“A fashion label?” Tristan sputtered a little. “What label?”
“Um... the Emmy Watkins label.” His reaction made me falter. I tried not to let it show, clinging to the idea that I could do this and do it well. Even so, my heart pounded in my ears.
“All right. All right.” He raised his hands just above the tabletop and took a breath. “Let’s start at the beginning. You want to create a dress for Duchess Cynthia Sandringham and, at the same time, start a new fashion line?”
“Yes.” Somehow, I mustered enough strength to make my voice as firm as my face.
“To start a fashion label, you need a place to work, material, and access to the press.” Tristan ticked the items off his fingers. “And you’d somehow have to get it off the ground without Madame Jolène hearing about it. She’s an expert at squashing new fashion start-ups. And, even if you do get it running, there’s no doubt she’ll come after you. She has the favor of the Crown.”
“I’m going to work at the Fashion House, after hours, and I do have access to the press.” I skipped the issues of materials and Madame Jolène. “You.”
“Well.” Tristan tilted his cup toward me in a miniature toastbefore rubbing his hand over his face. “You want to make an entire collection and a custom gown in time for the Parliament Exhibition?”
“It’s the only event that the aristocrats, press, Crown, and Parliament attend together. For it to work,everyonehas to see her. Since she’s a duchess, she’ll be formally announced. And then we’ll debut our line on the same night.”
“That’s next month. You can’t do it on your own. There’s no way. You’ll need to find help.” He formed a steeple with his fingers, a line of concentration appearing between his eyebrows. He puzzled in silence for a few minutes, and then a strange, elusive expression crossed his face. “Have you thought about asking someone to join you?”
“I’m not sure who I could ask...” Even as I spoke, a face flashed in my mind, the image rising faster than my words. Sophie. She was strong in so many ways—a quick sewer with a fierce imagination. As focused as she was on the competition, there was an independent streak in her, something that wasn’t quite satisfied with the way things were at the Fashion House.
But... could I trust her?
“There is one girl.”
“Who?”
“Sophie.”
I watched him closely. He fiddled with the handle of his teacup, and when he spoke, his voice was tempered, cautious.
“She is a good choice. I thought she would be happy at the Fashion House, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. I thinkshe’d jump at the chance to do something like this.”
“Do you think so?” I asked. “You would know better than I, given your”—I almost couldn’t bring myself to say it—“past.”
“You’d think so, but when I was with her, I didn’t know what was up or down or left or right. It was like falling in love with a figment—she was never graspable. We’ve been apart for a year, and half that time I’ve wondered if she only saw me because she likes doing things her own way... especially if it causes a stir.” He leaned forward, toward me. “Are you all right hearing this? I want to be open with you.”
“Of course,” I said quickly. But I couldn’t deny it—though I was strangely riveted, I hated it. Even if they weren’t still together, they had a history all their own, something I had no part in. Sophie and her past were like shadows creeping across the floor: terrifying and inevitable.
“She’s a strange soul,” Tristan continued. “I don’t think I ever truly knew her, but I do know that she’d be perfect for the task. Aside from her skills, she has resources, which you’ll need, and a lot of savvy.”
“I have savvy,” I found myself blurting out. I didn’t want to be compared to the beautiful, mysterious, talented Sophie, even if he didn’t love her.
“That’s obvious,” he said. “You came all the way down here, got attacked by a drunk, and are still on your feet. You’ve got gumption, as we say in the journalism world, and you have it by the boatload.”
I picked up my teacup, glad it could hide my face so he wouldn’t see how pleased and grateful I was.
“If I give this message to Cynthia, how will you meet her to discuss it?”
“At the gala next week. She said she was attending, correct? Maybe you can tell her to meet me somewhere. Have you been to the Charwell Palace?”
“I have, for last year’s gala.”
“Is there some discreet spot?”
“Well, there’s a gazebo out back in the gardens. Would that work?”
“Perfect. Tell her to meet me there thirty minutes after the gala begins.”
“Slow down now. This is a lot to ask of a poor journalist such as myself with no name or family to speak of.” He sounded like his typical self—his voice brimming with humor. But then I saw it—a hesitancy that passed through his eyes. “I want to write for theAvon-upon-Kynt Timessomeday. That means staying on the good side of the Fashion House. If I break this story, I won’t ever be able to do interviews at the Fashion House again.”
