Late For The Wedding

Twenty-Six

“My dear Miss Priscilla, we cannot escape the reality of nature.” Mr. Pierce drew his comb through the long, golden length of Priscilla’s hair and met his client’s eyes in the mirror. You are most certainly blond.”

Priscilla’s cheeks burned. “I am aware that it is not the most fashionable color.”

Emeline sat tensely in a chair a short distance away from the dressing table, feeling as though she were acting out a part in some strange, nightmarish play. To her enormous relief and never-ending admiration, Priscilla had stepped into the leading role without any sign of nerves whatsoever.

They’d had less than ten minutes to prepare.

Emeline was stunned when she had arrived at the Wortham residence and was told that Lady Wortham had scheduled a hairdresser for the afternoon. She had hoped that it was some amazing coincidence, but her work as an assistant to the firm of Lake amp; March had taught her not to trust such events. She had quickly briefed Priscilla, who had in turn made it clear that her mother was to remain innocent and oblivious. She feared her parent would fly into a panic if she discovered she had hired a murderer to dress her daughter’s hair.

When Mr. Pierce arrived at the door with his leather satchel filled with combs, curling irons, papers, scissors, and false hairpieces, Priscilla had risen to the occasion with great aplomb.

She had sat down in front of her dressing-table mirror, her shoulders draped in a pristine white cloth, and abandoned herself to the ministrations of the murderous hairdresser as though it was the most normal thing in the world.

She was, in fact, behaving so naturally and with so much enthusiasm that Emeline had begun to wonder if she was actually enjoying herself. Perhaps the fact that Mr. Pierce was quite handsome, even dashing, with that black ribbon at his throat and those carelessly tousled curls, made things easier for her.

Emeline had to admit that it was difficult to imagine Pierce as a murderer-for-hire.

Lady Wortham was ensconced in a chair on the other side of the dressing table, blithely unaware that the man who was wielding a large pair of scissors in the vicinity of her daughter’s throat had likely killed three people in the past few months.

“Do you think we should consider dyeing Priscilla’s hair a darker shade, Mr. Pierce?” Lady Wortham asked anxiously.

“Dye this hair? Perish the thought.” Pierce seized a length of Priscilla’s mane and held it aloft with a flourish worthy of a magician. “This is pure spun gold. It would be a crime against nature to alter it with elderberry or Grecian waters.” He rapped the comb against the edge of the dressing table and glared at Priscilla in the mirror. “And I absolutely forbid you to even contemplate the use of henna. Is that quite clear?”

“Yes, Mr. Pierce,” she murmured dutifully.

Lady Wortham fanned herself agitatedly. “But if you say her hair must not be dyed, what do you suggest? A wig, perhaps?”

“Out of the question for one of her tender years. Also, it would be a shame to set false hair against such clear, fresh skin and classical profile.” Mr. Pierce swept Lady Wortham a low bow. “Both of which I can see that she inherited from you, madam.”

Lady Wortham stared at him, open-mouthed, for a few seconds.

Emelinp was astonished to see a dark blush rise in her cheeks.

“Why, thank you, Mr. Pierce.” She fanned herself with even more energy. “I don’t mind saying that in my youth I never lacked for partners in the ballrooms. Priscilla does take after me.” She cleared her throat. “Except for her hair, of course. That is a legacy from her papa, I’m sorry to say.”

“Indeed. Well, as I was saying, I try not to put any of my young ladies into wigs unless there is no alternative.” Mr. Pierce paused for emphasis. And in this case there is an alternative. A glorious one at that.”

There was a breathless silence. Emeline realized that, in spite of the almost intolerable tension she and Priscilla were under, they were both as curious to hear what Pierce had to offer as Lady Wortham was.

“Yes, Mr. Pierce?” Lady Wortham urged. “What is the alternative?”

Pierce half-closed his eyes, as though sighting down the barrel of a pistol. “As we cannot make it possible for your daughter to follow the fashion, madam, we have no choice but to transform her into a paragon of style who sets the fashion.”

