“Your future husband has the taste of an angel,” Madame Carême was saying. “His dress is always tasteful, and yet it has that touch of fantasy, of the pleasant creation, that turns a toilette from merely customary to brilliant.”

Gabby blinked and looked at Peter, who was also reflected three ways in the mirrors. His clothing seemed to be neat and dark. In fact, she much preferred his dress today to the rather gaudy embroidery and gold lace that he had worn to court. Madame Carême seemed to be waiting for her to say something, so she said, rather weakly, “Indeed, Peter is very elegant.”

“Elegant!” Madame Carême’s accent thickened. “You can have no conception, Miss Jerningham! Monsieur Dewland has explained to me that you have just arrived in England—but you are marrying the man who establishes male fashion in London. If your betrothed chooses a single-breasted white waistcoat in the evening, you can be sure that most gentlemen will wear precisely the same garment the following evening.”

“You exaggerate, my dear Madame Carême,” Peter broke in. “You do me too much grace.”

“I am French,” Madame Carême replied loftily. “I have no need to exaggerate. I speak the truth, always. There was a time when you were younger, my dear monsieur, when it was not clear who would dominate gentlemen’s fashions. As I said, you were young. But now that you have come into your full powers—well, I would defy anyone to go against your dictates.”

Gabby looked round-eyed at Peter.

“Madame Carême is inflating my small influence with the ton,” he declared with a sweeping bow, pressing his lips to the very tips of the Frenchwoman’s fingers. “All I can say is that the depth of your compliment is returned by the fact that I am entrusting my future bride to you, Madame Carême, to no one but you!”

“Yes,” Madame Carême said, turning back to Gabby. Her face was not quite as happy as it had been a moment ago. She looked Gabby up and down from the top of her head to the tips of her half boots.

“It will be a challenge,” Peter said persuasively. “A challenge such as only the very top modiste in all of London could take on.”

“True.” The modiste circled Gabby, as if she were a tiger circling a goat.

“White is out of the question,” Peter said.

“I shall have to give this a good deal of thought,” Madame Carême announced. “I shall take a month, or perhaps even longer.”