Sophie’s eyes narrowed. His tone was cheerful enough, but there was a note out of tune.
Miss Crewe nodded her glorious head. “Mr. Giles,” she said in return.
Oh dear heavens, beneath the leisurely vowels of her local accent, her voice was low and sweet and just a little bit raspy. Sophie clutched a hand to her heart. She would never make it out of this draper’s shop alive.
She pressed herself back into the shadows, the better to be overlooked.
“Have you come with ribbons for me at last, Miss Crewe?”
“Not today, Mr. Giles,” the woman replied, matching his tone so precisely that Sophie instantly suspected her of mockery. “I have something else you ought to see instead.” The woman heaved up the fabric she had under her arm—Sophie’d missed that detail, too enraptured by the sweet angle of Miss Crewe’s cheek—and dropped it onto the sunniest spot of the counter.
Blue silk—but something was odd about it. Sophie held her breath and craned her neck. The blue had other colors running through, just one or two threads at a time. Gold, silver, red, and yellow stood out and made a clash against the hue.
Mr. Giles came around the counter to take a corner in his expert hands. Judging by his face, he approved of it even less than Sophie did. “A satin, Miss Crewe? And with such an... unusual color palette? It hardly looks deliberate.”
Miss Crewe shrugged, a hypnotic rise and fall of one elegant shoulder. “It’s not my finest work, I’ll admit, Mr. Giles—but you might take it off my hands, if you like. For half-pay rates.”
Mr. Giles narrowed his eyes and folded his hands on the countertop. “Have you started taking in half-pay work, Miss Crewe?”
She snickered. “Not hardly.”
“Then the price you’ve offered me isn’t entirely legal, is it?”
Miss Crewe laughed conspiratorially. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
Mr. Giles snorted. His eyes flickered to Sophie, who hurried to feign a deep fascination with the ribbon rack.
Miss Crewe’s voice was a low throb in the quiet of the shop as she leaned forward. “I’ll make you a deal,” she said to Mr. Giles. Sophie shivered at the musical purr of the sound. “I’ll leave this here with you for a bit. I know the fabric looks odd, but believe me: it has a way of growing on you. I’ll come by again this evening and if you still don’t want the silk, I’ll take it back, and happily.” She straightened, and smiled, and swanned out the door the same proud way she’d entered.
There was no sign she’d noticed Sophie, heartsick among the ribbons with her fingers tangled up in lovebirds.
Mr. Giles, however, now remembered her—his gaze pinned her in place, though his smile stayed charming. Sophie worked in a shop: she knew the difference between charm and sincerity.
Or she thought she had, before Mr. Verrinder.
“Shall I wrap that ribbon up for you, miss?” Mr. Giles purred.
Sophie blinked down at the coronet in her hands.
“Perhaps...” said Mr. Giles. His smile softened as his voice lowered. “You know, I think those colors suit you, miss. What say you keep the ribbon, as a gift? Just a little secret between friends.”
Sophie stared back at him. Uncertainty wound itself round her tongue and held her silent. She couldn’t think what to say to him, because she couldn’t think what it was he meant by giving her such a gift. She wasn’t his friend. He didn’t even know her name.
Mr. Giles tapped a thoughtful finger against his chin. “Of course, friends don’t repeat one another’s private conversations, do they?”
Ah. Confusion clarified. Not a gift, then. A bribe.
Bribes punctured the illusion of politeness, and Sophie sucked in a breath to sweetly reject his offer.
The door opened again, and she swallowed her words as Mr. Giles spun automatically on his heel.
A second woman entered—a lady, older, with plentiful gray threaded throughout the black strands of her hair. Sophie had met a duchess once, in London, while tuning her daughter’s new piano, and even though this lady’s high-waisted black coat was a little behind the fashion, she had that same aristocratic posture and arrogant tilt of the chin. From the fine leather of her shoes to the silver feathers arching proudly from her hat, everything about her reeked of wealth and luxury.
Mr. Giles offered her a deferential bow as she proceeded forward. “Welcome, madam,” he said. “How may I help you this afternoon?”
With his head lowered, he missed the way the lady’s lips curled slightly, in unmistakable scorn, though her voice stayed cool and untroubled. “My maid spilled a bottle of perfume and spoiled a silk gown,” she said. “I’ve come to see if you have anything decent to replace it with.”
“Our best silks are—” Mr. Giles began, but cut off when the lady gasped and stepped toward the counter.
