fine costume.

Her refined accent had been a better clue. Money wasn’t something new she had married into, but rather something she had been born with.

Perhaps this was her first trip outside London. How would she know how everyone else lived? Her husband would have handled all financial matters. Or a man of business would have, Calvin supposed. Perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Lépine had been creatures of leisure.

Perhaps she had asked about Calvin’s work not because she was interested in him or his art, but because she was bored, and he was the caged tiger in the menagerie.

“In short,” he said as if concluding a long lecture, even though he had just begun. “This—” He pointed at his manikin. “—is the sort of evening dress one might wear for dancing at the local assembly. These—” He held up a few pieces that had been lying folded on one of the chairs. “—are different waistcoat fabrics and cuts, depending on the preference and body shape of the wearer. Those—” He gestured vaguely toward the other chair. “—are trousers with varying styles of straps, depending on the dimensions of the wearer’s foot and the fit of his boot.”

“These are beautiful.” She gazed at the waistcoats in his hand with reverence, reaching out to touch one and then dropping her hand to her side just before her fingers could graze the fine material.

His chest swelled with warmth.

“But...” Her brow furrowed. “Wouldn’t you know your customer’s preferences and dimensions?”

“Not if all goes well,” he said cryptically, then took pity on her confusion.

Telling her would change nothing. She would not start her own catalogue to compete with his, and even if she attempted to, the gambit would not work. Calvin might be ill at ease in social situations, but he was a skilled designer, and he knew it. Jonathan was his perfect complement; unable to sew a straight seam, but friendly, persuasive, with an eye for opportunities others would miss. Fit for a Duke would be the toast of England—provided the snow melted in time to make his meeting, and that the investor saw the true potential.

“It’s pre-made apparel,” Calvin explained. “One can have it tailored separately or wear each item just as it comes. The idea is to look like one is wearing expensive clothing without the money and time investment of a good tailor. Our ideal client won’t even know what fashion to ask for. He just wants to be handsome.”

“‘Our?’”

“My business partner and me. This will be much too large an operation to run on one’s own.”

He hoped.

Mrs. Lépine was still frowning. “You don’t want wealthy, fashionable patrons?”

“No,” he said flatly. “I’ve no use for them, nor they for me. They have their own needs and resources. My designs are for the people who do not. I want to give people of middling incomes and nonexistent connections an opportunity they would not otherwise have.”

She tilted her head. “Your aim is that, at any given country assembly, the local dairy farmer should be indistinguishable from the lord of the manor?”

“Exactly,” he agreed without hesitation. “That’s precisely it. Obviously, someone familiar with fashion can tell the difference, but such individuals are of no interest to me or to my customers. The farmer is not out to marry the princess. He wants to impress the woman he’s been in love with since they rolled down the hill together at age eight.”

“You want to be the fairy godmother that dresses the common man in clothes fit for a king, and helps them to find true love?”

“Why not?” he countered. “Is true love only for the wealthy?”

A strange expression flitted over her eyes. “It’s not for the wealthy at all, I’m afraid. They’ve political alliances and country piles to marry for. I think your intentions are marvelous. Someone should be marrying for love. Why not your customers?”

The warmth at her praise was tempered by the strange phrasing of her answer. Had Mrs. Lépine not married for love? Was there some political alliance she’d hoped to make, or country pile she’d wanted to manage?

“What are you working on now?” she asked.

“A new design.” He started to pick up the pile of gray superfine, then changed his mind. “I’m waiting for special buttons from the local haberdasher. They were to send a girl round this morning, but as you can see...” He gestured vaguely at the window.

“I can see.” She stepped closer to the window. “I’ve never been more envious of anything in my life as I am of the view from your window. Mine is a quarter of this size and only faces a brick wall. It provides dreadful light to paint by.”

He remembered glimpsing an easel in her room the first time he’d helped with her dress. She wasn’t expecting him to invite her to bring her paints into his workroom, was she? He could not imagine a bigger distraction. The only way to work was alone .

“May I see?” She gestured at the superfine.

“It’s missing buttons,” he reminded her.

“I won’t mind if you don’t.”

