Mr. Colborne’s face contorted through several expressions before settling on dismay. “I would like that as well, truly I would. But the members of the ton have complained. They say our services, though effective, are becoming too expensive.”
“The members of the ton spend more on a single ball gown than we charge for an entire consultation.” Sophia kept her voice even, even though frustration simmered beneath her skin. “They have plenty of money to spare. What they lack is taste, which is why they require our help.”
Mr. Colborne winced. “Be that as it may…”
“Consider this.” Sophia leaned forward. “By raising Lady Fairhart’s rates, we make the service more exclusive. And what does the ton covet more than anything?”
Mr. Colborne frowned. “Titles? Wealth? Invitations to Almack’s?”
“Exclusivity.” Sophia smiled. “They will pay double for something they believe only the select few can afford. It is not about the money. It is about the perception of prestige.”
Understanding dawned in Mr. Colborne’s eyes. He stroked his chin, nodding. “There is merit in your reasoning. We’ll try a higher rate and see how the applications fare.”
Relief washed through Sophia, though she kept her expression composed. “Thank you.”
Mr. Colborne peered at her over his spectacles. “This is the first time you have asked for such a change, Lady Sophia. Is everything all right?”
The memory of Drakeston’s finger tracing her jaw flashed through her mind. She banished it.
“Everything is fine.” She rose, pulling her cloak around her shoulders. “I should return before the household wakes.”
“Let me arrange a carriage for you.” Mr. Colborne moved toward the door. “These streets are not safe at this hour.”
“I’ll catch a hackney and walk the last stretch.” Sophia pulled up her hood. “Less conspicuous that way. A private carriage stopping at Brimsey House before dawn would invite questions I cannot answer.”
Mr. Colborne’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but he nodded. “Be careful, my lady.”
“Always.”
She descended the stairs and slipped into the predawn darkness.
The streets held a unique quality at night. During the day, they bustled with working men and women, carts and cries and honest chaos. Now, in the gray hour before sunrise, they lay still and watchful. Shadows pooled in the doorways.
Sophia walked with purpose, her boots quiet on the cobblestones. She had made this journey dozens of times. She knew which corners to avoid, which alleys offered shortcuts.
Tonight, something felt different.
She realized it between one step and the next. The prickle at the back of her neck. The sense of being watched.
She didn’t turn. She adjusted her route, and headed toward a more populated thoroughfare.
Behind her, footsteps echoed.
More than one set.
Sophia’s pulse quickened. She cut through an alley she knew opened onto a wider street, one where hackney carriages sometimes lingered waiting for early-morning fares. Her boots splashed through a puddle. The walls rose close on either side, brick slick with moisture, the sky a narrow ribbon of gray above.
She emerged from the alley and stopped.
Three men blocked her path.
They spread across the street, their postures speaking of violence barely held in check. One was tall and broad, with a face that had seen too many fists. Another was wiry and quick-eyed with a blade glinting at his belt. The third smiled and revealed teeth that had rotted.
“Well, well.” The smiling one stepped forward, tilting his head as his gaze traveled over her cloaked form. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing wandering these streets alone?”
Behind her, the footsteps from the alley drew closer.
She was surrounded.
