“I fully expect she will be. However, I will have already entrusted her with the management of my households, the comfort of my guests, and the upbringing of my children. I would not presume to choose her caps.”
Her mother persisted. “Some might say it is the husband’s role to advise his wife on all matters.”
“Some might say that,” he replied evenly. “I would ignore them.” With a slight bow, he turned away.
Mama was left alone with her fan and her flustered sensibilities.
Charlotte, on the other hand, wanted to cheer.
Well, Mama. Do you still want me to marry a marquess?
Piers Brandon was not a gentleman who could be nudged, persuaded, implored, or gainsaid. A man of his stature would be entirely out of her mother’s depth to manage.
Out of Charlotte’s depth, as well.
No doubt he had begun to realize the magnitude of the gulf between them. Even if he could stomach the notion of acquiring such a mother-in-law . . . Imagine, trusting Charlotte to manage five households—after he’d seen the state of her bedchamber. Madness.
Delia clasped Charlotte’s hand. “Do let’s go into the side room. They have spools and spools of ribbons.”
“You go ahead,” Charlotte said. “I’ll be right there.”
She wandered to the window and peered out into the street, looking down the row of shops. She didn’t need lace, or ribbons, or gloves today.
She needed to find answers. Clues. Anything that could lead her to the mystery lovers.
Her gaze snagged on a small, dark shopfront with an engraved placard. The sign proclaimed, in print she had to squint to make out: “Finest French Perfumes.”
Perfumes!
Yes.
Her pulse raced with excitement. She waited for a moment when no one was paying attention, and then she slipped out of the draper’s shop and scurried down the street.
The perfume shop was empty, save for a shopkeeper with wispy hair and a brown cutaway coat that belonged in the previous century.
He looked at her over his spectacles. “Might I help you, miss?”
“Yes, if you please. I’m shopping for a new scent.”
“Excellent.” The shopkeeper rubbed his hands, then produced a tray from beneath the counter. The tray was lined with tiny vials, each fashioned from glass in a different color or shape.
“The ones in front are florals, mostly.” The shopkeeper drew a touch down the vials in the first row. “Then the musks. As you move back, you will find the scents to be more earthy. Woodsy.”
Charlotte hadn’t the faintest clue what perfume she was looking for. Whether the scent could be described as floral or woodsy or musky or something different altogether. She could only hope she would know it when she smelled it.
“I want something unique,” she said. “Luxurious. Not the usual orange-flower water or lavender sprigs.”
“You’ve come to just the shop,” the wizened man said proudly. “My cousin brings the latest wares from Paris. I’ve scents here you can’t even find in London.”
That sounded promising. “What can you recommend?”
“If you’re after something truly special, I’d suggest you start here.” The shopkeeper unstoppered a vial from the center of the tray and handed it to her.
Charlotte held it by the glass neck and gently waved it under her nose. Rich scent teased her senses, mysterious and exotic.
“Dab it on your wrist, m’dear. You can’t tell the true scent of it from the vial.” He took the vial and nodded at her gloved hand. “May I?”
She unbuttoned the cuff of her glove and extended her arm. The shopkeeper drew the glass stopper over her pulse, leaving the thinnest film of perfume cooling on her skin.
“Now,” he said. “Try that.”
Charlotte sniffed at her wrist. Once, and then again. He was right, the perfume opened in the heat of her skin, revealing layers and shades. It was the difference between sniffing a flower bud and a full-blown hothouse bloom.
“What’s in it?” she asked.
“That’s a rare blend, miss. Lilies and ambergris, with hints of cedar.”
“Ambergris? What’s ambergris?”
He looked shocked by her ignorance. “Only one of the most rare and valuable substances in the world of perfume. It’s secreted in the bellies of whales.”
“Whales?” Charlotte looked at her wrist and wrinkled her nose. “They cut open the bellies of whales to make this?”
“No, no. The whales vomit it out in a lump, you see. Then it bobs about the ocean for several years, curing.” He made a wavy gesture with his hand, pantomiming the voyage. “Eventually it washes ashore as a chalky, grayish stone. Ambergris. A treasure worth its weight in gold.”
“Fascinating,” she said.
Nauseating, she thought.
She was wearing dried-up, sea-logged whale vomit on her wrist. And if she wanted to dab it on her wrists at home, she would pay—she discreetly checked the tag—one pound, eight shillings for the privilege.
Amazing.
“Perhaps you could show me something else? Something a touch less . . . marine.”
“I have just the thing. This one’s ideal for a younger lady of good taste.” He plucked an elegant vial of blue glass from the tray and prompted Charlotte to extend her other wrist for dabbing. “There. See what you make of that one.”
She lifted her wrist to her nose, more cautiously this time. As she inhaled, bright, sunny scents set her imagination at ease. “Oh, I do like this one.”
“I thought you might. All the young ladies do. It’s fresh and grassy, isn’t it? Lemon verbena and gardenia blossoms. But the secret is in the fixative. A touch of castoreum is what makes the summery scents take hold, rather than fade.”
“Castoreum. That’s not from whales, is it?”
“Not at all.” He chuckled.
Charlotte laughed, too. “Oh, good. What a relief.”
“It’s from beavers.”
She stopped laughing. “Surely you didn’t say—”
“Canadian beavers.” His eyes grew wide with excitement again. “They produce the stuff in a special gland tucked just under their tails.” He held up his hands, as if preparing for another vivid demonstration. “When the trappers gut the—”
The bell above the door rang, signaling the arrival of a new customer.