Sophie Roseingrave clasped her hands in front of her and waited for them to take the bait.
So. She had a little light trickery of her own, Miss Anybody did.
Maddie’s walk matched the song’s rhythm perfectly, and she hummed along until she turned the corner and lost the tune in the crowd.
And here, at the very center of the fair, in a tent on a raised dais to show his importance, was where Raymond Giles had come to display his wares. It was the largest tent in the fairground, with room enough for a dozen customers as well as the tables full of fabric and finishing. Mr. Giles’s name was blazoned over the entrance to the tent, but a closer look showed the paint was cracked and flaking with age. It would have to be redone before next year’s fair.
If Mr. Giles was still in business then.
She sent a glance around the other nearby stalls. Relief speared through her when she saw what she was looking for: black silk, heavy-hemmed with trimming, above a pair of soft leather boots.
Mrs. Money bent over a tray of feathers, shafts trimmed for millinery work.
Maddie sucked in a breath and slipped into Mr. Giles’s tent.
Her quarry was smiling his charming liar’s smile at a mother and her daughter. Telling them one of his salesman’s stories, she guessed—Maddie caught something aboutthe Bastilleandthe next day the Revolution beganand stopped listening because she knew how that nonsense went.
Instead she focused on the wares on display. To Maddie’s expert eyes, the name of each maker might as well have been woven into the threads of the fabric—here was Alice Bilton’s emerald velvet, which Mr. Giles had claimed was cheaper single pile and not the three pile he’d commissioned from her. Judith Wegg’s pale aerophane, gauzy and crisp, which she was still fighting to get paid for. And, worst of all, the late Mrs. Echard’s last brocade—Mr. Giles had sent in the bailiffs to cut the cloth from the loom while the family was out at the funeral, claiming it was his by contract. The merchant had then refused to pay the grieving children for their late mother’s work. Because it was unfinished, he’d said.
Maddie pressed a shaking hand down on the richly patterned cloth and breathed a silent vow of revenge to Mrs. Echard’s shade.
The mother and daughter went on their way, aflutter with ribbons and flattery. Mr. Giles turned toward Maddie, his eyes glinting. “Miss Crewe,” he said, and his gaze darted to the wrapped bolt beneath her arm. “Dare I hope you have brought me something special?”
“You’re in luck, Mr. Giles,” Maddie sang back. “I’m here to fulfill all your hopes.”
He chuckled and waved her eagerly toward the back. Maddie opened the wrapping to show the same blue silk as before—same sheen, same odd threads of different colors. “I think I’ll be asking you twice as much this time,” she said.
Mr. Giles’s eyes arrowed up to meet hers. “Will you?”
“You sold it so quickly before,” she said, and folded her arms.
Mr. Giles pretended to consider, but Maddie could all but see the wheels turning inside his conniving head. Twice her last rate would still leave him with an enormous profit—and one he didn’t have to record in any account books.
There was no possible way he could resist such temptation.
Nevertheless, he put on an unhappy expression. “I could possibly go as high as one-and-a-half times—”
“Miss Crewe!”cried a voice from the front of the tent.
Mr. Giles started. So did Maddie, even though she’d been expecting the interruption. This was the trickiest part of the thing, and her nerves were tight enough that she could feel her bones creaking beneath her skin.
Mrs. Money stood there in black silk, a cashmere shawl tossed over her shoulders like the cloak of some ancient general. She glared daggers at Maddie, who cringed back, playing up her part. “Howdareyou,” Mrs. Money hissed, every aristocratic vowel fake as counterfeit coin, her expression accusing. “Mr. Giles, I regret to inform you that this woman has stolen this fabric and has no right to be selling it. Atanyrate.”
“Really,”breathed Mr. Giles. Maddie could see the hope of retaliation kindle in his gaze when he looked back her way. He’d been searching for a way to destroy her for years, and now it seemed like he had his chance. “What terrible news,” he said silkily. “Shall we send for the magistrates to have the miscreant hauled away?”
“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Money said at once. She reached up and tugged at the ties of the tent-flap—it fell shut behind her, hiding the three of them from the view of anyone passing by. “Cover that up, you insolent girl,” she said. “Before someone sees.”
Maddie obligingly folded the blue silk back up into its wrapping, doing her best to look chastened and fearful of the consequences.
Mr. Giles leaned forward. “Mrs. Money—I beg your pardon, but as someone who knows something about silk I must ask: What is so special about this particular fabric?”
Mrs. Money narrowed her eyes and chewed her lip a long while. “Very well, sir—since you have been so open and honest with me, I shall tell you the whole tale.”
“Ma’am, I don’t think—” Maddie said, on cue.
“Silence, girl!” Mrs. Money’s eyes flashed fire. “This secret is my inheritance to keep—or to share—as I see fit.” She strode forward, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial throb.
From beneath her lowered brows, Maddie saw Mr. Giles lick his lips.
