by Olivia Waite
“I’ll be right with you, Mr. Samson,” Miss Narayan said. She moved unhurriedly to wrap up Sophie’s things, looking as cool and untroubled as spring water.
Sophie’s glance darted outside, where Miss Crewe was starting to disappear down the street. Those long legs of hers would carry her far away before too long. “Can you hold that parcel for me for a little while?” she asked. “I have a few more errands to run.”
“Of course,” Miss Narayan said, very carefully not looking at Mr. Samson, who was equally carefully not looking at Miss Narayan.
Sophie waved farewell, and tried not to sprint out the door.
Sophie kept pace, letting the crowd move between her and Miss Crewe, her eyes focused on the trailing end of the woman’s blue muffler. She didn’t have far to follow; only two turns away, the Mulberry Tree stood where the London road met the River Ethel. It was a lovely, expansive inn, rich in dark wood, plump with windows and gables.
Miss Crewe strode inside as confidently as if the building belonged to her.
Sophie hesitated on the far side of the street. She had not yet learned which taverns in Carrisford were welcoming and which ones were . . . otherwise. It was one thing to follow Miss Crewe down a public street—quite another to follow her headlong into danger and ruin.
She could see a few shadowy figures through the front window, and as she watched a pair of men in frock coats and polished boots emerged from the inn and strode down the street, walking sticks tapping. They seemed respectable enough to her: not fine enough to be gentry, but too well-dressed to be farmers. Tradesmen, most likely, or merchants. Another such pair entered while she stood debating.
She decided she could risk a look inside, at least. She moved quickly enough that she caught the door before it could fall shut, and slipped inside.
The warmth hit her first: a fire roaring on the hearth, light flickering merrily on old walls, scarred but clean tables, and sturdy chairs. Then the scents: ale and fresh straw and savory pies. Stairs led to the upper floor, and the bar stretched against the long wall at the back. A doorway there was propped open to catch the breeze from a small garden that fronted the river. The soft tick of a tavern clock measured the beats of banter and conversation.
Miss Crewe was leaning with one elbow on the bar, laughing cheerfully at something the barmaid was saying.
Sophie hurried to take a seat in a booth under the stairs, where the shadows were deepest. A pair of soberly dressed women were writing letters at the table in front of her; she mimicked their posture, curving her shoulders forward, hoping her brown clothing would blend unnoticeably into theirs.
Miss Crewe accepted a pint of ale from the barmaid, who winked pertly. She cast a quick glance around the room—Sophie held her breath, but Miss Crewe’s gaze passed over the booth without faltering or giving any hint of recognition.
Then, decisively, Miss Crewe rose and slipped through a doorway to a separate room.
In the space between the door’s opening and when it clicked shut, Sophie caught a glimpse of an older, unmistakably dignified figure sitting ramrod-straight on a small sofa.
The lady who’d been at Mr. Giles’s shop.
Sophie’s heart settled into a grim, steady beat. Whatever was happening, they were in it together. Mr. Giles was not destined to keep his windfall profits for long, it seemed.
The minutes ticked by, each one another small cut, shredding her patience. The women writing letters eventually finished their missives, gave the letters to the barmaid, and bundled themselves out the door. Sophie ordered a hot cider, and nursed it resentfully. About half an hour later, her cup empty and cold, the parlor door swung open again. The lady strode out, her turban today silk and velvet, the hem of her gown a foot deep in black silk trimming. She made her elegant way up the stairs.
Miss Crewe, however, did not emerge.
It was baffling and infuriating. Mind racing, Sophie had a sudden wild suspicion that there was a back exit to the other room. The thought had her up and moving across the bar, her hand on the doorknob.
She’d lain in wait too long to lose Miss Crewe now.
It was done in an instant: Sophie slipped through the door, quietly as ever, and pulled it softly shut behind her.
It was a small private parlor, the kind often reserved for the use of guests. Miss Crewe lounged on the sofa, at her ease—but sat straight up, eyes wide, when Sophie entered.
Sophie froze like a mouse before a hawk.
The only sounds were the crackle and pop of the hearth fire, and the hammering of Sophie’s own heart in her ears.