“Oh, my.” Lady Wortham looked as though she might faint. “Oh, my gracious. A paragon of style.”

“Leave it to me, madam. I studied my art in Paris. I know what I am about.” Mr. Pierce reached into his satchel and took out some hairpins and curling papers. “But before I proceed, I must have your word that my creation will never again be framed in pink.”

Lady Wortham stiffened, mouth agape, eyes wide. She was speechless.

Pierce picked up his scissors and fixed her with a stern gaze.

“Miss Priscilla does have some other colors in her wardrobe, I presume? Surely she does not always go about in this ridiculous color?”

Priscilla made a tiny choking sound and seized the cup of tea that sat on the dressing table. Emeline met her eyes in the mirror.

Neither of them dared to speak.

Lady Wortham cleared her throat. “I thought pink very suitable for her age and looks.”

Pierce sighed and went to work with the scissors. “Allow me to tell you, madam, that pink, when added to pale gold hair, creates the impression of a cream cake topped with a great deal of overly sweet icing. A gentleman looks at such a cake and thinks, Well, now, that is a tasty-looking little treat. If it is available, I shall help myself to a bite or two and discard the rest.”

Lady Wortham went red with shock and outrage. “A pink-and white cream cake? My daughter? How dare you, sir.”

“There is no sense of substance or style to an iced cream cake, you see. It leaves no lasting impression on the tongue.” Pierce continued to work, paying no attention to Lady Wortham’s scandalized expression. “But when one puts a lady with Miss Priscilla’s hair and excellent profile into a darker, jewel-toned gown, an emerald green, perhaps, or a deep sapphire blue, one no longer sees a cream cake.”

“What does one see?” Lady Wortham demanded warily.

“A goddess.”

Lady Wortham blinked. “A goddess? My Priscilla?”

Pierce looked at Priscilla in the mirror. “Do you have any such gowns in your wardrobe, madam? If not, you must make an appointment with your dressmaker immediately.”

“Well,” Priscilla murmured, “there is the new walking gown that Aunt Beatrice ordered for me for my birthday.”

“I really don’t think that it is at all suited to her,” Lady Wortham said, uncertain now. “Beatrice ordered it without consulting with me.”

“Let me see it,” Pierce commanded.

“I’ll fetch it.” Emeline leaped out of her chair. “I think that it is quite striking.”

She went to the wardrobe and took out the new gown.

They all looked at the turquoise walking dress, awaiting Pierce’s verdict.

“Perfect.” Pierce bowed deeply toward Priscilla. “Absolutely perfect.” He turned to Lady Wortham. “Rest assured, madam.

“Gentlemen will fall to their knees to worship at her altar.”

A short time later, Lady Wortham gazed, transfixed, at Priscilla.

“Incredible. She is spectacular. I would never have believed that such a simple style could look so elegant.”

Pierce smoothed Priscilla’s sleekly arranged hair with profesional pride. “Simplicity is at the heart of all true elegance, madam.”

Emeline was almost as astonished as Lady Wortham. Pierce had defied the current fashion for intricately braided coils and a profuson of curls at the forehead and temples. Instead, he had brushed Priscilla’s hair straight back from her face and, with the aid of only a few pins, had created a graceful twist high on the back of her head.

The design emphasized the long, delicate line of her neck and her fine profile. Only a few wispy ringlets danced in front of her ears.

Priscilla had always been lovely, Emeline thought, but now her friend appeared more self-confident and assured. There was a touch of feminine mystery about her that had not been there before.

“Priscilla, you are magnificent,” Emeline whispered.

Priscilla blushed furiously, but she could not seem to take her eyes off the image of herself in the mirror. “Do you really like it?”

“Oh, yes. I cannot wait to see you in your new gown.”

