“We believe she is one of Monsieur Cherrien’s clients,” Miss Flax said.
“We never discuss our clients, monsieur et mademoiselle. And I regret to say that Monsieur Cherrien is at present occupied, and I expect that he will be occupied for many, many, many hours. Please do make an appointment.” The secretary spread open an appointment book and flicked through several pages—mostly empty pages. “Ah. He does have an available time on the fifteenth of January.”
“January,” Gabriel said. “This is November.”
The secretary looked up. “Do you wish for the appointment, or no?”
Miss Flax leaned over the desk and, cheeks flaming, said, “I have a mind to go straight into Monsieur Cherrien’s office this minute.”
“You will be sadly disappointed. He keeps the door locked. Shall I summon the police?”
“Good morning, monsieur.” Gabriel led Miss Flax out of the office.
“Stonewalled,” Miss Flax said, as they went down the stairs.
“We’ll go to see Madame Fayette, the couturière, next, but it occurs to me that you ought to have a cozy chat with Malbert later. Perhaps he’ll divulge something about Henrietta wishing to divorce him.”
“Malbert is about as liable to divulge secrets as a suet pudding. But I reckon it’s worth an attempt.”
*
Maison Fayette was a mile or two away, in a fancy shopping street called Rue de la Paix. Marble pillars flanked its carved door, and sparkling windows on either side displayed nothing but mauve velvet draperies.
“A waiter at my hotel told me fantastical tales of Madame Fayette,” Penrose said. He pressed the doorbell. “Evidently she is a sorceress with needle and thread, and he said that ladies swear she works magic on their figures.”
“Magic? No doubt she’s got her hands on some extra strong corset laces, then.”
The door opened and a maid led them inside. Penrose gave the maid his card and she scurried away, leaving them in a waiting room decorated with mirrors and urns of roses.
Ophelia caught sight of herself in one of the mirrors. She’d done her best to sponge her traveling gown and cloak, but she still looked as shabby as a church mouse next to the professor. Oh, well. Nothing to be done about it except stand up tall. No need to ponder how well Miss Ivy Banks probably looked next to him.
“When you speak to Madame Fayette alone,” Penrose said, “ask her if she made the gown and the matching ballet costume. When it comes to the stomacher, be as subtle as you are able.”
“Why am I to speak to her alone?”
Penrose didn’t answer.
“Welcome, Lord Harrington!” A tiny, chubby woman floated towards them, arms outstretched. “I am Madame Fayette.” Her voice was fluting and French-accented. She was between grass and hay—sixty years old, maybe—clothed in an expertly darted black silk gown. Her silver hair was swept up beneath a Spanish lace cap, and a diamond bracelet shimmered at her wrist. “I made your cousin Eliza’s wedding gown last year. To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”
“My American cousin, Miss Stonewall”—Penrose drew Ophelia forward—“is in need of a few gowns. She lost her trunks somewhere between Cleveland and Paris, I’m afraid, and has been forced to borrow her maidservant’s attire. Do you suppose you might have a visiting gown and—what do you ladies call your coats these days?”
“A paletot?” Madame Fayette said.
“Yes, a paletot, made up for Miss Stonewall by tomorrow, and a ball gown and another gown in the next few days?”
“Tomorrow? Oh dear. I do have sixteen seamstresses, oui, but we are quite busy, Lord Harrington. Quite. Prince Rupprecht’s ball is in but three days’ time, so—”
“I would compensate you for the rush. Miss Stonewall is rather desperate.”