Miss Crewe’s eyes turned sharp, flickering with firelight. She took a long breath, in then out, in a deliberate way that made something in Sophie go quietly hot.
Then Miss Crewe took a dainty sip of ale, as though they were speaking to one another at a duchess’s afternoon tea. “Miss Anybody,” she said. “What a surprising pleasure to see you again.” She licked her lips, her tongue a flash of deeper pink.
Sophie felt faint and swallowed hard.
Miss Crewe patted the cushion beside her. “Won’t you have a seat?”
Sophie sat. Entirely because she didn’t trust her shaking knees not to give way beneath her. Certainly not because it brought her nearer to Miss Crewe than she had yet been.
For defense’s sake—her own or Miss Crewe’s?—she folded her hands tight atop her knees and tucked her feet beneath the sofa, away from the spread of the beauty’s skirts, as gray and soft as cobwebs.
Sophie feared she was already caught.
“That’s better,” Miss Crewe said. She took a last draught of ale, and set the tankard down with a meaningful click. “What is it you want, Miss Anybody?”
“Sophie,” Sophie blurted.
Miss Crewe’s head cocked. “I’m sorry?”
“My name is Sophie Roseingrave,” Sophie said. “Not anybody.”
“Maddie Crewe,” said Miss Crewe, with a flourish of her hand. “But then, I suspect you knew that already.” She turned slightly, facing Sophie, those hazel eyes burning with reflected flames. “What is it that you want?”
One thing Sophie wanted—badly—was to put a hand on the nape of Miss Crewe’s neck and pull her forward for a kiss. It was a disastrous impulse, to be resisted at all costs. Had she learned nothing from the last year? “In order to answer, I need to tell you a story,” she said.
“Oh, how nice,” said Miss Crewe, her tone desert-dry.
“We used to live in London,” Sophie began. “My father, mother, my siblings, and me. Father ran a workshop that built pianofortes—good ones. Not as many as Mr. Broadwood turns out from his factory, but a few of the experts believed ours were better. So when Father was approached by a musician named Mr. Verrinder, who had nothing but praise for his work, it didn’t strike him as unusual. Mr. Verrinder was very charming, and had so many ideas about how my father could better employ his talents, and make a great deal more money for everyone.”
“Ah,” Maddie Crewe said. Her tone was low, almost as though she hadn’t meant to let the sound escape, and the amount of heavy sympathy in it made Sophie’s teeth ache. “Which idea was it?” Miss Crewe asked. “The joint-stock company? The patent application?”
Sophie shook her head. “Mr. Verrinder said he could revolutionize the teaching of piano. He believed students could be taught in groups, rather than singly. That way an instructor could charge less per student—meaning more pupils would be able to afford lessons—but still earn more in total than even the masters who charge a guinea a lesson.”
“A guinea a lesson!” Miss Crewe whistled, pursing those rosy lips and making Sophie clench her hands until the knuckles went white. “I had no idea piano-teaching wages ran so high.”
“They don’t, for most of us,” Sophie said. “I’ve never been able to charge a pupil so much. Those who do are the popular concert performers, the composers whose names are known by the public.”
“In short, the people you and your father both wa
nted to impress and to surpass.”
Sophie blinked. She had never thought of it that way. But it was true. Miss Crewe was sharp.
Then Sophie remembered: Miss Crewe was sharp because this was the kind of game Miss Crewe was used to playing. She steeled herself against beauty’s onslaught. It would do her no good to notice that one wayward auburn curl had slipped free to tremble against the delicate skin of Miss Crewe’s long throat.
“Father and Mr. Verrinder set up a piano school,” she said, pulling her gaze away. “Twenty Roseingrave pianos, for twenty pupils, under Mr. Verrinder’s instruction. A building rented in a part of town where the wealthy wouldn’t hesitate to send their children. Once the enterprise was a success—as it was sure to be, Mr. Verrinder said—we could open more schools, and charge the teachers a percentage of the profits.”
“All the money, none of the work,” Miss Crewe responded.
