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“But shouldn’t I—”

“You can hail a hackney on my return.”

The door opened with a swoosh, and a shop boy clad in black livery dipped his chin to her. Sophie’s hands tightened around her reticule as she walked inside. Ladies clustered around the glove table, the very place she and Rafe had stood the last time she had been here.

An unfamiliar face was behind the silk counter today. She hadn’t expected anything different. But the sight was one more pin in the cushion of her heart. He is coming back. He will be there, at the directors’ meeting. Anne will see. They’ll all see.

“Good day, miss. Might I assist you?”

She blinked at the man behind the counter. He was staring at her funny, a pleat between his brows. A lady cleared her throat and stepped around Sophie, bumping her shoulder in the process. Oh, heavens. She was standing in the middle of the store, gaping.

“Yes, sir.” She took a large step up to the counter. “There was a silk brocade, the last time I was here. Yellow, with little blue flowers.”

“Hm.” The man turned to examine the glistening bolts on the wall.

“I, um, I believe it was kept under the counter, sir. Not one of your more … popular selections.”

He smiled, but the strange look deepened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. He probably thought her mad, but sure enough, when he rose from his plundering, he held the sample in his hands. “Is this it, ma’am?”

She had been grasping for Rafe’s exact phrasing. When she brushed her fingertips to the cool silk, his words returned to her. Your skin, it’s already warm. Things like yellows and reds allow your beauty to best shine. The red was already taken care of. She wore the finest gown she had in the shade: Levantine silk dyed morone, with matching velvet trimmings. It was inappropriate in every sense, better suited to a matriarch’s January dinner party than a spring shopping expedition—but she was capable of taking advice, wasn’t she? Trying new things.

“Yes.” She forced a smile. “Yes, that’s it, thank you.”

“Very good.” The shop boy began wrapping the fabric.

“The last time I was here, I believe Mr. Balfour was working this department.” Her pulse climbed to her temples. “Has he been about, lately?”

The shop boy shot her a fleeting glance. “No, ma’am. Not in many days.”

“Oh.” She knew as much was true. The confirmation should not feel like a blow to the gut. “No … communication from him, at all, I don’t suppose?”

He pulled the ribbon tight over her parcel. “No, ma’am. ’Tis my understandin’ he’s no intention of returning.” His voice had dropped several degrees, and he glanced about the room.

“I see.” She deposited her coins on the counter, cinching her reticule closed. “Well, thank you kindly, sir.”

She had just hoisted the package into her arms when the shop boy gasped. “Oh, miss, haven’t you a companion to carry it? Perhaps one of the boys—”

“No, thank you. I’ve got it quite in hand.” She clutched the parcel to her chest and strode toward the exit.

Anne spotted her immediately on the street. “I haven’t spotted a hackney yet— Wait, where are you off to?”

Anne’s footsteps padded close behind, but Sophie didn’t slow her pace. “Forget about the hackney. I’d prefer to walk just now.”

She felt the gazes of strangers as she sped past them. Balfour’s blinding glass window displays seemed to never end; she caught her reflection in the panes: severe, scowling, and yes, rather beautiful in red. She was right about many things—most things, in fact—but she would cede to Rafe on this occasion.

“Miss, won’t you allow me to take your parcel?”

“Anne, not—”

“Oh, miss, watch out!”

Large hands came down on Sophie’s shoulders. She jumped, looking up, up, up into the face of Lord Hansbury. Oh, not this devil.

His face was flushed with color, his eyes lacking their usual sharpness. He dropped his hands. “Distracted by our own reflection, there, are we, Miss St. Quinton?”

“Are you—?” Her initial irritation abated slightly. She studied him more closely. Yes, he definitely didn’t look himself. “Are you drunk?”

His mouth flattened. “Still a master of conversation, I see. No, I’m not drunk, but I rather wish I was. You haven’t a flask on you, I don’t suppose?” He patted his blue-coated chest. “It seems I’ve left mine at home.”