The Scandalous Life of a True Lady by Bárbara Metzger Page A

he needs you a great deal.”
    *
    No woman could need so many clothes.
    Yes, she could, insisted Sally and the dressmaker and the two seamstresses sewing in the corner. A back parlor had been turned into a linen-draper’s fitting room and workshop, with Jeremy and another groom bringing in trunks of gowns, bolts of cloth, stacks of pattern books.
    But it was only for a brief house party.
    Among a vain crowd with deep pockets, oui . The women—and half the men—would change ensembles five or six times a day, to parade among the same people they saw in London. Madame Journet added another ball gown to the growing pile of dresses that needed minor alterations. Not only had the popular modiste set aside her customers’ orders for Mr. Harris, it seemed, but she’d been bribed enough to make over their half-completed gowns for Simone. Some fit nearly perfectly, having been taken in or taken up just that morning, at great expense, Simone was certain. Sally had sent measurements from the blue gown before cock’s crow, on the efficient Mr. Harris’s orders. Madame Journet had set her needlewomen to work instantly. She’d even hired extra sewers, their wages added to the gentleman’s account.
    Aside from all the money she had already earned, now the Frenchwoman had a stake in Miss Ryland’s debut. Whatever business from irate customers she might lose, she’d gain back threefold when the beau monde caught sight of the latest star on the demi-monde’s horizon, wearing madame’s designs. Miss Ryland was going to outshine them all, Madame Journet declared, and meant to make certain. Simone’s success would be a feather in the modiste’s cap, and a fortune in her purse. Besides, when a message from a certain gentleman arrived to call in a favor, she was only too happy to respond with her finest, most elegant creations.
    She’d brought whichever would look becoming on a redhead with dusky skin. No whites or pastels—the debutantes could keep their come-out gowns. No clashing oranges or reds. Those were for females with no color of their own. But the browns, the greens, golds, and antique lace, those were magnifique for mademoiselle.
    On a whim she’d also brought a daring froth of black silk studded with brilliants that was meant for an entertainer who was older, far more sophisticated, and considered the most beautiful woman in all of London. Mademoiselle outshone her. They all agreed that the gown would be wasted on a jaded old hag treading the boards, when it made Simone look like a queen, the queen of the night. Her dark eyes gleamed with diamond flecks, her skin glowed warmer, her hair more vibrant. And that was before the master coiffeur arrived.
    Another French Émigre, he’d often acted as ears for the war office. Ladies were known to rattle on when they were in their boudoirs with a trusted servitor. He’d been happy to pass on information that might lead to the overthrow of that usurper, Bonaparte. Now he was happy to make monsieur’s chérie amie overshadow every other woman at the Cyprian’s house party.
    No, he would not cut off that glorious mane. Quel horreur! Besides, he had orders from monsieur. But he trimmed a bit here and a snip there. He used a curling iron while Sally watched and the seamstresses sewed and Madame Journet made lists for matching bonnets, gloves, stockings, fans and undergarments. Oh, and jewels.
    No jewels. Simone was insistent on that.
    What, go to a marquis’s house dressed as a peasant? Ruin madame’s creations? Not put a diamond tiara atop monsieur’s glorious new curls when she wore the black gown? Make her patron look miserly?
    Great heavens, why was no one listening to her? Madame Journet chuckled when Simone begged her not to start any new gowns until Major Harrison returned. The master hairdresser rolled his eyes when she demanded a simpler style, one she could fix herself. The seamstresses giggled when she insisted the necklines be raised or filled in. No one paid her