He did mind, very much. He never showed anyone unfinished creations. Only once they were perfect and awe-inspiring.

A greatcoat without buttons was not awe-inspiring.

Then again, what did he care about Mrs. Lépine’s opinion? Calvin created sophisticated apparel for unsophisticated men with few coins in their pockets. She was the opposite of his intended audience in every way. Besides, once they left this inn, not only would they never see each other again... Their ridiculous contract would prohibit her from disclosing anything she’d glimpsed here. Her thoughts on the matter were absolutely irrelevant.

And yet, when he held up the greatcoat, he could not help but hold his breath.

Her face brightened. “Is it possible to fall in love with a greatcoat? Brummell would. He’d wear that gorgeous coat just as it is, and the next thing you know, all the fashionable gentlemen would strut down Bond Street without buttons. Honestly, I don’t know why I haven’t heard of your company before.”

“We haven’t started yet,” Calvin admitted. “We’ve a meeting next week with a potential investor whose faith will make the whole thing possible... or not. When I finish the prototypes, Jonathan will sketch the new costumes. Once we determine the best ones, he’ll color them so they look like fashion plates, and the resulting catalogue will be how we sell our creations.”

If the snow melted in time for all of that. He grimaced.

“What is it?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing. I’m hurrying to finish my newest design, but one costume more or less won’t matter as much as that catalogue. Not only do Jonathan and I need to determine the winning pieces together, he needs time to color the illustrations.”

“Maybe he’s ahead with his work,” she suggested. “If he’s anywhere near this snow, perhaps he’s painting all the sketches while he’s stuck indoors, and you two can determine the best ones later.”

“I don’t know what he’s doing, but it’s not that,” Calvin said dully. “He sent me the latest sketches a month ago for my review.” He flicked his fingers toward the table where they sat.

Mrs. Lépine crept over to the pile of illustrations as though they had fangs that might bite. She stared at the topmost one without touching it, then turned to Calvin so quickly her skirt flared around her ankles.

“I’ll do it.” Her eyes were overbright.

He frowned. “You’ll do what?”

“I’ll paint the illustrations.” She beamed at him.

He almost laughed at the idea. “Absolutely not. They have to be...”

“ ‘Good?’ ” she finished, her eyes flashing.

“They must be perfect .” This was not about her. This was about months of hard work. This was about not squandering what might be his only opportunity to realize a lifelong dream. He stepped protectively next to the illustrations. “These are originals. There are no copies. I cannot risk?—”

“I can paint.” Her voice cracked. “You would be lucky to have me.”

He sighed. “Mrs. Lépine...”

“Wait here.” She dashed out of the door before he could point out that of course he would wait here, these were his rooms; she was the one trespassing.

He hadn’t meant to offend her. Every single detail was of critical importance to the success of this venture. Every aspect, the result of countless hours of careful deliberation and planning.

The name, for instance. Fit for a Duke , but not just any duke. Specifically, the Duke of Nottingvale, the popular, handsome bachelor famous for his exclusive Yuletide parties. Men wanted to be him. This was his clients’ chance.

His manikin had been crafted to Nottingvale’s exact proportions. When the duke signed on as primary investor— if he signed on—Nottingvale’s patronage would be a vital component to how the rest of the country viewed Calvin’s designs. It wasn’t just the company’s word that these costumes were fit for a duke. Nottingvale himself would be named on the front page of the catalogue. Calvin’s apparel would become famous because Nottingvale was famous.

He would do nothing that might jeopardize the duke’s enthusiasm and full cooperation.

Calvin was already nervous enough about meeting the duke in a fortnight. Jonathan had met His Grace before, on multiple occasions, but Jonathan was the sort of man who got on with everyone. Nottingvale had been half sold on the idea from Jonathan’s word alone. He’d even had his tailor send his measurements on to Calvin.

This was their opportunity to solidify the partnership. The customers might be rag, tag and bobtail, but the financing for the venture hinged on impressing the Duke of Nottingvale enough for him to part with his money and loan his name and likeness.

It was a gamble for everyone.

Nothing could go wrong.

