Half a dozen women stood on the sidewalk, two carrying small children, all waiting. They smoothed skirts and hair with ungloved hands, trying to not stare at the grand lady in the landau and not entirely succeeding.
The coachmen leapt down, unfolded the steps, and held open the door. Gigi alit, looking richer than God and colder than Persephone in Hades' bed, her green-and-gold-striped day dress an almost shocking display of color and brilliance amid the women's faded blues and duns. As she approached the door, it was opened from within by a middle-aged, neatly attired woman.
From across the street in his hired cab, Camden watched in fascination. What was Gigi doing on a Bermondsey street barely one rung above seediness?
One waiting woman bent down to speak to her child, clearing Camden's line of sight at last to the small bronze plaque affixed to the left of the door.
Croesus Lending Co.
For Ladies Only
Gigi had dealt with this young girl and her young child a hundred times—different faces, different names, but always the same story. She'd been in love, she'd thought it would last, but it didn't. And here she was, at her wits' end, with only a ha'penny to her name, throwing herself at the mercy of a stranger.
The story still sent chills down Gigi's spine. Had she been a poor, friendless seamstress, might she not have fallen for the handsome apprentice baker next door? Had she been in service, perhaps she, too, would have believed the sweet nothings proffered by the son of the house.
She'd made all the same mistakes. She knew what it was like to be lonely and desperately in love. What it was like to willingly abandon all good sense.
Miss Shoemaker had been a promising apprentice florist in Cambridge when she lost her head over a young professor who came into her employer's shop every morning for a fresh boutonniere. The rest was mundane tragedy. He refused to marry her or even support her. She lost her position when her pregnancy could no longer be hidden. No other reputable florist would hire her. To keep herself and her child alive, she turned to prostitution.
It seemed that her prayers had been answered when a fellow apprentice florist, Miss Neeley, wrote for her help. Miss Neeley had left Cambridge to open her own shop in London before Miss Shoemaker's disgrace and still thought her a reputable young woman. Miss Shoemaker worked under Miss Neeley for two years, socking away every spare penny for the day when she could open her own shop. But just when she thought she had put her past behind her, in walked Miss Neeley's brother one fine morning and recognized Miss Shoemaker from her streetwalking days.
The outline of Miss Shoemaker's difficult young life took up all of one typed page from the private investigator Gigi kept on retainer for Croesus Lending. Those applicants with good references and character letters were handled by Mrs. Ramsey. The irregular cases came to Gigi.
She listened impassively as Miss Shoemaker stuttered her way through her unhappy story, her cheeks stained a dark red.
“I'm sorry I've no character, mum. But I know all about flowers. I can read some and I'm real good with numbers. Miss Neeley used to let me keep the books for her too. And she gots all sorts of compliments on them big arrangements I made for weddings and dances and such. . . .” Miss Shoemaker's voice trailed off, finally cowed into silence by Gigi's glacial magnificence.
And it wasn't just her overdressed self; it was the room too. After the shabby anteroom and the narrow, dark hallway, the opulence of her office dazzled without fail. Lavishly framed paintings by Lawrence Alma-Tadema, brimming with the dazzling white marbles and the impossibly blue skies of a lost antiquity, drew forth astounded gasps. Furniture as fine as any found in aristocratic drawing rooms routinely made the applicants round-eyed with fear, afraid to soil the posh vermilion-and-cream brocade upholstery with their humble posteriors.
“You said you wish to open a shop of your own,” Gigi said. “Do you have a location chosen?”
“Yes, mum. There is this small shopfront just off Bond Street. The rent is dear, but the location is good.”
Miss Shoemaker had ambition and daring. Gigi liked that. “Bond Street? Getting ahead of yourself, Miss Shoemaker?”
“No, mum. I've thought and thought about it. It's the only way. The people in trade, their wives wouldn't use me, not if they've heard anything from Miss Neeley. But the grand ladies, they might not care so much if I do real good work.”
There was some truth to that. “Even so, I would advise you to become a very proper widow.”
“Yes, mum.”
“And before you become too thrilled with your blue-blood patrons, find out which pay their bills and which think you should pay them for the privilege.”
“Yes, mum.” Miss Shoemaker could hardly speak for her rising excitement.
“And keep your eyes peeled for any rich Americans coming to town. Get their business as fast as you can.”
“Yes, mum.”