First published in Great Britain 2016

by Egmont UK Limited

The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

Text copyright © 2016 Katherine Woodfine

Illustrations copyright © 2016 Júlia Sardà

The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted

First e-book edition 2016

ISBN 978 1 4052 7618 4

Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1684 0

www.egmont.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Front series promotional page

PART I The London Season

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

PART II Excursions and Amusements

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

PART III The Proper Paying of Calls

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

PART IV The Debutante Ball

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

PART V The Supper Party

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

AUTHOR’S NOTE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Back series promotional page

PART I

The London Season

From the opening of Covent Garden to the Royal Academy show, from Ascot to the Royal Drawing Rooms, the London Season is rightly considered the finest and most elegant of any European capital. Young ladies preparing to make their debut in London society will feel themselves to be especially fortunate. However, they will enjoy the delights and entertainments of their first Season all the more by ensuring they are equipped with a correct understanding of etiquette: the rules that govern the proper behaviour of a young lady in society.

From Lady Diana DeVere’s Etiquette for Debutantes: a Guide to the Manners, Mores and Morals of Good Society, Chapter 1: The London Season – Court Presentation – St James’s and Buckingham Palaces – Who may be Presented – Court Dress – Rules and Regulations – The Drawing Room – The Levee

CHAPTER ONE

The green parrot was squawking downstairs. Mei rolled over and closed her eyes again, longing to slide back into sleep. She could hear voices in the street; the singing of the kettle; horns hooting on the river; and horses’ hooves clattering over the cobbles outside: all the familiar sounds that spoke to her of morning . For a moment or two, she just lay there, letting them wash over her, but at last she forced her eyes to open once more. She could already feel the warmth of the sun streaming through the chinks in the curtains, falling in long stripes over the bedclothes. She had overslept again, and Mum might be in a scolding mood.

Hurriedly, she sat up in bed, and pushed aside the curtain that separated her corner of the room from the larger portion where her three brothers slept. Their beds were already empty: her eldest brother, Song, must have left for his job in the kitchen at Ah Wei’s Eating House, and the twins, Shen and Jian, would be on their way to school.

At once, she hopped out of bed. It really must be late: why hadn’t Mum called her? Only a minute or two later she was hastening down the stairs, still doing up the buttons on her striped frock as she went.

The stairs were steep and narrow and creaked as she went down them. The Lim family house was an odd little place, squashed right up against its neighbours in a cramped street in Limehouse, East London. It was all crooked angles and dark corners and patches of damp, but every square inch of it was friendly to Mei. She had been born here in the bedroom above the shop; she and her brothers had grown up here; she couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live anywhere else.

As she always did, she jumped down the last few steps into the stone-flagged hallway. To one side was the door into the shop, which stood ajar, letting all the familiar scents of tea and spices and tobacco flood in. To the other was the back room, where the range was, and where the family spent most of their time. But before she pushed the door open and went in, she came to a sudden halt outside.

She could hear Mum and Dad talking in the back room. There was nothing unusual in that, but what was strange was the way they were talking. Their voices sounded hushed, even anxious.

For a moment, she hesitated outside the door. Dad was saying in an urgent tone: ‘We’ve got no other option, Lou. You must see that.’

‘But if we give them what they want, we’ll hardly be scraping by! And what if next month, they ask for more? I’ll not be intimidated like this,’ said Mum indignantly.

Dad’s voice was tight. ‘Do you want to lose this house, the shop, everything that we’ve worked for?’ His voice dropped lower. ‘Remember what happened to the Goldsteins. Is that how you want us to end up?’

The Goldsteins . Mei felt a little shiver run along her spine. Mr Goldstein had been a pawnbroker: his little shop was just a few streets away. He and his wife had been a quiet old couple, though Mrs Goldstein had always said good morning when Mei and her brothers went past on their way to school. But just a couple of months ago there had been a terrible fire: the whole building, including the pawnbroker’s shop, had been burned to the ground, and both Mr and Mrs Goldstein had died. It had been a dreadful accident, Mei had thought, but now it seemed suddenly far more sinister and terrible. Is that how you want us to end up? What could Dad possibly mean by that?

‘Of course not! But –’ Mum began.

It came to Mei suddenly that she was eavesdropping; something that she had always been taught was a low-down thing to do. She pushed the door open and went through into the back room. Immediately, both her parents stopped talking.

‘Well, here she is at last, the Sleeping Princess herself,’ said Mum in her ordinary voice, just as if nothing out of the usual way had been happening. She was rolling out some pastry, stopping occasionally to stir or season a pan of broth that was steaming at her elbow. Whatever she was doing, Mum always seemed to be doing something else at the same time. More often than not, she was undertaking half a dozen things at once.

‘Hope those boys have left you some breakfast,’ said Dad, tweaking the end of Mei’s long plait, as she slipped into a seat beside him at the well-scrubbed wooden table.

