I jerk back. “How dare you!”
“Oh, I dare a lot of things.” She smiles. Her eyes glitter liketwo pieces of amber that trap more light the longer you study them. She marches right in with her suitcase as if she is boarding a train. The scent of her cigarettes and something musky follows her. She looks around her. “Nice. Very Empire-style. I prefer a more modern design, myself. Doesn’t catch so much dust. Obviously, they didn’t get a woman’s opinion.”
I close the door and hurry after her.
She slinks around the room like a fox, sliding out drawers, peering into the wardrobe. “That was a skillful bit of climbing you did. How’d your limbs get so bendy?”
“Is there something I can help you with, Miss Hart?” I ask, trying to be polite, though my face still stings from being unmasked. She knows my secret. She alone can undo me. Has the fox come to stalk a weak prey?
She glances at me fanning my face with my hat. “April, please. Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. But I do have a little favor to ask of you.” Setting down her suitcase, she lifts the vase of tobacco and sniffs. “Not bad. But a little too much tar for me.”
I lean against the vanity, tracking her with my eyes. What could she possibly want from a beggar like me?
“You have a lovely shape.” She looks up from where she was peering at the contents of Mrs. Sloane’s trunk and winks.
“M-my shape?”
“Oh yes. Perfectly proportioned, strong limbs, good posture. Well, it’s perfect for House of July.”
I snap up. “I’m not that kind of girl.”
She laughs, a hearty sound that is more like applause. “Andit’s not that kind of house. House of July is my haute couture fashion label.” She picks up one of Mrs. Sloane’s more matronly dresses, olive green with generous pleats, and her face puckers.
“What dooatshave to do with fashion?”
“Oats? Oh, you meanhaute.” Another round of applause. “Haute couturemeans ‘high dressmaking’ in French.”
I’m getting a little tired of this woman who goes anywhere and touches anything she wants.
“I’d like you to wear my brand.” She smooths her hands down her bodice and turns a circle. “It’ll be fun.”
I snort. “I’m trying to keep a low profile.”
Rather than look insulted, her face bends into an amused grin. “Wearing a veil like that? You’re drawing eyes, whether you like it or not. Might as well give them something to look at.”
“I wasn’t planning on parading about. I am a woman in mourning, after all.”
April sweeps a hand over the chaise longue and pours herself across it. “Mrs. Sloane must be a woman of means to get a crib like this, and I believe that you are her maid. But why isn’t she here?” Her eyes grow round. “Did you murder her?”
“Of course not. She... died, if you must know. Over a week ago.”
“Aha. So you’re a thief.”
“No! I mean, not intentionally. We had already sent the trunk.”
“Hmm. And did you find your brother?”
“Yes,” I say around a grimace.
Her brow dents. “I hope he appreciated your commitment to seeing him.”
I make a sharp noise in my throat. She certainly is presumptuous. But perceptive, too. Why am I telling her any of this? I don’t want to be part of this woman’s schemes. I have enough trouble as it is. “My answer is no. Now if you don’t mind, I need to be going.”
“So youwillbe parading about.”
“Not in the way you want me to.”
“I don’t ask for much. Just wear my clothes whenever you go out.” Retrieving her suitcase, she sets it on the chaise longue and unbuckles it. “They are scrummy, as you Brits like to say. Sinfully rich and tasteful. They will make you feel like royalty.”
