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She didn’t know how much Claire might know about the rift between Sylvia and Hugo, but Rupert was Hugo’s best friend, and at some point the two men would surely speak. It would be the most natural thing in the world for Rupert to confide in his wife, and then Claire might—

The door opened, abruptly stopping Sylvia’s spiraling thoughts.

“Good afternoon,” she greeted Lady Nolan’s housekeeper. “I had hoped that Lady Nolan might be able to spare me a few minutes before the meeting.”

“Lady Nolan asked that you join her in the morning room as soon as you arrive, Mrs. Pearsall,” said the housekeeper.

“Excellent,” she said, pleased that her instinct to arrive early to discuss the plans ahead of the committee meeting seemed to have been anticipated.

She followed the housekeeper in the opposite direction of the drawing room where the committee normally met and into a part of the Nolan home that she’d never entered before. The hall was all done in light wood with oil paintings of landscapes mounted on the picture rail. Her heels sank into soft pale-blue-and-cream carpet as they passed several doors before stopping in front of one of polished oak. The housekeeper knocked and then opened it.

“Mrs. Pearsall, madam,” said the housekeeper, stepping back to let Sylvia in.

“Mrs. Pearsall,” said Lady Nolan, not rising from her seat.

“Good afternoon. I think you will be pleased to hear that I have all of the plans here,” Sylvia said, touching the attaché case lightly with her free hand.

“Thank you, Mrs. Goodson. That will be all,” said Lady Nolan.

As soon as the door was closed and they were alone, Lady Nolan said, “Mrs. Pearsall, I wish to speak to you about a rather distressing matter.”

“Distressing?” she asked, moving to a chair.

“I must ask you not to sit.”

Sylvia froze at the incredible breach of etiquette and good manners.

“It has come to my attention that you have been misrepresenting yourself to this committee,” said Lady Nolan.

“Misrepresenting myself?”

“Is it not true that you are the proprietress of a dress shop in Maida Vale?” asked the committee chair.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, a flush of heat sweeping over her.

“Do you own a shop called Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions?” asked Lady Nolan.

For a moment, Sylvia thought about denying it, but the thought of pretending made her tired deep down in her bones. She had spent so many years cloaking, hiding, and denying where she was from, and for what? So that in the middle of a morning room on South Audley Street, she could find herself having to account for a fact that her accuser clearly already knew to be true?

“I do not solely own it. My sister has an equal share,” said Sylvia.

“I was not aware that you had a sister.”

The simple sentence stole her breath. No wonder Izzie had hated her for so long. No wonder her mother thought so little of her. She’d erased them so thoroughly from her life that even the people she saw regularly didn’t know about them.

“My sister and I recently inherited the shop from my mother,” she said.

“I see. And is your Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions on your list of recommended dressmakers to feature in the committee’s fashion show?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because the work we do at Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions merits our being included on that list.”

Lady Nolan gave her a condescending smile. “Mrs. Pearsall, I must ask for your resignation from this committee. Effective immediately.”

She stared at the committee chair. “Why?”