He shrugged and said nothing.

Enthusiasm bubbled up within her. “I shall come with you.”

“Absolutely not.”

The words had been spoken firmly enough, she thought, but his tone had a certain practiced, automatic quality. A matter of form.

Resigned, almost.

She could win this match.

“It will be an excellent opportunity for me to observe you at work.

“I was thinking just the other day that I must perfect my lock-picking skills, and you have been very lax about demonstrations.”

“Not lax. Cautious.”

“Rubbish. I will not allow you to prevent me from learning all of the secrets of our profession, sir. We are partners, if you will recall.

“You really must be more forthcoming”

She broke off when the curtains that covered the doorway behind the counter parted. A plump, middle-aged man dressed in a flowered satin waistcoat, a maroon jacket, and an extravagantly tied cravat emerged. His hair was suspiciously dark for a man of his years, Lavinia thought. There was not a speck of gray in the mass of tightly crimped curls that sprang up all around his head.

“Ah, sir, madam.” He beamed at them through a pair of gold spectacles. “Welcome, welcome, welcome to my shop. J. P. Cork, at your service.” He switched his attention to Lavinia, his eyes widening first in shock and then narrowing in pity. “Madam, you have come to the right place, I assure you. I can rescue you from your sad plight.”

“Indeed,” Lavinia murmured. She ignored the annoyance that darkened Tobias’s eyes.

This was not the first time she had been greeted with such enthusiasm in the past two days. Every wig-maker they had interviewed had been horrified by the sight of her red hair and had vowed to save her from what those in the profession evidently considered a fate worse than death.

“Do not fear, madam.” Cork bustled out from behind the counter and seized one of Lavinia’s gloved hands in two pudgy palms. “When you leave this shop today, you will be a new woman.”

“That would be an interesting experience, I’m sure,” she said. “But I’m afraid that my companion and I did not come here to purchase a wig.”

The proprietor made a tut-tutting sound with his tongue and shook his head gravely. “If your natural shade were brown or black, you would be able to make do with a toupee or a chignon, but given that unfortunate red, I’m afraid you will find that only a full wig will solve your problem. Nothing else will entirely conceal your own hair.”

Tobias moved slightly, just enough to draw the wig-maker’s attention. “Cork, my name is March. I would like to ask you a few questions about your wigs.”

“I see.” Cork studied Tobias’s closely cut dark hair with a professionally troubled expression. “Forgive me, I was so stunned by madam’s dreadful plight, I failed to notice your own misfortune. But now that I look more closely, I can, indeed, see those telltale signs of silver at the temples.” He tut-tutted again. You are quite right to take action now, sir, before you turn entirely gray. I have just the thing.”

“Devil take it,” Tobias growled. “I am not interested in a wig for myself.”

But Cork had already gone to one of the male busts and whipped off a brown wig. He held it up in triumph, rather like a hunter displaying a fresh kill. “I guarantee that this will do the trick, sir. It will conceal the ravages of time and make you appear at least a decade younger.”

“I said, I am not here to purchase a wig.” Tobias eyed the brown hairpiece as though it were a dead rodent. “Mrs. Lake and I wish to ask you a few questions. Nothing more.”

“We will make it worth your while,” Lavinia put in quickly, trying hard not to smile. Tobias had made no secret of the fact that he found these interviews exceedingly trying. Persons engaged in the business of wig-making and hairdressing considered themselves to be artists, and Tobias did not have a great deal of patience with the artistic temperament.

“Humph.” Cork’s smile lost its warmth. “What sort of questions?”

“Just one or two small inquiries concerning sales of blond wigs,”

she assured him.


“Blond?” Cork screwed his face into a disapproving glare. “Haven’t had a commission for a full blond wig in months. Very unfashionable color, you know. Has been for some time. The shade never really recovered its popularity after Madam Tallien declared black to be the most elegant hair color some twenty years ago.”

“Madam Tallien?” Lavinia repeated curiously. The wife of the French revolutionary?”

“Never mind her dreadful politics.” Cork brushed that issue aside with one pudgy hand. “The important thing is that her salons were truly splendid affairs, and she reigned supreme in the world of French fashion. Owned a vast assortment of wigs.