“ Here .” Mrs. Lépine burst back into the room with a basket and a stack of papers. She shoved the papers at Calvin. “Most of my portraits are at home because I normally paint landscapes, but... Look at the watercolors, not me. This is a Christmas gift for Ursula.”

He accepted the stack of papers and glanced down at the first one.

It was Mrs. Lépine and her maid wearing the morning dress and the promenade costume from the January 1814 Ackermann’s fashion repository. The resemblance was more than uncanny. Mrs. Lépine had painted them in the same poses as the original fashion plates.

He flipped to the next sheet. Ackermann’s, from February. This time, a carriage costume and an evening dress. Next sheet: La Belle Assemblée, March. Then Ackermann’s, Assemblée, Ackermann’s, Ackermann’s, Assemblée.

Mrs. Lépine cleared her throat. “It’s?—”

“A diary of sorts. A calendar.”

“A jest.” Her cheeks grew pink. “It’s the same gift every year. Us, traipsing through London as the most fashionable duo in history. We didn’t really go to all those places dressed like that?—”

Calvin hadn’t even noticed the backgrounds, but now that she mentioned it, of course these weren’t representations of real moments. No woman would wear a riding habit to the theatre, or an opera dress to a picnic. The juxtaposition was on purpose. None of the costumes matched their settings. It was all part of the joke.

“You must think me silly.”

“I think you very talented,” he admitted as he went through the watercolors a third and then a fourth time.

Jonathan was an exemplary strategist and far more competent than Calvin with pen and ink, but these paintings were brilliant. Mrs. Lépine hadn’t copied Ackermann’s art. She’d become it. Wasn’t that the very essence of Fit for a Duke?

“Watch.” She drew a piece of vellum from her basket and placed it over Jonathan’s topmost sketch. The pen lines were barely visible through the semi-transparent paper. “May I?”

His muscles tightened. “That is the only copy?—”

“For the moment. Don’t worry. No harm will befall your precious original.”

She took the sketch and overlaid vellum to the window and pressed it against the glass. The light from the morning sun made the ink lines perfectly visible through the vellum. Her fingers flew over the blank surface with a nub of pencil, deftly copying the original onto the vellum faster than Calvin had thought possible.

When she finished, she handed him the original. He squinted at it from all angles. It was unharmed. There weren’t even any indentations from her pencil. He placed it back with the other drawings with great care.

She flopped down onto his sofa and pulled his writing slant onto her lap.

“Normally I would use an easel,” she explained, “but vellum is hideous for watercolor, and the colors will run everywhere if the paper is not flat.”

She pulled several items from her basket—paper, paints, brushes, jars of water—and dashed at the new sketch for several minutes.

“There,” she said with a laugh. “Positively appalling. You must come here to look, because the moment I stand up, everything will run together, as it’s already started to do.”

He went to look.

It was not one painting but two. Vellum to one side, paper to the right. She was right: the vellum was too wet, but the promise was unmistakable. Just in case he happened to be corkbrained enough to mistake it anyway, she’d painted the same thing on the right, on paper meant for watercolor. It was missing the sharp black delineations of the inked sketch, but the painting itself was breathtaking and vibrant. Anyone who saw such an advertisement would wish to purchase the costume immediately.

“It’s dreadful, I know.” Her shoulders slumped. “If it were the real sketch, I would have taken my time and done it right. But if you can see the possibilities?—”

“ One ,” he rasped. “You can paint one, and then I will decide.”

He had never decided anything without Jonathan. They were partners; they decided everything together. That was the reason they were meeting the week prior to their appointment with Nottingvale.

But what if there was no week to prepare? What if their best chance at success was sitting in the middle of Calvin’s sofa?

He flipped through the sketches until he found the one that he liked the least. An old design, one he and Jonathan had already determined would not be present in the catalogue.

“Here.” He held it out. “Paint that.”

She took the sketch, then started packing up her basket.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

She blinked at him in surprise. “Taking this to my easel. These are just my traveling supplies, something I might take with me on a lark. My best paints are in my room.”

“And the best light is right here,” he reminded her. “Get your paints and your easel. The sketch stays here. None of them leave my sight.”

She lit up as if he were magnanimous rather than rude, and dashed off to her room for her easel and paints.