‘You’d sleep the whole day through if we let you,’ Mum said, shaking her head at Mei, but her eyes were twinkling. ‘You must get those lazy bones from your Dad’s side of the family.’

Dad made a shocked face, as if he was mortally offended, then jabbed playfully at Mum with his newspaper. She pretended she was going to retaliate with the rolling pin, then shrieked and dived behind Mei’s chair, laughing, as Dad got to his feet to give chase.

Mei couldn’t help laughing too, and in the corner, the green parrot squawked happily as though he were joining in. It was quite as if the tense conversation she had heard through the door had never happened, and she almost began to wonder if she had imagined those serious, fearful voices. They hadn’t sounded like Mum and Dad at all.

Mei knew that her parents weren’t quite like everyone else’s. They were always laughing and joking, and doing what Mr Walker, the schoolmaster, would call ‘playing the fool ’ in his most disapproving voice. Mei had once been invited to tea with Jessie Bates, and her family had been so different: Jessie’s father was so grim and strict that everyone sat around in silence, not daring to say anything more than ‘pass the salt’. Mei had scarcely been able to believe it. Imagine being frightened of your own father! Mei’s Dad was one of the kindest and gentlest people she knew. And to think that Jessie and some of the others had actually turned up their noses at her family, just because her mother was English and her father Chinese!

Happily, she did not have to worry about that kind of thing much any more. Now that she’d turned fourteen and left school, she rarely needed to step outside the little network of Limehouse streets that people called ‘China Town’. Here, there were just as many Chinese faces as there were English ones – most of them merchant sailors – firemen, seamen, stewards, cooks and carpenters, who served on board the steamers plying between China and the Port of London, and would pass a few weeks at one of the lodging houses before working their passage back home on another steamship. But there was also a sprinkling of families like Mei’s own. She’d heard people say that China Town was dangerous and sinister – a dark place of opium dens and gaming houses, but that wasn’t the Limehouse that Mei knew. The streets might be dirty; the people might be poor; but here, she felt at ease. Here, no one turned up their noses. On the contrary: Lim’s shop was at the very heart of China Town, just down the street from Ah Wei’s Eating House; across from the laundry and the Seven Stars Inn; and around the corner from Madame Wu’s Magnificent Magic Lantern Show. Everyone came to Lim’s shop, and everyone knew Mei and her family.

‘You’ll run some errands for me this morning,’ Mum was saying now, bouncing Mei suddenly back out of her thoughts. She realised that the clock on the mantelpiece was striking the hour and that Dad was going through to the shop. ‘I need you to go to the baker, and the fish shop, and the cobbler. And for mercy’s sake, don’t come back without the fish like last time!’

Since Mei had left school, it was her job to help around the house and in the shop. Her older brother Song went out to work, of course, but as the only girl of the family, it was up to her to help Mum and Dad. She knew she was lucky to be able to do so. Most Limehouse families didn’t have the luxury of keeping their daughters at home, and half the girls in her old class at school were now working in the white-lead factory, or at the box-maker’s.

‘But take this upstairs before you go,’ Mum went on, handing her some folded linen, smelling soapy-clean from Monday’s wash. ‘I’ve got people coming to see about the room later.’

Mei took the stack of linens carefully up the steep stairs to the attics. Up here, little windows in the roof let in tiny glimpses of sky and patches of sunshine, and she almost tripped over their white cat, Tibby, who was sitting on the attic landing outside Uncle Huan’s room, basking in one of the squares of yellow light cast on to the floor. She opened her green eyes at Mei, blinked at her disdainfully, and then closed them again as Mei stepped over her, into the other attic bedroom.

She still could not get used to the idea that this room was not Granddad’s any longer. It was empty now, ready to be let to a boarder – and yet somehow, Mei still saw Granddad here, sitting in his upright chair. At this time of the day, he would have been reading the newspaper, Tibby curled in his lap, his own special pot of tea placed carefully at his side on the brass-bound trunk where he kept his treasures. Most of his days had followed the same careful, quiet routine: tea, books, the newspaper, writing in his notebooks, the occasional slow stroll down to the eating house for a game of mah-jong with his friends. Unlike Mei’s father and uncle, who kept their hair short and wore English clothes, Granddad had believed in maintaining traditions and insisted on wearing his hair in a pigtail almost as long as Mei’s own. He had painstakingly taught each of the children Mandarin – something that he had been especially proud of – and to Mei, who loved stories, he had told endless legends and folk tales that he in turn had been told by his own grandfather. Mei always delighted in Granddad’s stories, even those that she knew Song believed were silly nonsense, although he was much too polite to say so.

But just as much as the fairy tales, Mei loved to hear Granddad’s stories of their own family, and his life in the faraway village in Henan, China, where he had grown up, where Mei’s father and his brother had been born, and where the Lim family had lived for countless generations. Indeed, that peaceful country village, which stood beside an ancient temple, seemed like a place from a fairy tale itself to Mei: she could never quite reconcile it with the dusty, busy, smoky Limehouse streets that she knew.

