She looked at him, puzzled. “But I have none,” she said.
“You are forgetting,” he replied ironically, “I told Sophia to bring nothing, but promised I would provide her with what she might need.”
“Have you bought — dresses for Sophia?” she demanded incredulously.
He grinned. “Oh, not only dresses,” he replied. “You can teach me nothing of what a lady requires. Shifts, négligées, lappets, beads, perfume from Warren’s, Poudre a la Maréchale — you’ll find ’em all there. I have endless experience, I can assure you.”
“That I do not doubt,” she said.
He bowed. “I trust you will approve my taste,” he said, and handed her over to the waiting abigail.
Miss Challoner saw nothing for it but to go upstairs in the wake of this damsel. She had a very fair notion of what her appearance must be, and she felt quite unequal to the coming scene with the Marquis until she had tidied her person.
She spoke French prettily enough, and had no difficulty in making the maid-servant understand her wants. She washed her face and hands, did up her hair again, using the brush and comb of his lordship’s providing, and very gingerly withdrew the pistol from the pocket of her cloak. She thought she would be able to hold it so that the panniers of her gown concealed it from view, and practised this in front of the mirror. Deciding that it was hardly successful, she held the pistol in her right hand and draped her cloak over her arm, so that its folds fell over the weapon. Satisfied, she left her chamber and went downstairs to the private parlour his lordship had engaged.
He was standing by the fire with a glass in his hand. Suddenly she knew why his eyes glittered so strangely; his lordship had been drinking, and was drinking still.
She took one quick look at him, and went to the table, and seated herself, holding the pistol under her skirts, and putting her cloak over the back of her chair.