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Sophie burned. Her flesh, the backs of her eyes, her barely restrained vocal cords. She drew her knees up and squeezed them tightly, looking distantly at the window, where rain streaked down the panes. “No. Of course not.”

“I am under great strain.” Her mother’s voice shook. She came closer. “I only want what’s best for you, dear.”

“I know,” Sophie said hoarsely. She stared at the glassy water encircling her limbs. A drip fell from her ear, creating little ripples. It thundered again.

“Just assure me you’ll avoid the man, for your own benefit.”

“I don’t have to. It was one simple walk between us, that’s all.” She turned to study her mother’s crease-weary countenance. “Though I would like to know what you deem best for me.”

Her mother scoffed and laughed lightly. “Why, there is no limit to what a mother wants for her child.”

Sophie continued staring.

“Why, a man of esteem, certainly. Of property and means, most preferably titled.”

Sophie’s hands slackened around her knees. “Of property? Why should that be necessary, when we’re to live in Sussex?”

Lady St. Quinton laughed. “You mustn’t over complicate things! As I said, there is no limit.” She swished to the door, her fingers resting on the handle when she turned back with a droopy smile. “Hopefully you will meet just such a man at the Bancrofts tonight.”

When the door closed, Sophie let that four-lettered word fly. She said it eight different times in six varying tones of emphasis and volume. Then she stood up and reached for the bellpull, sullying the floor with water for a second time today as she rang it.

Anne appeared a moment later. Her expression was impassive beneath her frilly white mobcap, but her mouth was a tight line of disapproval. For the first time, Sophie fully welcomed the sight of her. She wanted to thank her for her discretion, but then … No. That would be making something of it, when in fact, she and Mr. Balfour were nothing.

“Anne, I should very much like a glass of sherry.”

There was a brief standoff. “Perhaps you would benefit from a warm cup of tea, miss, if you are not feeling well.”

“Sherry can do things for my disposition that tea cannot.” Brandy, in truth, would be ideal.

Anne’s small hands fidgeted. “Perhaps coffee, then, or one of Cook’s pepper possets. There is the dinner engagement this evening, miss.”

Thunder grated outside, strong enough to rumble the wood and plaster of the townhouse. Just such a storm was within Sophie, too. Rattling her from the bones out.

“Anne, either you get me a glass of sherry, or I shall go to the kitchen myself.”

nine

Rafe locked the carved, indigo blue doors of Balfour’s. Everyone else had already left, and he had better be following their example if he had any hope of making it to the Bancrofts’ dinner. He began his final pass through the store, fading sunlight falling on objects that begged for it:

The orange-red strawberries brocaded onto a silk shawl. The brushed, black beaver fur of a hat. The enameled dial of a clock and the biscuit porcelain curves of Cupid, who leant against it. Fabric populated the far wall in such unbroken variety of color, the bolts resembled candy lozenges of the finest confectioner.

All of it can hang. Rafe wouldn’t give a cat’s arse if the entire store burned before his eyes, destroying every last specialty item curated by Thomas’s hand. Or, more like, Thomas’s imagination. All the true hand-to-hand labor came from the staff, Alfie, and Rafe himself.

“Laddie? You still about?” The door of the back entrance rattled.

“In here, Alf. On my way out though—something the matter?”

Alfred Malloy limped around the corner as Rafe straightened the last of the scrambled shawls. “Just wanted you to take a look at this log before I head to the docks.”

“Certainly.” Rafe took the sheet, scanning the list of inventory written in his own hand. Cut-steel jewelry and carnelian riviére necklaces. Shirting cloth and fancy-colored French kid gloves. “I’m sorry I can’t go with you tonight.”

“Ah, don’t fuss over it. I’ll manage fine. You off to play the fancy man?”

Rafe raised a brow to his friend’s good-natured smile. Alfie was taller and broader than him, a Black man of middle age who had never met an insurmountable task. He had worked on merchant vessels before joining the Royal Navy. Despite fifteen years of service, and a leg wound which had festered and nearly killed him, he had never been promoted beyond the rank of Seaman. Had his resulting limp been worse—or his spirit any less tenacious—he might’ve been stuck living in Greenwich as an In-Pensioner. Instead, he was an invaluable free-trader, working between merchants and shipping brokers to turn a profit. And working with Rafe on the sly, carting those late-night contracted orders to the naval hospital.

Their scheme was as well-oiled as it was tasteful: Rafe drew up the orders just as Thomas liked them, but once face-to-face with the merchants selling the goods, Alfie chipped away at their asking price with his smooth tongue. Whittled it down and down until there was room to buy more with the funds Thomas had allotted. And that created space was used well; Thomas’s extra coin serviced contracts with Vice Admiral Crofton. Good paying contracts, which cushioned Alfie’s pockets and allowed Rafe to afford his mother’s rent, nurse, and medications.

Not that anyone knew about Rafe’s mother. Not even Alfie. But he did know about Miss St. Quinton’s blackmail. Alfie was still implicated, even if the revelation wouldn’t ruin him the way it would ruin Rafe.