The most important of all these stories was Granddad’s own: the tale of why they had left the village to come to London. It was also the saddest of all his stories, Mei thought. Granddad had told it so many times that she could recall almost every word. As she went back down the stairs, she repeated it to herself, imagining that it was Granddad’s soft, quavering voice telling it.

‘The greatest treasure in our temple was the Moonbeam Diamond,’ the story began. ‘An oval-shaped stone, as silvery as the moonlight for which it was named. The diamond had divine powers: it brought us good fortune and prosperity. It was famous for hundreds of miles around. Pilgrims came to see it, and many stories were told about it. Some said that a real moonbeam was trapped within it, and that was why it shimmered so strangely.

‘The Lim family had been the guardians of the Moonbeam Diamond for generations: my father and my grandfather protected it before me. Legend has it that it was a gift to one of our ancestors from the Lady of the Moon herself. He was a noble warrior who had righted a terrible injustice: as a reward, she gave him the diamond, which was magically endowed with the power to protect him and his descendants from harm. Being a wise and good man, the warrior did not keep the diamond for himself, but bestowed it upon the monks so that all might share its good fortune. He remained with them in their temple to watch over it, and so he and his descendants prospered.

‘But it was also said that an ancient curse was laid upon the diamond. If ever it were stolen, any who possessed it would be destined to ill fortune. Their crops would fail, their families would fall ill, and every foul misfortune imaginable would visit them unless the diamond were returned. Stories were told about those who had foolishly tried to take it, who had come to the most fearful ends –’

‘Mei! Are you still half asleep? Run along now, and remember your brother’s boots from the cobbler’s.’

Mei took the basket a little reluctantly, still half-thinking about Granddad’s story. She didn’t really like going to the cobbler’s, which was some way off, down towards the river and the docks, beyond the familiar streets of China Town. She had always been a little shy – scaredy-cat, Song had said when they were both younger – and she found crowded places daunting. But Mum was looking at her expectantly, her arms folded, and for all she was jolly, Mum was not to be trifled with.

Outside, the streets were full of morning life. People were bustling in and out of the Eating House; carts and bicycles were clattering by on the road; and busy activity was going on behind the dusty windows of the sailmaker’s and the wheelwright’s.

She called at the baker’s first, and found the shop full of people: old women with baskets; younger ones gossiping while they waited for their turn; serious-faced little girls on errands; and two small, dirty ragamuffins, pressing their noses up against the counter and looking longingly at the hot currant buns coming out of the oven. As Mei entered, she noticed the woman who was being served turn and look at her, then nudge her companion and whisper something. The two women cast covert glances at her as they left the shop. Mei stared after them, disconcerted. She was used to nudging and pointing and even rude words, but not here, on the fringes of China Town, where faces like hers were hardly out of the ordinary.

She turned her attention to the baker’s wife, Mrs O’Leary, who greeted her pleasantly. She was always kind to Mei, and especially to her little brothers, and today even more so, insisting on tucking a paper bag with some broken biscuits into Mei’s basket alongside the two new loaves. Mei tried to protest, but Mrs O’Leary wouldn’t have it. ‘Take them, my dear,’ she insisted, pressing her hand, telling her to keep her pecker up and wishing her a good day with more than her usual warmth.

Mei wondered if Mrs O’Leary had overheard whatever the woman had said, and had felt sorry for her because of it. Thinking that made her feel uncomfortable, so as she went back out into the street, she turned her mind back to Granddad’s tale.

‘When your father was no more than the age that you are now, everything changed for our family,’ he would continue, an ominous note creeping into his voice. ‘A party of men came to our village. They told us they wished to learn about our lands, and mark it upon their maps.

‘Their leader was a young Englishman: a gentleman and a fine swordsman. We called him Waiguo Ren, which means “foreigner”. We welcomed Waiguo Ren and his men into our village, believing that they did us honour. They were taken to the temple, and shown the Moonbeam Diamond. Waiguo Ren himself had long talks with the monks, telling them he wished to learn what they could teach him.

‘But what we did not know was that Waiguo Ren was deceitful. He was in league with the Emperor, who was jealous of our temple and its wealth and prosperity. Waiguo Ren lied to the Emperor, telling him that the monks were secretly working against the Qing dynasty, plotting with foreign powers to rise up against them. Angry, the Qing sent many men, and with their help, Waiguo Ren and his men attacked us in the night when we were sleeping. They seized the riches of the temple and burned our village. Whilst we fought to save our homes and families, Waiguo Ren himself seized the Moonbeam Diamond and took it for his own.

