“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.”