“What is it you’re after?” he asks in the same gruff tone he used when opening the door. He has untied the twine on the pastry box and is peering inside, treating me as if I’m a distraction.
“Work,” I reply coolly. “Claire said you just lost both your assistants. My mother owned a salon in Paris until the war. I worked with her there.”
“This is not a salon, young lady. I do not make dresses.”
“Does the needle care what it stitches?”
He jerks his head up, cocking one eye at me. “What is your name?”
“Soline Roussel,” I say, refusing to flinch under his sharp appraisal. “And you’re Myles Madison, the finest tailor in Boston, or so Claire claims. I’m good, Monsieur Madison, quite capable of whatever task you ask of me—and I badly need the work.”
His face softens a little, but his eyes are chilly as they take me in, inch by painstaking inch. My hatless head and oft-mended dress, my worn shoes, scarred handbag, and ringless finger. Like Maman assessing a potential client, he misses nothing.
“Yes,” he says dryly. “I should think you must. What else did Claire tell you about me?”
I frown, not sure what he’s asking. “Nothing.”
“Nothing about why I lost both my assistants?”
I shake my head, unsettled by where he might be going.
“I assume you’re not married?”
“No.”
“No, I thought not. And you’re what—eighteen?”
“I’m twenty-one.”
“And little acquainted with the world, I imagine.”
“I am well acquainted with the world, monsieur. Much more than I would like to be.”
“Well, then,” he says, wandering to a small bar in one corner and picking up a glass. “That makes two of us. Perhaps I should tell you my story before we go further.” He splashes a few inches of clear liquid into the glass, stares at it a moment, then turns as if suddenly remembering his manners. “Forgive me. Might I interest you in a drink?”
My eyes slide to the clock on the mantel. It’s not yet ten. “Thank you, no. I generally prefer coffee at this hour.”
“Suit yourself.” He lifts his glass in a mock toast, then takes a deep swallow, wincing as it goes down. He turns away, topping off his glass, and I wonder if he’s forgotten me again.
“You were going to tell me your story,” I remind him.
“Yes, yes, my story. All right, then. I cater to a very affluent clientele, Miss Roussel—or did. The Brahmin, as they style themselves. Important men in important jobs. Men with money and power and names that go back to the bloody peerage. They also have secrets. But not from me. I see my customers in every state of undress—like a doctor. It’s a relationship that tends to lead to certain . . . confidences. I know whose health is failing, who’s in financial difficulty, who’s had a bit of luck in the market, who’s leaving his wife for his mistress—and who’s cheating on his mistress with the handsome new instructor at the tennis club.”
He pauses, waiting for me to blush or become flustered. When I don’t, he continues. “As you might guess, I’m seldom in social settings with the kinds of men I dress. They’re well above my station. But a few weeks ago, I was at the bar in the Statler Hotel with friends and happened to run into a new client of mine, a political type with a society matron wife and plans to move up.”
He pauses, striking a melodramatic pose and a voice to match. “Lawrence Tate, of the Mayflower Tates, thank you very much. Needless to say, I was surprised to see him there. Though not nearly as surprised as he was to see me.”
“Why?”
He regards me with open amusement, his smile blatantly sexual, and I realize he’s handsome, or was not so long ago. “Because, my pretty girl, as a rule, the club I’m talking about isn’t frequented by ivory-tower types seeking young ladies of good breeding. They like their lovers on the masculine side and rarely bother with last names.”
I say nothing.
“Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“Oui,” I say evenly. “I do.” I glance at the clock again, growing impatient. I came for a job. If the answer is no, I need to get back out on the pavement. “Will you hire me or not, monsieur?”
He empties his glass and turns once more to refill it. His hand shakes as he pours, and for the first time, I see through his bluster to the frailty beneath. He’s shattered, and quite possibly ill. The last thing he needs is more alcohol.