‘It was a dark and terrible time. Many people were killed, and our village was destroyed. I knew that I had failed in my duty to watch over the Moonbeam Diamond, but Waiguo Ren had disappeared, and there was nothing to be done. Not long afterwards, your father, your uncle and I departed. The Emperor had ruined us: our home was gone, but we knew there was work to be found on the steamships. The long voyage across the sea was hard and full of danger, but at last we came to rest here, safe on these shores.’

At this point, Granddad had a way of opening his hands, as if he were releasing the story into the air, like a bird taking flight. ‘And the rest of this tale, you know for yourself,’ he always concluded.

‘And what happened to the diamond?’ Mei would ask eagerly, when she was small.

Granddad would smile, yet his eyes were cloudy with sadness. ‘That I do not know. But what I do know is that the Moonbeam Diamond has its own destiny.’

Then his expression would change into a beaming grin, and he would sweep her into a hug and say: ‘You and your brothers are more precious to me than any diamond, my dear one. You are the only jewels that an old man like me could ever need.’

But all the same, Mei knew that Granddad had often thought of the Moonbeam Diamond. Sometimes, after he had told her the story, he would sigh and say: ‘You know, often in my dreams, I see our temple. How I would love to see the diamond sparkling there again, where it belongs.’

Mei had heard Dad and Uncle Huan saying that Granddad lived too much in the past. They were young men when they arrived in London, and had made lives for themselves here. Father had Lim’s shop, and Mum, and the children, whilst Uncle Huan had taken a liking to a sailor’s life and now worked as First Mate on one of the great steamships that came in and out of West India Dock. He came home every few months, his pockets stuffed with packets of cinnamon or curious ornaments carved from ivory, or long ostrich feathers that he used to tickle Mei’s cheeks. Whenever he returned, there would be a family celebration, and he would take up his old room in the attic opposite Granddad’s for a few happy weeks. But this time, when Uncle Huan came back, Granddad would not be there.

Mei’s stomach felt hollow. She still missed him every day.

She had almost reached the river now. The air here had its own peculiar tang: a part-sour, part-spicy odour of smoke and turpentine, flavoured with rum from the West India Docks, and always the distinctive smell of the water. Everything started with the river: it was here that Granddad and Dad and Uncle Huan had first arrived in London, all those years ago. Mei could see the dark lines of its myriad cranes and masts sketched against the sky, as she picked her way carefully down towards it.

The streets were busier here: she had to weave her way between horses pulling carts stacked high with wooden crates; a boy selling papers for a ha’penny; clerks on their way to the Customs Office; a gaggle of barefoot children, chasing through the crowds; and men unloading cargo: sacks of grain, great coils of rope and lengths of timber. Everyone was far too busy to pay the least attention to a girl alone with a basket, and Mei began to relax and enjoy the spectacle of the docks at work. The river was usually grey, but today the June sunlight caught it and made it sparkle – here silver, there blue or green. Seagulls were calling above her head; smoke was curling from chimneys on the other side of the river; and boats were jostling their way across the water: steamboats and sailing ships, barges and coasters. She was almost disappointed when she came to the cobbler’s shop and had to turn away from the river to go inside.

The cobbler was a jolly red-faced man, who spent much of his free time in the Star Inn. ‘Boots for your brother, Miss Mei? Here you are. Good as new,’ he said heartily, handing them over to her. But just as he was about to put them into her hands, he suddenly pulled them back. Mei gazed up at him, confused.

‘Will you give your father a message for me,’ he said, in a much lower voice, a grave look on his usually cheerful face.

‘Course,’ said Mei, surprised.

‘Only for your father, mind. Keep mum: not a word to anyone else. Not even those rascal little brothers of yours.’

Mei nodded, increasingly puzzled.

For a moment, the cobbler hesitated. Then, even more quietly, he said: ‘Tell him he’s in the soup.’

‘What?’

‘Up to his neck in it. He’ll know what I mean. Now run along, my dear, and mind how you go .’

He said the last words with a particular emphasis. It was not an ordinary run-of-the-mill farewell – he was warning her about something. She had not the faintest idea what the warning might mean, but in spite of the warm day, a sudden chill crept over her as she left the shop.

The docks that had seemed so lively felt different now. Sailors and stevedores jostled past as she hurried back towards China Town. One man, already drunk, staggered out of an inn doorway into her path then dropped his bottle on the ground and began cursing angrily. She dodged away, but then a little gaggle of children crowded around her, the smallest pulling at her frock to distract her while another’s dirty hands snaked inside her basket. But Mei had not lived her whole life in the East End for nothing. She knew what to do: she pushed the thieving one away, scowled at them all and thundered, ‘Leave off ! Or I’ll set the constable after you!’ in her loudest voice, until they scattered into the crowd.

Her heart bumping now, she walked as fast as she could back to China Town. She did not run. She knew that to run would be to appear frightened and to appear frightened was to be weak, but with every step, the words of the cobbler’s warning were ringing in her ears as loud as the bells of Bow Church. He’s up in his neck in it. In the soup. Mind how you go.

