Free Raiders of the Lost Corset by Ellen Byerrum Page B

naughtiness factor, heavy on red and black and va-va-va-voom , Lacey’s custom corset was delicate and pretty. With the right skirt, it might even be appropriate evening wear. Corset tops were everywhere these days and Stella was right, underwear had somehow become outerwear. Lacey had even attended a wedding where the bride’s gown was a corset top paired with a full satin skirt. It was demurely sexy and romantic, and it had also succeeded in giving the petite bride actual cleavage, a dream come true.
    Lacey went into her bedroom and pulled the slim box from the top of the closet. She lifted the lid and carefully removed the blue tissue paper covering it and appreciated the sexy garment. It was truly one of a kind. Lacey loved pockets and Magda happily complied with her whim for a secret pocket stitched into the corset. It was so slim that only a folded bill or two would fit inside.
    She and Magda had discussed how jewels could be sewn into a corset without the agony of bumps and bulges gouging into the wearer’s skin. Lacey didn’t see at first how it could be done. But it was possible, Magda said, if there were layers built into the corset, perhaps a quilted layer with the jewels laid flat, then more layers sewn on top or inside. She had thought about it for a long time; she told Lacey the comfort level also depended on how tightly laced it was. If the Romanov girls had been losing weight in their long captivity by the Red Army, there would be more room in their clothes to hide jewels. It sounded mad, yet plausible.
    With Magda gone, Lacey was now seized by a sudden fierce desire to tell the whole story, legendary lost corset and all, to someone. She felt as if she might burst. Lacey rationalized that if she were in Paris alone and danger reared its ugly head, someone ought to know, someone who would understand the situation and could be reliably sworn to secrecy, unlike Stella. Someone who was bound by attorney-client privilege, and not by the gossipy soapsuds of a shampoo bowl. She had to speak to Brooke Barton, Esquire, her friend and occasionally her lawyer. Lacey lifted the receiver and dialed.
    “You can’t go alone, Lacey. It’s simply not safe.” Brooke’s voice was tense, but Lacey knew it wasn’t fear but excitement that it betrayed. “I’m going with you! When do we leave?”
    Brooke had raced right over to Lacey’s apartment overlooking the Potomac River upon hearing the news that Magda Rousseau was dead and possibly murdered. She was still in her attorney-gray suit of the day, her blond braid coming loose. She kicked off her shoes and inquired whether there was anything to eat or drink.
    “Wait a minute, Brooke,” Lacey said, checking her nearly empty refrigerator. “How can you just take off for Paris at the drop of a corset stay? Aren’t you a hard-charging young barrister with a full plate of important clients?” She reached into the fridge for Brie, wine, and baguettes. Nothing like setting the mood, she thought. And the only other food in her kitchen was popcorn.
    “Oh, please, quel bore. My current clients would put an insom-niac in a coma. We are talking about adventure and murder and Romanovs. And a century-old secret. And Paris.”
    “Actually it’s supposed to be in a farmhouse somewhere near Mont-Saint-Michel.”
    “I love Mont-Saint-Michel! And Paris, and the lost corset of the Romanovs. I love everything about it, and I love you for calling me. This adventure calls for teamwork, Lacey.” Brooke had forgotten the boring brief she had written that afternoon and was mentally soaring on the heady fumes of a good story. “We make a great team. Your instincts, my legal know-how. And Damon’s —”
    “Damon can’t come,” Lacey insisted. “Just you and me. Attorney– client privilege.” She sliced the bread and Brie, placed it on a tray, added a bunch of grapes, and handed Brooke a plate.
    “But he’s —”
    “He’s a sweet boy, Brooke, and your boyfriend du jour , I