A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(77)

Toby spoke to the Frenchwoman. “She needs rich color, and sparkle, and the most stylish cut.”

“Yes, yes,” Madame tutted, herding Bel toward the room’s fabric partition.

“I want her shining like the jewel she is,” Toby called after them as they ducked behind the velvet drapery.

“First I was an angel,” Bel muttered as two young maids beset her, prying apart hooks and unlacing tapes. “Now I’m a jewel?”

“My lady,” the modiste said in a lilting whisper, “be happy your husband admires you so and wants others to admire you, too. Take care you do not drive him to call you unpleasant names. Take care you do not drive him into another’s arms.”

One of the maids made a comment in French. Bel couldn’t understand the exact words, but she gathered the general implication: The girl’s own arms would be open and available, should Bel fail to heed Madame’s advice.

More giggling.

Bel growled.

“What’s that giggling about?” Toby called in a teasing voice. “Must I come back there and supervise?”

The maids tittered at the suggestion.

“No,” Bel answered sharply. “All is well.” Except for this unreasoned, bitter jealousy in her heart. She flung her arms wide to aid the young women in removing her clothes. “Let’s do this quickly, please?”

Madame Pamplemousse lifted her voice. “Sir Toby, be seated. There are newspapers behind the counter, should you require diversion.”

“Are there?” The sounds of his footfalls and rustling paper filtered through the draperies. His tone became one of amused discovery. “Yes, indeed there are. Including the most diverting publication of all… The Prattler. What are they saying about me today, I wonder?”

Bel winced. “Toby, don’t. Don’t torture yourself. It doesn’t matter what they say. No one reads that horrid thing anyway.”

“But of course they do,” Madame Pamplemousse said. “Everyone in London reads The Prattler.”

“Not just everyone in London,” Toby added. “Since polling began, it’s the best-selling paper in Surrey, according to Colin Brooks. Perhaps I ought to deliver copies when I ride out there each morning.”

“You wouldn’t,” Bel said.

“No, I wouldn’t,” he replied. “Because—according to today’s edition—I’m not riding to Surrey at all.”

“What?”

“It says right here, I’ve been completely absent from the hustings. My entire candidacy is a sham.”

“What? But that’s absurd!”

“Is it?” Toby’s slow footfalls crossed the room.

“Yes, of course it is. You’ve been gone from dawn to dusk every day. Where else would you have been spending your time?”

He paused. “Do you really wish to know?”

Bel considered. Did she? His serious tone boded ill, but in the end her curiosity won out. “Yes. Yes, read me what ever scandalous falsehood they’re peddling now.”

He heaved a dramatic sigh. “Well, according to this distinguished publication, I’ve been spending my days here in London, at the Hidden Pearl. There’s a charming illustration provided by Mr. Hollyhurst. Would you care to see?”

“No.” Bel closed her eyes. “Dare I guess the nature of this establishment, the Hidden Pearl? I don’t suppose it’s a shop that sells jewels.”

“Well… I wouldn’t call them jewels. Cheap trinkets, more like.”

“Toby!” Bel’s teeth ground together. How he found this amusing was beyond her comprehension. “But—” She jostled on one leg as a maid peeled the muslin gown from her torso. “But that’s a preposterous assertion!”

“Completely,” Toby agreed. His voice sounded nearer now, just on the other side of the drapery. “I haven’t gone near the Hidden Pearl in weeks.”

Bel gasped with indignation.

“Very well, months.”

She pulled the drape to the side and craned her neck around it to glare at him. He grinned at her over the paper. “Years?”

Insufferable tease. “It’s not a laughing matter, Toby!”

“Of course it is. As you say, it’s a preposterous assertion. The only thing for it is to laugh.”

“We know it to be preposterous, but what of everyone else? What if people read that paper and believe that you … that you …”

“Have a penchant for trinkets?” His eyebrow quirked. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous. Have you so little faith in me?”

Bel gripped the curtain to her chest and blinked away an unshed tear. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m so out of sorts today.”

But she did know. Stupid girl, she chided herself. She’d been well aware of Toby’s reputation before she married him. Her husband was an infamous rake. What had she thought, that public speculation would miraculously cease on their wedding day? That the women of London would stop batting their lashes in his direction? That The Prattler would plaster his image on a broadsheet as a sterling example of morality—“The Rake Reformed”?

Stupid, stupid girl.

Toby’s gaze flitted back and forth between her face and the velvet drape wrapped around her chest. “That’s a lovely color on you,” he said thoughtfully. “Yes, that will serve very well.”