She plunged through the shop door, making the bell clamour loudly, but then stopped dead in her tracks.

The shop was ruined. Furniture was overturned and the shelves had been ransacked: bottles and jars were scattered in all directions, and tins of tea and coffee had been pushed to the floor, spilling their contents. For a moment, the chaos was all she saw: then she realised that in the centre of it all was a single crumpled figure, lying like a broken puppet in the middle of the floor.

‘Dad! ’ Mei screamed.

CHAPTER TWO

All the way across the smoky city of spires and slums, in the heart of the West End, was a shop of a very different kind. London’s most fashionable department store was crowded with people: the London Season was now in full swing, and anyone who was anyone simply had to be seen at Sinclair’s.

Outside, it was a glorious June morning, and the skies above Piccadilly Circus were a perfect blue. Inside, all eight storeys of Sinclair’s department store were astir with activity. Elegant ladies were perusing gloves and parasols, whilst dapper gentlemen examined flannels and straw boaters. Giddy groups of young people were gathering around the ice-cream counter – Mr Edward Sinclair’s latest American innovation, fast becoming a favourite with London’s fashionable set. At the top of the store, stylish couples were strolling through the roof gardens, which, since Mr Frederick Whitman had chosen them as the setting for his marriage proposal to West End star Miss Kitty Shaw, were considered to be quite the most romantic place in the city. All the while, porters in smart uniforms hurried by with boxes, and the Head Doorman, Sid Parker, swung open the doors to admit more customers to the tune of a merry waltz drifting down from the gallery, where a pianist played a gleaming white grand piano.

Out in the stable-yard, there was just as much going on. A procession of vans was streaming into the yard, each piled high with crates and boxes. Many of them had come directly from the docks of the East End, loaded with cargo from all over the world. There were crates of China tea, bolts of Indian silk, and the finest goods from every corner of the British Empire. It was here that everything arrived, and it was from here too that all the deliveries went out to the grand houses of West London. Even now, another group of porters were busily preparing the next batch, each item carefully wrapped and placed inside a Sinclair’s box. The boxes were loaded into the motor vans and delivery carts, and then they flowed out again in a long cavalcade into London’s streets.

Meanwhile, above them in the store, the elevators swept up and down; the tables in the Marble Court restaurant were laid for luncheon; and in the Millinery Department, several groups of customers had gathered to admire exquisite displays of the latest summer hats – gorgeous creations all fluffy with ostrich feathers or wreathed in flowers. A stylish lady swept by, fanning herself and holding forth to her companion:

‘I do think that white is the only suitable colour for a debutante. Perhaps ivory or écru, or I could tolerate a pale mauve, but to wear anything else would be in very poor taste – don’t you agree?’

The girl walking with them was clearly a debutante herself – a young lady making her first appearances in society. She was gazing around open-mouthed, as if she could hardly believe her eyes. But her amazement was not really so very unusual; after all, Sinclair’s was the most extraordinary store in London, with its lofty ceilings painted with clouds and cherubs, the fountains in its magnificent marble entrance hall, its beautiful golden clock. But it wasn’t just the celebrated decor of Sinclair’s that made it so special. Nor was it the magnificent entertainments that Mr Sinclair always seemed to be staging – one week an elegant thé dansant, the next an exhibition of some remarkable new invention. There was quite simply something magical about the place, from the way that the very air seemed always to be scented with rose and violet and caramel and melting chocolate, to the famous blue-and-gold Sinclair’s boxes, inside which any kind of delightful dreams might be discovered nestling amongst snowy folds of tissue paper and tied with a satin bow.

Even Sophie Taylor, who had been working as a salesgirl at Sinclair’s ever since the store first opened, still sometimes found herself gazing around the store, enchanted by the beauty of her surroundings. Not, of course, that there was a great deal of time for standing around on such a busy morning as this one.

‘Deliveries for the Millinery Department, Miss Taylor!’ called a porter, whizzing by with a trolley stacked high with hat-boxes.

‘To the storeroom please, Alf,’ she replied, as she deftly whisked a hat decorated with bluebirds from the very top of an elaborate display and placed it into the eager hands of a waiting customer.

It was strange to think that today was her fifteenth birthday. A year ago, she would never have believed she would be spending it working as a salesgirl at Sinclair’s department store. As she hurried into the storeroom to fetch more hats for a group of debutantes, she found herself marvelling at how much her life had changed since her last birthday. Papa had been home on leave, she remembered, full of tales about the recent adventures of his regiment. There had been a trip to the theatre and a special tea on the lawn at Orchard House. Cook had made a birthday cake decorated with strawberries, and they had drunk her health in ginger beer. Papa’s present had been a lovely new frock – her first grown-up evening dress – and her dear old governess, Miss Pennyfeather, had given her a pretty silk sash to match. She remembered Papa smiling at her as they had all sung ‘For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ around the tea table . . .

