George Pembroke walked into the opulent, sun-drenched establishment of Lady Tremaine's Modiste, his heart pounding a nervous rhythm against his ribs. The air smelled of expensive French perfume and freshly pressed silk. He clutched the intercepted letter in his hand, his one ticket past the polished front doors.
"Good day, sir. How can I help you?" a young, impeccably dressed salesperson asked, her expression polite but questioning.
George put on his most humble, subservient face, a look he had practiced in the carriage on the way over. He bowed slightly. "Good day," he said, his voice quiet. "I have a delivery confirmation for Lady Delia Ellington." He held out the letter. "I am one of the butlers from the Duke of Elinburgh's residence."
The salesperson took the letter, her eyes scanning the contents. Her smile widened. "Oh, yes, of course. Lady Delia is already here. She and Lady Amber Carson came in just a few moments ago."
