Chapter 5

Beatrice laughed, a short, genuine sound. "So my family constantly reminds me. Now, you should probably slip out before Madame Valerius realizes what I paid for that lace and has me arrested for theft."The old woman chuckled. It was a dusty, wheezing sound, but it held genuine warmth. "I will take my leave. Thank you, Miss Hastings. Beatrice Hastings. Miss Hastings, I suspect we shall meet again."The woman gave a slight, strangely elegant nod of her head, entirely at odds with her frayed wool coat. Beatrice watched her turn and walk slowly toward the door. She moved with a slight limp, leaning heavily on a plain wooden cane Beatrice hadn't noticed before."Bea!" Louisa's voice hissed from behind the changing screen.Beatrice sighed, turning away from the door. Her sister emerged, looking stunning in the muslin, completely oblivious to the war that had just been fought in the shop."Did I hear shouting?" Louisa asked, adjusting a sleeve."Just Harriet Finch realizing the world doesn't revolve around her," Beatrice replied dryly. "It was a painful epiphany. Turn around, let me see the back."Twenty minutes later, the muslin dress was ordered, the bill was sent to their brother's solicitor, and Beatrice was ready to go home and lie in a dark room with a cool cloth over her eyes.The bell chimed as the Hastings sisters exited Madame Valerius's. The afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long golden shadows across the pavement of Bond Street. Carriages clattered over the cobblestones, the noise of the city a stark contrast to the stifling quiet of the shop.Beatrice stood on the pavement, pulling on her gloves, when she noticed a commotion down the street. Traffic had stopped. A massive, lacquered black carriage, pulled by four magnificent, perfectly matched midnight-black geldings, was blocking the intersection. It was a vehicle designed to intimidate. No crest was visible on the door, but it didn't need one; everything about it screamed immense, unfathomable wealth. People on the street were pausing, staring, whispering behind gloved hands.Beatrice frowned, squinting against the sun. Standing on the curb, right near the intimidating carriage, was the old woman in the gray coat. She looked small and vulnerable against the massive, gleaming wheels.Beatrice's protective instinct flared again. Is she lost? Is the driver harassing her for standing in the way?"Wait here," Beatrice told Louisa, who was busy fixing her bonnet in a shop window's reflection.Beatrice hurried down the pavement, dodging pedestrians. As she got closer, the door to the black carriage swung open.The man who stepped down did not belong in the middle of a bustling London street; he belonged in a Gothic novel or leading a cavalry charge. He was tall—impossibly tall—with broad shoulders tailored flawlessly into a dark, superfine coat. His hair was black, swept back from a harsh, aristocratic face with high cheekbones and a jaw that looked carved from granite. He was terrifyingly handsome, but his expression was one of cold, murderous fury.He glared at the footman holding the door. "I told you to wait at the corner." His voice carried over the street noise; it was a deep, resonant baritone that sent a strange shiver down Beatrice's spine.

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