For a dangerous moment her eyes began to feel hot and prickly, but she shook the sensation away at once. This was not the time for blubbing – she was a professional young woman now. Being a shop girl was hard work, and sometimes rather boring – each day the same round of taking deliveries, tidying the storeroom, recording sales in the ledgers – but she did it well, and she was proud of it. As she swept back out of the storeroom with the stack of hat-boxes, she held her head high. Papa might be gone now, but it was a comfort to know that he would have been proud of her too.

Just a few months ago, the idea of working for a living had been daunting. Life as a shop girl had seemed so difficult – and she had felt so awfully alone. But then she had fallen headlong into a peculiar adventure, and together with three new friends, had saved Sinclair’s department store from disaster. She still felt a little shy of putting it that way, even to herself – after all, ‘saving Sinclair’s’ sounded rather grand and conceited. But it was the truth, just the same. Together, the four of them had prevented Sinclair’s from being destroyed by an infernal machine – an explosive device planted by the mysterious and sinister criminal who called himself ‘the Baron’. In the process they had also helped to recover Mr Sinclair’s priceless clockwork sparrow, which had been stolen from the store.

It had been a strange and rather frightening experience – but there was no doubt that it had changed her life for the better. She had been able to use some of the reward money that they had been given for finding Mr Sinclair’s stolen jewels to move out of her horrid old lodgings and into a far nicer room. Mrs Milton in the Millinery Department had been delighted to have her back to work at the store, and the other shop girls, who had not always been especially agreeable to her in the past, had become much more pleasant. Indeed, the youngest girls had become rather awestruck in her presence, treating her quite as if she were a heroine from a story in a twopenny paper. Even Edith, her old adversary, was carefully courteous; and as for the great Mr Sinclair himself, he always had a smile or a nod for her on the occasions he passed through the Millinery Department.

Best of all, though, she no longer felt so lonely. Papa and Orchard House were gone forever, but now she at least had her friends: Lil, Billy and Joe. Like Sophie herself, they all worked at Sinclair’s. Lil was one of the glamorous ‘Captain’s Girls’ – mannequins, whose job it was to display the latest gowns, hats and shoes to the most important customers in the daily dress shows. She combined being a mannequin with performing as a chorus girl at the Fortune Theatre, and always seemed to be rushing between dress parades and rehearsals and performances.

Meanwhile, Billy had been promoted from his old position as an apprentice porter to that of office boy in Mr Sinclair’s own office. Far from loitering around as he used to do, Sophie now regularly saw him hurrying busily through the shop on urgent business for Mr Sinclair’s private secretary, Miss Atwood. He always grinned at Sophie when he saw her, but rarely seemed to have time to stop and speak. He had grown taller since the spring, and stood much straighter now: already he seemed quite different from the nervous boy who had always been getting himself into scrapes and who had needed Sophie’s help.

Joe worked in the stable-yard. Sophie saw him most mornings on her way into the store, brushing down one of the horses with his sleeves rolled up, cheerfully whistling a music-hall tune. Joe had once been part of a gang working for the Baron, and when Sophie had first met him he had been injured and penniless, begging outside Sinclair’s. He looked quite different now – well-fed and happy. She knew that having a proper job and a place to live meant a very great deal to him. She could understand how he felt: she too had known what it was like to be alone, without any way to support herself. She knew they both felt very fortunate now.

But, she acknowledged, not everything about their adventure had changed things for the better. For one thing, it had brought a new sense of danger into her life. She could not forget that she alone had caught a glimpse of the Baron. He was renowned for the prodigious care he took to keep his identity a secret: no one but his closest associates knew what he looked like, but Sophie had seen him, and because of that, she knew she was in jeopardy. Indeed, in the first few weeks after their adventure, Mr McDermott – the private detective who worked for Mr Sinclair – had instructed a policeman to escort her to and from the store, to ensure her safety. Even once that had ceased, Mr McDermott himself had called in several times to check that all was well. She had welcomed his visits: in those first days she had found herself jumping at unexpected noises, starting at the sound of footfall behind her, and lying awake at night, staring into the dark, unable to help picturing the Baron’s face looming at her out of the shadows.

But as spring had stretched into summer, there had been not even the smallest sign of the Baron, nor the Baron’s Boys – the gang of East End ruffians who worked for him.

‘Do you suppose that perhaps he didn’t realise I had seen him, after all?’ Sophie had found herself asking Mr McDermott.

Mr McDermott had frowned. ‘Who can say?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘The Baron is a hard man to second-guess.’ Then he gave Sophie a rare smile. ‘Either way, Miss Taylor, it looks as though he has forgotten about you – and I must say that I’m very relieved about that.’

