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As the lady presents herself at the counter in a flurry of muslin and fur and smelling overwhelmingly of lavender, Dora shunts herself further down the counter—her upset momentarily forgotten—and tries to make herself inconspicuous.

“I hope you are ready to impress me,” Lady Latimer says, and the goldsmith dips his head.

“Of course,” he replies, bringing up from below the counter a red box, evidently prepared in expectation of her visit. As Mr. Clements fumbles with the latch, the woman taps her gloved fingers impatiently. “Here you are,” he says. “As requested.”

The box opens. There is a hush of quiet. Dora angles her neck.

Within is a parure set—a necklace, earrings, brooch, tiara and bracelet. A beautiful collection to be sure, made up of diamonds, emeralds and rubies favoring the French design. One of Mr. Clements’ own, Dora recognizes, and she feels within her chest a stab of satisfaction mixed with jealousy; his designs are nothing to hers, yet it is he who makes a living from them!

“The stones are of highest quality,” he is saying, “and the filigree detailing is remarkably fine, as you can see. The Duchess of Devonshire herself was much in favor of—”

“Really, Clements. I had expected better.”

The old woman’s words fall out bored, flat. The jeweler’s face drops.

“Better, ma’am?”

A pause, a shift of heavy skirts.

“Do you know who I am?” she returns, her voice now laden with scorn, but she does not wait for his response. “I am a woman who desires ostentation, to excite my dearest friends and incite envy in those who are not. I need to be the talk of the town, the belle of the ball. It is what I live for!”

Dora tries not to stare; a woman of her vastly superior years could not be further from a belle of any ball than Dora could be a duck. She glances at the old woman’s companion but the footman continues to look straight ahead. There is not even a tic to his perfectly smooth cheek.

“But, madam,” Mr. Clements is stammering, “that’s not the style! The fashions, my lady, as they stand... You wished for exotic and I have created just that, as far as reasonably acceptable, created something the Prince himself would wish to wear.”

“That buffoon?” The lady’s fleshy cheeks tremble like jelly. “I do not wish to wear something the Prince would wear. I wish to wear something I would wear.”

His skin has paled so much it has taken on the hue of porcelain. “But—”

“I am most displeased, Clements. My custom is clearly not appreciated here, nor my good opinion.”

“Lady Latimer,” Mr. Clements tries again, but the woman is already retreating. “Madam, please—”

“Ma’am, if I may?”

She cannot help it. The words are out of her mouth before Dora has even realized. As both Mr. Clements and Lady Latimer turn their heads to stare—the goldsmith with ill-concealed vexation, and the lady with mild surprise, clearly having only just noticed her pressed resolutely against the wall—Dora’s heart hammers in her throat like a drum.

“And who, pray, are you?”

The woman looks her up and down with unguarded interest. Dora licks her bottom lip.

Is it not how she always said? All it takes is one person of quality. Just one. Dora’s salvation is now at the tips of her fingers, but only if she is to say something now...

“I wondered,” she says, stilted, unable to hide her nerves, “perhaps, if you might take a look at one of my designs?”

Lady Latimer’s eyes narrow. “Your designs?”

Dora reaches out a shaking hand to move Mr. Clements’ cushions out the way of her sketchbook, then slides it along the glass counter. With a frown Lady Latimer spreads her fattened fingers across the drawing of the peacock choker.

“Oh, yes,” the old woman breathes after a moment. “This. I like this.”

Mr. Clements, quite unable it seems to contain his upset, draws himself up to full height.

“Madam, this is not suitable—”

Her ladyship pins him with a look. “It’s a necklace, is it not?”

“Yes, but—”