A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(76)

“She needs a gown,” Toby said, turning from his study of plumes. “Suitable for the opera, ready three days hence.”

“The opera?” Bel echoed. “But we can’t!”

“Three days?” Madame clucked her tongue. “Impossible.”

“Certainly we can,” Toby said, striding forward and meeting Bel’s gaze in the mirrored reflection. Turning to Madame, he continued, “And it is possible. I have seen you work miracles before. Don’t tell me those nimble fingers are losing their touch, Maxime.”

“What would you know of my nimble fingers?” She threw him a coquettish glance as she retrieved a measuring tape from a drawer. “You should not have wasted your time with those girls, mon lapin. I would have corrupted you beyond all hope of redemption.”

“Promises, promises,” said Toby, catching the Frenchwoman’s hand and kissing her fingers playfully. Then he murmured something in French. Something that sounded exceedingly ribald

—but then, in French, nearly everything sounded ribald.

From behind the draperies at the back of the room came a chorus of feminine giggles. Ribald it must have been.

Bel sighed. She wondered if she would ever grow accustomed to watching Toby flirt with other women. The envy nipping at her elbows was absurd, she knew. Like Madame, most of his partners in this sort of repartee were not even especially young or attractive. They were simply women Toby sought to amuse or flatter, for one reason or another. She doubted he was even aware of it, this constant trade in compliments, any more than he tracked the pennies that entered and left his pocket. He gave the ladies what was, in essence, a glittering token: a fleeting moment of feeling desired by the most attractive man in London. In return, they gave him … pretty much what ever he wished. And as she was well aware of her husband’s desirability, Bel could not argue that it was an unfair trade.

At least he did not treat her the same way. He gave Bel more than moments, she reminded herself. He gave her whole nights of tender affection and asked nothing in return. And it wasn’t as though she expected his wholehearted devotion. It wasn’t as though she wanted his love. Therefore, she should not be jealous. In fact, she ought to encourage his use of charm—

the same talent, albeit differently employed, would ensure his political success. But still. Those giggles grated on her nerves, to an alarming degree. She really must be nearing her courses.

Growing even more tetchy at that thought, she protested, “We can’t go to the opera this week. You can’t expect the polls to close early again.” He’d surprised her that afternoon, arriving home shortly after luncheon due to some unexpected event. “What was the reason, again? The returning officer’s wife took ill?”

If he heard her question, he did not acknowledge it. “On the day of the opera, I’ll simply leave early. A few hours’ absence from the hustings won’t damage my campaign. It may hurt the tavern keeper’s profits, but that can’t be helped.”

“This way, my lady.” The modiste beckoned her toward the rear of the shop. “We will take measurements.”

Bel ignored her. “Well, even if your schedule will accommodate frivolity, mine will not. The Society is planning our demonstration of chimney-sweeping machinery on Friday. There are leaflets to be printed, invitations to be delivered. I must speak with Cook about the refreshments, and—”

“Isabel.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. It was a weighty, authoritative gesture, and it made Bel keenly aware of how childish she sounded. “It’s an opera,” he said calmly. “Not a bacchanal. Why does the idea distress you so?”

“I… I don’t know.” And she honestly didn’t. But it did distress her, greatly. She didn’t like being in this shop, perfumed as it was with Toby’s amatory past. She wished they could just leave. “I don’t need a new gown,” she tried again. “I have a closet full of gowns at home.”

Toby dismissed them all with a shake of his head. “Debutante gowns. Virginal, modest, pretty. You’re a married lady of wealth and influence, and you ought to look it. Worldly, bold, exquisite.”

Bel frowned. None of those words described her in the least.

Madame Pamplemousse tugged at her again. “Come then, my lady.”

“Just a moment,” Toby told the modiste. “Isabel, tell me about your demonstration. What is its purpose?”

Had she not told him a dozen times? Didn’t he listen to her at all? Her voice clipped and impatient, she answered, “To demonstrate the modern advances in flue-cleaning machinery. To convince the influential ladies of society that climbing boys are inefficient and obsolete. To keep poor children from suffocating to death in chimneys.”

“Yes. And worthy goals, all. But do you really think the machinery’s efficiency will be the persuasive factor? No, of course not. Perhaps if you were inviting housekeepers it would be, but the ladies of the ton care little for function. They care for fashion. To persuade them to take notice of automated brushes, you must make those brushes appear beautiful, desirable, and au courant. More to the point, you must appear beautiful, desirable, and au courant—and therefore, worthy of emulation. The first two qualities, God has already provided. Let us entrust Madame with the third, hm?”

Bel gave up. It seemed ridiculous, the idea that her purchasing an opulent gown would somehow save the lives of miserable waifs. But the argument was so tangled now, she didn’t know how to unravel it.