Well, the Baron might have forgotten her, but she doubted she would ever forget about him. Perhaps, she thought now, as she unwrapped the hats, it was simply that he believed a mere shop girl could not possibly pose a threat to him. And in a way, he was right – he was one of the most powerful men in London, with the whole of the East End in his thrall, and she was here, spending her fifteenth birthday selling hats.

‘Here is the style with the rosettes you asked for, madam,’ she explained politely, showing the first of the hats to the three young ladies waiting by the counter. ‘And this one has a cluster of rosebuds, while this pink one is a brand new Paris model,’ she went on, with careful courtesy. At Sinclair’s, it was drummed into all staff that they must provide the very best service to customers at all times.

The smallest of the young ladies, who was dressed in an elaborately flounced gown, seized on the Paris hat at once. ‘I’ll try this one,’ she announced in a very self-confident tone, positioning herself in front of the mirror. ‘Lord Beaucastle says I look awfully pretty in pink, you know,’ she added to her companions.

The girl next to her – slender, dark-haired and rather more simply dressed than her companion – rolled her eyes, but said nothing. She picked up the hat with the rosettes and turned it over in her hands. Sophie thought she saw her eyes flick very quickly to the price, which was marked discreetly on a small ticket inside the hat-box.

‘Cynthia has one just like this,’ she said disdainfully, dropping the hat back into its box. ‘Goodness knows, I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was copying her taste.’

‘What do you think of this one?’ the third of the debutantes, who had dimples and yellow curls, asked anxiously as she tried the hat with the rosebuds. ‘It would be rather lovely for a tea party, don’t you think, Emily? With my lace tea-gown?’

‘Well, get it if you like it, Phyllis, by all means,’ said Emily, the dark girl. ‘Though I must say it’s not to my taste.’

‘I suppose you would prefer this one,’ said the first young lady sharply, as she appraised the Paris hat in the mirror.

‘Oh no, I don’t think so,’ said Emily dismissively. ‘I don’t care for pink. I’d rather that blue with the spotted veil,’ she said, nodding at a hat on display on another of the glass-topped counters. ‘It’s more stylish.’

Phyllis’s face looked shocked under the wide brim of the hat she was trying. ‘But you couldn’t possibly wear something like that!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s so bold! We’re only just out, after all – we mustn’t look fast !’

‘Oh, Phyllis, don’t be such a prig,’ said Emily with a little laugh.

‘Why don’t you try it on then, if you’re so daring?’ suggested the first young lady, still not taking her eyes off her own perfect reflection in the mirror. Sophie thought it sounded like a challenge.

Emily yawned daintily behind a gloved hand, as if the whole situation was boring her. ‘No, I don’t think I will,’ she said coolly. ‘Really, it’s a little vulgar to buy from a department store, don’t you think? Why, imagine if someone else turned up to a party wearing the same hat as you? It would be just humiliating!’

‘Not so humiliating as wearing the same evening gown to three different parties in a row,’ muttered the first young lady. Emily ignored her, but Sophie noticed a flush of crimson appearing on her cheeks.

An uncomfortable silence fell, until at last the first young lady removed the hat and cast it carelessly down on the counter. ‘I’ll leave this one, thank you,’ she said airily to Sophie. Then she turned to Phyllis. ‘Do make your mind up. Are you going to buy that, or not? We’ll be late for luncheon if you don’t hurry.’

Phyllis hurriedly removed the hat and handed it back with an apologetic smile, and the whole party set out for luncheon in the Marble Court Restaurant, rather to Sophie’s relief. She might be grateful to have her job at Sinclair’s, but she could think of better ways to spend her birthday than dealing with bickering debutantes, she thought ruefully, as she tidied the hats away.

‘Letter for you, Miss Taylor!’

A porter approached the counter, giving her a cheeky wink as he handed her not one, but two envelopes.

‘Young gentleman friend, eh? Sending you a few sweet nothings?’ he teased, grinning as he went on his way.

Sophie ignored him and glanced down at the envelopes. The sight of the familiar, rather untidy handwriting at once made her spirits lift. She slipped behind the counter, and tore the envelope open, revealing a card with a birthday greeting on the front, surrounded by a pretty wreath of poppies and daisies and some swooping swallows. Inside was scribbled a cryptic message:

Sophie grinned to herself. She knew exactly who the birthday card was from. During their adventure, Sophie and her friends had had to decipher some mysterious coded messages, and ever since then, Lil had thought it was great fun to write the others notes in code. Sophie frowned and picked up a pencil, trying to work out this one, determined not to let Lil get the better of her. After a few unsuccessful tries, she cracked it: the secret was to read every other letter, starting with the first – and when she came to the end, to start again with the letters she had missed.

A birthday tea! The day that had stretched ahead of her just like any other suddenly seemed bright and festive. She felt altogether more cheerful as she glanced down at the second envelope – perhaps Billy had sent her a birthday greeting too?

