Late for the Wedding by Amanda Quick Page A

you. I believe I would use some puffs and a bit of frizzing to add height, of course. You lack the stature required for true elegance.”
    “Bloody hell,” Tobias growled. “Mrs. Lake is just the right size, as far as I am concerned.”
    Pierce spared him only a fleeting look that somehow managed to sum up every aspect of his appearance and dismiss him out of hand.
    The
Cut Direct,
Tobias thought, grimly amused. From a hairdresser, no less.
    “Indeed, sir,” Pierce murmured, “you are hardly an authority on fashion, so you are in no position to judge Mrs. Lake’s potential.”
    Tobias contemplated the pleasure of ripping Pierce’s head off his shoulders, but he reluctantly abandoned the prospect when he felt Lavinia’s fingers clench very tightly around his elbow. She was right, he thought. It would be a messy project, and the hour grew late.
    “You are so kind to give me your professional opinion, Mr. Pierce.” Lavinia smiled her brightest, most polished smile. “I shall consider your offer.”
    “Allow me to give you my card.” Pierce whipped one out of the pocket of his trousers and presented it to her with a flourish. “Please feel free to send word to that address when you are ready to move to a higher plane of elegance and style. I shall be delighted to fit you into my schedule.”
    “Thank you.” Lavinia took the card and inclined her head in farewell to Miss Richards and Miss Gilway. “Good night. I trust you will all have a safe journey home.”
    There was a small chorus of farewells. Pierce retreated to his bedchamber. Miss Gilway and Miss Richards retired to the room they shared.
    Tobias and Lavinia continued down the hall.
    “Why are you glowering so, sir?” Lavinia opened the door of her bedchamber, stepped into the room, and turned to face him. “I vow, you put me in mind of an oncoming storm.”
    Tobias glanced back along the now vacant hall, thinking about the conversation that had just transpired. “Your question to Pierce concerning a blond wig was very astute. It raised some interesting possibilities.”
    “Thank you.” She did not trouble to hide her pleasure in the small compliment. “Of course, if blond wigs are so very unfashionable, it stands to reason that the killer would not have purchased one that would stand out in the memory of possible witnesses. Therefore, perhaps it is safe to assume that the murderer is, indeed, a woman who possesses very vivid blond hair.”
    “On the contrary, I think we can conclude precisely the opposite.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Consider it closely, Lavinia. The killer’s yellow hair seems to have been his most striking feature. That and the very large cap are the two things that made the strongest impression upon you when you saw the maid in the hall, correct?”
    “Yes, but—” She broke off, eyes widening in comprehension. “I understand. You believe the murderer intended those two features to be the most memorable in the event that he was seen by a witness?”
    He nodded. “The Memento-Mori Man’s stock-in-trade was a gift for misdirection. If this new killer has patterned himself on such a master, he will favor the same strategy. Therefore, I think we can assume that the blond hair was false. And I am also certain that the female attire was meant to conceal a man.”
    She hesitated. “I do not feel that we can assume the murderer is a man. But I do agree that there is a strong likelihood the blond hair was a wig.”
    “It is a starting point, at least.” He wrapped one hand around the door frame and considered. “If blond wigs are so unfashionable, they will be uncommon in the shops. There cannot be that many wig-makers in London. We should be able to discover which ones sold yellow false hair in recent months.”
    “Do not be so sure of that. It is true that any wig-maker who took a commission for a wig in such an unfashionable shade would no doubt remember his client well. But I fear that we cannot depend upon locating