Sophie flushed. “He made it sound nobler than that.” She rubbed an imagined ache from her wrists, and forbore to mention the chiroplast. A device meant to train and control, and by some measures it had succeeded. But she wasn’t about to reveal her deepest shame to a liar and a trickster. “He ruined us,” she said instead. “It came out that he’d been selling the project to all my father’s colleagues, friends, and rivals, using his connection with us as a sign of his reliability. When he was exposed as a charlatan, he fled—and left my family holding all his debts: the twenty pianos built in expectation, the investments people had made, the teaching fees Mr. Verrinder had already started collecting in some cases. We had to sell everything to recoup what we could—the workshop, the storefront, back stock, our home. We had to let all Father’s employees go, and hope the stain of our names and reputation wouldn’t follow them. Or us.”
“And you came to Carrisford, because it is cheaper to start over here than London,” Miss Crewe said, and reached again for her tankard. “It’s a very sad story, Miss Roseingrave, but I fail to see how it pertains to me.”
“Because you are doing what Mr. Verrinder did,” Sophie said bluntly. “You are running a swindle.”
Miss Crewe went still, her drink held just shy of those rosebud lips.
Sophie smirked, just a little. “I asked Mr. Giles about you.”
“Mr. Giles lies,” Miss Crewe said at once.
“Both you and Mr. Giles are liars,” Sophie shot back. “I want to know whose lies are worse.”
Miss Crewe slowly set the tankard down, as though refusing a poisoned chalice. She regarded Sophie, her head tilted, eyes narrowing. “Why should either of us matter to you? Surely Carrisford is large enough that you could simply avoid us, if you choose.”
Fury raced like lightning through Sophie’s veins: the sting of the injury was still fresh in her heart. “Because as long as there is one swindler at work in Carrisford, there’s a chance it could happen again—to my family, Miss Crewe. To me. I am ashamed to admit I spent months quietly ignoring my misgivings about Mr. Verrinder. I let myself believe only the things he said, and not the things he did. And I will be damned if I let myself be led astray again by someone with more charm than honesty.”
“Charming, am I?” Miss Crewe echoed, and her smile twisted like a key turning in a lock. She bent closer, and some of the heat came back into her hazel eyes. “If it’s honesty you’re looking for—you really ought to start by being honest with yourself, Miss Roseingrave.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Sophie demurred at once. But her voice shook, giving everything away.
Miss Crewe chuckled, a low throb of a sound that made Sophie’s palms go damp and her mouth go dry. “Aren’t you lying just a little bit about your true motives?”
“You’re the only liar here.”
Miss Crewe went on as if Sophie’d said nothing at all. “You hide in corners, quiet and plain as a sparrow—but I see the way you look at me. My hands, my bosom . . . my mouth.”
Sophie’s eyes flicked down to each part as it was named. She couldn’t help it.
Rosy lips curled into a knowing smile. Miss Crewe leaned further forward, hardly more than a breath away. Her fingers lifted Sophie’s chin.
Sophie obeyed that gentle pressure quite before she realized what she was doing. The soft, teasing touch made her head spin. Anger was an anchor; she clung to it. “You are trying to distract me,” she said faintly.
Miss Crewe laughed, low and sweet, sliding her hand forward to follow the line of Sophie’s jaw. “Is it working?”
“No,” Sophie lied. She swallowed, and felt the muscles in her throat move beneath Miss Crewe’s palm. “I’ll not be put off so easily.”
Miss Crewe’s eyes burned now, and her voice lowered to a pitch that seemed to pluck at every nerve Sophie had, setting her thrumming. “You can keep following me all around town if you like . . . but be warned, little sparrow. I may take advantage.”
Miss Crewe leaned down, closed the gap, and kissed her.
Sophie was too aroused and frustrated and furious for prudence, so when Miss Crewe’s lips touched hers she seized the woman to prevent her from trying to escape.
This was precisely the wrong thing to do. It meant Sophie’s hands were now clutching at Miss Crewe’s shoulders, pulling her closer. She tasted of apples and ale, tart and earthy and intoxicating. Sophie’s gasp for air opened her lips and Miss Crewe did take advantage, as she’d promised—her tongue sank into Sophie’s mouth and swallowed up her helpless moan.
