She almost snorted. Of course the day Sophie wore her fine new gown was the day Maddie Crewe turned up in silk.
“Good evening, Miss Roseingrave,” murmured Miss Crewe—but there was a siren’s song in her voice and a fire in her eyes that scorched Sophie down to her toes.
She clearly relished the effect her frock had on Sophie.
Miss Crewe strode into the instrument shop and turned, making yellow silk twirl and show off her slender ankles. “I hope you don’t mind me showing up so late.”
“I was only practicing,” Sophie rasped. She coughed to clear her dry throat. “You look splendid. What’s the occasion?”
Maddie’s smile dimmed, and she ignored the question to peer curiously at the dark shelves and shadowed music racks. Instruments gleamed as the gaslight played over wood and lacquer. “Was your London shop as grand as this?”
Sophie laughed. “Not grander, but much larger. We only have room for one or two pianos here. In London, we never had fewer than six on display at any moment—plus another six in the workshop—every one of which my father had built.”
Maddie walked to the Dewhurst and Ffolkes and ran her hands over the smooth curves of the piano case. “That must have kept him busy.”
“He had journeymen and apprentices, of course—but yes. He was always looking for improvements he could make: differences in the frame, in the shape of the case, in the actions to make the keys more responsive to the touch.” Sophie couldn’t stop staring at Maddie’s hands. The way her gloved fingers stroked over sleek wood was doing awful things to Sophie’s pulse.
Maddie tilted her head. “Is your father here at the moment?”
“Yes.” Sophie swallowed. “Upstairs, with the rest of my family.”
“So we won’t be overheard?”
Sophie’s mouth opened on a gasp. Was Maddie Crewe going to ravish her right here on the floor with all those windows around them? The idea was perverse and dangerous—and it sent a bolt of searing heat through Sophie’s core. She imagined sitting Miss Crewe down on the piano bench, flinging up those lush skirts and diving beneath them, every string instrument in the place sighing in echo at every wanton cry. Sun-bright silk warming beneath her mouth, being torn away by her hands...
She stepped closer—but paused when Maddie sighed. Her mouth was tight, her brow slightly furrowed. She looked... worried.
She hadn’t come here for seduction.
Sophie shoved lust aside for the moment. She guided Maddie to the piano bench and sat them both down: Maddie on the right, Sophie on the left. Green skirts folded against gold, contrast brightening both hues even in the low light. “If we are quiet, we’ll hear anyone coming long before they’ll hear us,” Sophie said. “Now: What’s the matter?”
“We gave our demonstration to Mr. Giles tonight,” Maddie replied. “Mrs. Money and I, along with Alice Bilton and Miss Mary Slight.”
She wriggled; Sophie felt the shift of figure and fabric and had to suck in air to steady herself.
Maddie brandished one silk-sleeved arm. “This gown, you may be astonished to hear, can change from yellow to blue and back again with a simple electrical charge. It would be a smash hit among the fashionable sort. A guaranteed moneymaker for any silk merchant.”
“Sounds too good to be true,” Sophie said wryly. She put out a fingertip—just one, for restraint—and stroked a line along Maddie’s knee. “It feels quite fine. Did the trick not work?”
“Oh, it worked.” Maddie’s laugh was low, almost a sob. She began pulling at her gloves, removing them in frustrated little jerks and tugs. “It worked too well. Our Mr. Giles doesn’t just want to sell this fabric—he wants to make more of it.”
“Makemore—oh.” Sophie huffed out an appalled sound of horrified amusement. “Oh, I see.” She shook her head. “You underestimated your own gift for persuasion, Miss Crewe.”
“We underestimated Mr. Giles’s greed, is what. We thought we were bringing him an easy, lazy way to profit—but he had to exploit it further, didn’t he? You could offer to sell him the whole world for sixpence and he’d demand you throw in the moon as well.” Maddie folded her gloves into an angry little package and set them on the piano case. “So now we have to find something even more outrageous to sell to him... and it means one morebigstep before the part where we get the money.”
“And where you get revenge.”
Maddie nodded confirmation. “I admit I don’t know which of those I’m more impatient for. And now there’s a whole other element to plan. It’ll have to involve weaving—or fake weaving, which is faster—and it will have to be even more complicated and persuasive than tonight’s trick. We’ll need people, lots of people, and that just means more chances for things to go wrong. And for us all to get caught.” She let out a sigh, which seemed to take all her momentum with her. Without it she looked vulnerable, anxious, and lost. She turned her head, one auburn curl quivering along the line of her throat. Her hand covered Sophie’s and Sophie could feel how she trembled. “Did you really mean it when you offered to help?”
She sounded wistful, almost forlorn; Sophie charged recklessly to the rescue. “Of course I meant it.” She spread her hand until Maddie’s fingers slipped between hers and she could catch them close. “What do you need me to do?”
Maddie shook her head, but her hand gripped Sophie’s tight. The tense lines around her mouth softened and her shoulders were freed of enough weight to let her shrug in reply. “I’m not even sure yet. I’ll have to work everything out with Mrs. Money—and we might need Miss Slight to help us with some machinery again...”
“Ask Mr. William Frampton, too. He’s brilliant. Better yet: get Miss Slight to ask him for help. They’re... friendly.”
“So I’ve gathered.” Maddie’s lips curved, a hint of her usual sharp humor coming back into her face. “It’s good to have friends in times like these,” she said. Her thumb curved underneath their twined fingers and stroked Sophie’s palm. “Friends with strong hearts—and beautiful hands.” She raised their joined hands and brushed a kiss over Sophie’s knuckles. Like a devoted knight in some long-lost ballad, paying tribute to his lady.
Sophie broke out in a sweat. “It’s the piano playing, is all,” she demurred. “It keeps the fingers nimble.”
