Chapter 3

A collective gasp echoed from the corners of the room.Mrs. Finch puffed up like an angry pigeon. "How dare you? My daughter is merely pointing out that a beggar has infiltrated a respectable establishment.""A beggar?" Beatrice interrupted, her tone conversational. She turned to look at the old woman. Up close, the frayed edges of the woman's coat were visible, yes, but Beatrice also noticed that the wool, though old, was impeccably clean. The woman's eyes, caught in the shadow of the bonnet, were a startling, piercing blue: bright, intelligent, and highly amused.Beatrice looked back at Harriet. "I see no beggar, Miss Finch. I see an elderly woman admiring a piece of lace. I also see a young woman behaving with all the grace and dignity of a cornered badger."Harriet's mouth fell open. "You... you cannot speak to me like that! I am a Finch! My father—""—your father earned his fortune in shipping, if I recall," Beatrice said smoothly. "A highly respectable trade, which makes it all the more baffling why you act as though you were born with a crown on your head rather than a ledger in your hand. Wealth, Miss Finch, can buy you a gold silk gown. It apparently cannot buy you a shred of common decency.""Get out!" Mrs. Finch shrieked at the shop assistant. "Throw them both out! I will take my business to Madame Celeste!""You are perfectly welcome to do so," Beatrice countered, stepping slightly in front of the old woman, shielding her from the Finches' venom. "Though I hear Madame Celeste requires her clients to possess a modicum of class. You might find the entrance requirement somewhat steep."Harriet looked like she might burst into tears of pure rage. She opened her mouth, closed it, and finally settled on a vicious glare. "You will regret this, Beatrice Hastings. You are a nobody, a dried-up spinster who will die alone. Do not think society will not hear of how you defend the gutter trash over your betters.""If you are my better, Miss Finch," Beatrice said softly, her eyes entirely dead, "then I welcome the grave."Harriet spun on her heel, her skirt snapping like a whip. "Come, Mother! I will not stay in this squalor a moment longer!"They stormed toward the door, scattering assistants like frightened birds. The bell above the door violently chimed as they exited, slamming the heavy glass behind them.The silence that followed was thick and heavy. The other patrons of the shop immediately looked away, suddenly fascinated by gloves and ribbons, pretending they hadn't just witnessed a social execution.Beatrice let out a long, slow breath, feeling the adrenaline begin to crash. Her hands were shaking slightly. She hated making scenes. She hated the spotlight."Well," a dry, raspy voice said from beside her, "that was remarkably vicious."Beatrice turned. The old woman had not moved. She was still holding the Brussels lace, looking up at Beatrice with those startling blue eyes. There was a faint, crooked smile on her thin lips.

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