Calvin’s stomach fluttered. If she ruined even one of Jonathan’s drawings... Then again, if her genius at watercolor could make the illustrations far more impactful than either of them had dared to dream...

It took longer than he expected for her to paint the sketch, given how quickly she’d dashed off her samples, but when at last she showed him the finished work, Calvin’s heart tripped and his throat was too tight to speak.

The worst illustration of the lot now looked as though it ought to be on the front cover. It was magnificent. She was a genius. The Duke of Nottingvale would beg to be a full partner, rather than a mere investor. They would all be richer than the Medicis by springtime, and every previously unfashionable man in England would strut about like a peacock in a henhouse.

“All right,” he managed. “You can color the illustrations. I suppose you’ll be wanting your fifty quid back?”

Her eyes widened. “You would pay fifty pounds for my art?”

Now she realized what a ridiculous sum of money that was?

“It’s my pleasure,” she said in a rush, before he could answer. Her eyes were suspiciously glassy, and her words were scratchy. “Just knowing you want my work... It means more to me than you could ever know.”

He did not know what to say to that, so he didn’t try. He just stood there awkwardly, which was his second-best talent next to designing men’s couture.

Mrs. Lépine pointed at the next drawing on the pile. “May I?”

“Please,” he said gruffly. “And thank you. Your help will mean more to me than you will know.”

Oh, God, she was going to cry. Bollocks! Why did he always say the wrong thing?

“Thank you,” she said, her voice wobbly. She busied herself with her easel and paints, rather than look at Calvin.

He did the same, pretending to be far more interested in the seam he was sewing than in anything else in the room.

At first, he could scarcely concentrate. There was still the persistent fear that something irrevocable could happen to one of Jonathan’s sketches. Even more powerful was the hope, the faith, the belief that this was the missing piece to their puzzle.

Instead of apologetically saying, “Wait until you see the actual costume,” they would dazzle their prospective customers with the catalogue alone. People with no intention of purchasing would still subscribe as they did to any fashion repository. Brummell would say something pithy and cutting, which would elevate the costumes all the more. His insult would acknowledge Fit for a Duke; legitimize it. Calvin’s fashions would be a topic of conversation at every tea.

He finished the current waistcoat and moved onto the next before he realized how much he was enjoying the companionable silence with Mrs. Lépine. He was constantly aware of her presence—it would be difficult to fail to notice a beautiful woman adding paint to his life’s work next to the window—but she did not distract him in a negative way. If anything, the weight on his chest was a little lighter. It was surprisingly comforting to know there was someone else in the room, even if they weren’t in conversation.

No, not “someone else.” He was glad it was her . That was why he had been so angry earlier when she’d tried to employ him like a stableboy. He didn’t need her fifty quid when the Duke of Nottingvale was poised to invest a thousand pounds. Calvin had wanted Mrs. Lépine to want his company. To seek him out for some reason other than the lack of a convenient maid.

And now here she was, lit up by sunlight in his window, the “buttons only” contract tucked away in the shadows of her basket.

She didn’t have to be here. She could have left after they had both signed, and instead she had looked for a reason to stay.

After years of preferring solitude, having her in his parlor just felt... right.

Just as it had when he’d held her in his arms.

He didn’t realize he was gazing at her mooningly until she peeked around the side of her easel and blushed.

Calvin immediately did the same.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

Her eyes held his. “Today is already the pinnacle of my Yuletide.”

His stomach chose that moment to announce that it was past noon, and they had been working without cease.

The embarrassing sound should have broken the tension. It did not.

He set down his needle and thread.

Mrs. Lépine set down her paintbrush.

Calvin took a deep breath. She needed him because of her buttons, and he needed her for the illustrations. His next question would determine whether favors were all they had between them, or if there might be the start of something more.

He held her gaze. “Would you like to have luncheon with me?”

She bit her lip. She was going to say no.

He had tried.

“Would you like to have all meals together? Until the snow melts,” she added in a rush. “When I come in the morning to button up my gown, I could just... stay with you until it’s time to unbutton me.”

His mouth dried. There was only one answer to an offer like that.

“Where do I sign?”