“I am delighted that you are all pleased.” Mr. Pierce smiled at Emeline. “As it happens, I am free for another hour or so. Would you care to have your hair dressed, Miss Emeline? I believe I can improve upon your present arrangement. Not that your style is unattractive, quite the opposite. But it is a bit too much in the current mode, if you know what I mean. You require a more original look.”

“Oh, I could not possibly presume on your time and Lady Wortham’s hospitality,” Emeline said hastily, and not without a twinge of regret. Pierce might be a murderer, but there was no denying that he was an artist when it came to hair. It would have been so much fun to find out just how he would have transformed her.

“Of course you must let him dress your hair, Emeline.” Priscilla got up from the dressing table. “Mama will not mind in the least.”

“Not at all,” Lady Wortham said magnanimously. “Indeed, it is quite exciting to watch Mr. Pierce at work. One feels oneself to be in the vicinity of a great talent.”

Reluctantly, Emeline sat down at the dressing table. “Thank you.”

Pierce shook out the white cloth and arranged it around her shoulders. He picked up his comb and met her eyes in the mirror.

“Yes, I know just what to do here,” he said. “It is such a pleasure to work on young ladies who are concerned with the latest fashions.

“Most of my clients are older women who insist upon the more elabrate coiffeurs of the past, the sort that were designed for those towering powdered wigs they wore in their youth.”

“I must admit, I remember those wigs all too well,” Lady Wortham said. They looked quite elegant on the dance floor, but they were ever so hot and heavy.”

Mr. Pierce removed the pins that anchored Emeline’s hair with a few quick motions. “As I was saying, I generally cater to an older clientele. But it is so much more entertaining to work on the heads of young ladies. Tell me, Miss Emeline, did your aunt happen to mention that I made her acquaintance at Beaumont Castle?”

Emeline went cold inside. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Priscilla tense. Lady Wortham, still blithely oblivious, poured some tea.

Emeline steadied herself. “She mentioned that she had met a hairdresser who told her that red hair was not a fashionable shade.

“But she did not recall his name.”

Pierce was clearly offended. “I did give her my card.”

“She must have lost it,” Emeline said smoothly.

“I see. Understandable, I suppose. I know that she and her friend

“Mr. March were rather preoccupied at the time. They were convinced that Lord Fullerton’s death was not an accident. I believe they were attempting to prove it.”

“Not an accident?” Lady Wortham looked surprised. “I had not heard any mention of foul play in connection with Fullerton’s death.”

“That is because Mr. March and my aunt were not able to find any evidence of murder,” Emeline explained. “Furthermore, Lord Beaumont made it clear that he did not want an investigation taking place under his roof.”

“So, all in all, their inquiries came to naught?” Priscilla asked in a casual, innocent tone.

“I’m afraid so,” Emeline murmured. “It is difficult to investigate a case of murder if no one believes that one has occurred.”

“Fascinating.” Pierce paused in the act of combing out her hair and looked at her with great interest. “Have they made any progress here in Town?”

“None. Mr. March is quite frustrated, I’m afraid. My aunt feels that they are wasting their time. She is attempting to persuade him to abandon his inquiries.”

She was rather proud of that last bit, she thought.

“I see.” Pierce’s expression did not change. “Do you think that she will be successful?”

“Oh, yes,” Emeline said. She lowered her tone to a confidential level and prepared to lie outright. “Fullerton’s family does not want any inquiries made, nor does anyone else. My aunt is very concerned with the collection of fees, and, as there is no client in this case, she feels that she and Mr. March must turn their attentions to other matters.”

“No offense, my dear,” Lady Wortham said in tones that dripped with disapproval, “but I must tell you that Mrs. Lake’s little hobby strikes me as quite odd.”

Emeline wondered what Lavinia would say if she were to tell her that Lady Wortham considered her career a mere hobby.

“I imagine that an intelligent lady such as Mrs. Lake no doubt finds such work an interesting challenge,” Pierce murmured.

Emeline could feel the fine hairs stirring on the nape of her neck.

She prayed that Pierce could not see them.