Sophie grew angrier, even as pleasure lured her into its drowning depths. How dare this swindler kiss so well?
The kiss became a duel, as Sophie battled to take back control. She slid her hands up and wound strong fingers into those auburn curls, her thumb tracing a demanding line across one perfect cheek. Miss Crewe’s mouth softened as Sophie held her in place—tempted by that softness, Sophie bit lightly but insistently at her rosebud lip.
Miss Crewe made a noise of surprise and pleasure, deep in the back of her throat, and Sophie pressed forward, desperate to taste it for herself.
Miss Crewe tilted back, a feint of yielding so that Sophie wound up pinning her luscious body with all its curves against the arm of the sofa. Sophie had one moment of wild, predatory triumph—and then Miss Crewe slipped one sure hand up from Sophie’s waist, and cupped her clothed breast.
Layers of cloth and stays were no armor against the caress. Sophie nearly went out of her skin with horrified pleasure—and even as her nipple tightened and ached beneath her chemise, she tore herself free and stumbled away, until she stood with her back pressed against the wood of the parlor door.
Miss Crewe stretched languorously, one arm above her head, her hair a ruin, sleek and self-satisfied as a preening tiger. The movement called full attention to the glorious length of her, the dip of her waist, the high, full breasts beneath the worn gray gown.
Sophie’s courage failed her, and she fled.
Chapter Five
Sophie managed to stay close to home—and out of Miss Crewe’s path—for three days. She knew it was cowardly, and tortured herself further by imagining how many nefarious deeds Miss Crewe could undertake in such a span of time. Perhaps by now she’d swindled half the finest families in Carrisford into giving up their gold.
Or their daughters. But presumably the children of the wealthy and well protected were less vulnerable to a ribbon weaver’s appeal than lonely, hungry Sophie Roseingrave, shop owner’s daughter; no pampered, comfortable scion of the local gentry would be so unguarded as to let an argument end with a kiss that still had her nerves sizzling days later.
Or perhaps they were just as susceptible. Perhaps Miss Crewe was even now whispering in the ear of some trembling silk-clad maiden, that siren’s voice offering seductive promises and lustful threats.
Shame and jealousy were a poisonous combination, and they kept Sophie quite sick until her father sent her out with the new panels for the veneer on Mrs. Muchelney’s piano.
The house was as busy as before: Susan
was having a singing lesson in the front room, and the boys could be heard in the garden shouting something in delighted rage that Sophie couldn’t quite make out. “It’s Latin—or something like it, anyway,” Mrs. Muchelney sighed, as she led Sophie up the stairs. “Their tutor has been teaching them about Caesar, and now they’ve apparently decided our creek is as good as a Rubicon.”
Sophie peeked out a window where the stairs turned and saw the two boys, leaping back and forth over the small stream, jabbing triumphantly at one another with sticks whenever they ended up on the same side. Oftentimes they’d miss, and end up ankle deep in the wet, which seemed to delight them just as much as when they fought.
She hid a snicker behind her hand.
“At least it will keep them outside for a while,” their mother said firmly, as if insisting could make it true. “I’m afraid you’ll find Harriet rather underfoot today—she’s been banging away on the piano for days now.”
“Has she ever had any lessons?” Sophie asked.
“We had someone in to tutor Susan for a while—but she didn’t take to it, and I’m sorry to say she rather rebelled against her teacher. And Harriet is always happy to follow where Susan leads.” They’d reached the parlor door, and Mrs. Muchelney stopped with her hand on the handle. “I don’t suppose—Miss Roseingrave, does your father teach piano?”
“He does not,” Sophie said. “But I do. Or at least,” she amended, “I used to.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Muchelney brightened. “Would you be willing to teach Harriet?”
Sophie hesitated. “I am rather out of practice as a teacher, Mrs. Muchelney.”
The widow waved this aside. “I am not asking you for miracles, of course not—it just seems better than letting the poor girl try and figure it all out on her own. She’s barely left the parlor for days, and I swear we’re lucky if there’s anything recognizable as a tune in there.” She clasped her hands against her bosom. “Please, Miss Roseingrave, have mercy—teach her something before she drives the rest of us barking mad.”