“Legend has it that she switched them several times a day. Wore one color in the morning and another in the evening. All of the most exclusive sort here in England strove to follow in her brilliant footsteps. I don’t mind telling you that those of us in the wig-making and hairdressing professions were exceedingly grateful to her.”

“I can imagine,” Lavinia said. She was well-aware that the war between England and France had done nothing to hinder French influence on English fashion. Some things transcended politics. “But what we’d like to know is-”

“She came along at a most critical moment, you see.” Cork sniffed disdainfully. “The Crown had just placed that perfectly absurd tax on wig powder, which caused the demand for powdered wigs to plummet. When they went out of fashion, so did the taste for the truly grand coiffeurs. It was a sad passing. Very nearly ruined Mr. Todd and myself Lavinia caught Tobias’s eye and made another attempt to interrupt the wig-maker. “Mr. Cork, what we would like to know”

“Ah, yes, those were the days,” Cork said reverently. “I have a nasty suspicion that we shall never see another such golden era for wigs in my lifetime. Back then every great house possessed a special wig closet where the false hair could be curled and papered and powdered. The hairdressers had to be extremely skilled. And they rose to the occasion, I must say. Why, I knew some who could create headdresses of such enormous height and magnificence that the ladies who wore them could not travel in their carriages unless they knelt on the floor or stuck their heads out the windows.”

“Mr. Cork.” Lavinia injected a bit more firmness into her tone. “We want to know”

The door of the shop opened at that moment. A dapper-looking man, of about Mr. Cork’s age but less than half his girth, entered. He carried a package under his arm.

“Mr. Todd.” Cork greeted him with a familiarity that spoke of an old friendship. “There you are. I was wondering what had become of you.”

“Lady Brockton changed her mind at least three times about whether or not her daughter should have braids or ringlets.” Todd snorted. “It was obvious to me that what the chit really required was a great many curls in front to conceal her rather high forehead. But convincing Lady Brockton of that obvious fact required the most extreme diplomacy and a good deal of my time. Luckily I had no other appointments this afternoon.”

“I know you find Lady Brockton quite trying, but she is a regular client.”

“Yes, yes, I am well aware of that.” Todd peered at Lavinia and Tobias. “I say, I did not mean to interrupt.”

“Charles Todd, allow me to introduce Mrs. Lake and Mr. March,”

Cork said. “They called to ask some questions. I was just telling them about the grand old days of our profession.” He turned back to Lavinia and Tobias. “As I was about to say, there was no need to worry overmuch about the exact shade of the false hair in those days, because one knew that it would all be covered in powder and pomade.”

Todd put his package down on the counter. “And what lovely stuff the powder was.” He put his palms together and closed his eyes against what was evidently an excess of strong emotion. “The variety of the tints one could create was nothing short of inspiring.

“When I mixed them I knew myself to be a true artist.”

“Todd here had a master’s touch with the powder,” Cork confided.

“I vow, he had recipes for the most delicate shades of pink and blue, yellow, lavender, and pale violet. And the exquisite intricacy of his chignons had to be seen to be believed. At night in the ballrooms one could always identify his work. His headdresses outshone those of every other hairdresser in London.”

“Those were the days,” Todd agreed.

“I was just telling Mrs. Lake and Mr. March how Madam Tallien saved us when she set a new fashion for natural-colored wigs,” Cork said. “And now we do very nicely with chignons, puffs, and toupees and such. But the wig business has never been quite the same.”

“There was another bit of uncertainty a few years back when the ladies all insisted upon cutting their hair very short to suit the taste for Greek and Roman fashions. But the demand for skilled hairdressers rebounded once more when they all wanted long hair again,” Todd said, not without a good deal of satisfaction.

“Thank heaven for the ever-changing tastes of fashion,” Cork added. “Mr. Todd is, I am happy to say, one of the most distinguished hairdressers in town. He has a very elegant clientele. His designs are truly unique and original works of art. The trained eye can spot them immediately on the street or in the ballroom.”

“Is that so?” Tobias said with very little interest.

“Indeed. Many of his competitors have attempted to copy his chignons, but they have all failed. No one can imitate a true artist.”