But the second envelope did not look in the least like something Billy might have sent. The envelope was thick ivory paper, the address written in violet ink in an elegant but unfamiliar hand:

How curious! It was addressed to both her and Lil. She frowned for a moment, trying to think who on earth could possibly be writing a note to both of them. But there was no time to wonder – another customer was hurrying towards her. Hastily, she stuffed both envelopes into the pocket of her frock. ‘May I help you, madam?’ she asked.

CHAPTER THREE

Several hours later, Sophie pushed open the door of Lyons Corner House, breathing in the lovely aroma of hot buttered toast and coffee. It had been a very long day, and now her feet ached and her back hurt, but she was certainly not too tired to relish the prospect of a birthday celebration. Going out to tea was a rare treat; she and Lil would occasionally come here when they had a shilling or two to spare. It was one of the few places in London that welcomed young girls like themselves, alone, and it always gave her a satisfying feeling of freedom and independence.

She caught sight of Lil at once, sitting at their usual table in the corner. Lil was conspicuous whenever she went, being both unusually tall and unusually beautiful. Even dressed as she was this afternoon, in a simple summer frock and a straw hat with a ribbon round it, her glorious mass of rich dark hair, chocolate brown eyes and magnificent figure made her look more like a goddess than an ordinary girl. Sophie had long since got used to Lil’s remarkable appearance – but what did immediately take her by surprise was that Lil was not alone. Sitting beside her, both looking rather as though they had been starched and ironed especially for the occasion, were Joe and Billy.

‘Hullo Sophie!’ said Billy as she approached. ‘Happy birthday!’

Lil was almost bouncing out of her seat with excitement. ‘I say, isn’t this jolly? Are you surprised? Do sit down – we’ve already ordered some iced buns. I hope you don’t mind – I do think there’s something awfully birthday-ish about iced buns, don’t you?’

Even Joe was grinning at her, in spite of looking a little self-conscious to have found himself in a tea shop. Billy and Joe had each brought her a birthday card, and Lil had a present for her too – a handkerchief with embroidered corners. By the time the tea had been poured and the iced buns and sandwiches arrived, she felt quite a different person from the weary shop girl who had walked through the door.

It was the first time in two weeks that they had all been together, and they had lots to say for themselves. Billy was eager to tell them the latest about working in Mr Sinclair’s office.

‘Of course, I’m only the office boy, so I’m jolly unimportant really,’ he explained, as he shovelled a third spoon of sugar into his tea. ‘But there’s no danger of being bored, I can tell you! There’s always something going on – you should see some of the people who come to see the Captain!’

‘Lots of ladies, I bet,’ said Joe, with a grin.

‘Yes and not just any ladies, either – actresses, opera singers, dancers,’ Billy said, his eyes wide. ‘If they’re someone important, he has them sign a window pane in his office. He has a special long stick with a diamond at the end of it, so they can write their names on the glass!’ he explained, clearly most impressed by this. ‘It’s fearfully busy, but I’m learning a lot. Miss Atwood is showing me all the ropes. Then I have to take evening classes three times a week – typing and shorthand and bookkeeping.’

‘You must hear all sorts of interesting things,’ said Lil, her eyes sparkling, much more intrigued by Mr Sinclair’s glamorous visitors than she was in typing or bookkeeping. ‘All the gossip and scandal! Mr Sinclair’s deep, dark secrets.’

Billy grinned. ‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ he said. ‘I think he keeps his secrets to himself. But I’ll tell you what – I do know all about the plans for the summer fête.’

The Sinclair’s summer fête was a great source of excitement amongst the staff at present. Mr Sinclair was renowned for taking good care of his workers, and he had determined that just as London’s high society had their summer entertainments – their trips to Ascot and Cowes and the Henley Regatta – so too should his staff. He had charged the new store manager, Mr Betteredge, with planning a day of festivities for them, to reward them for their hard work during the year so far. Mr Betteredge was a cheerful gentleman, who was about as different from the previous store manager, the duplicitous Mr Cooper, as it was possible to be. Mr Cooper, of course, had turned out to be secretly in league with the Baron: he was the one who had stolen the clockwork sparrow, and might have done far worse had they not discovered what he was up to. But even disregarding all that, Sophie could not imagine that he would ever have jumped at the chance to plan a jolly day out for the Sinclair’s staff.

They were all looking forward to the following Sunday, when they were being taken for an afternoon of tea and boating by the river. There would even be a boat race for staff teams, which the young salesmen, grooms and porters were taking very seriously indeed. Sophie knew that Billy’s uncle, Sid Parker, who was the Head Doorman, would be captaining one of the boats, and Joe would be rowing as one of his crew, whilst Billy himself was immensely proud to have been chosen as the cox, whose job it was to shout out instructions to the rowers. There was already much competition developing over which team was going to win.

‘Uncle Sid bet Monsieur Pascal five shillings that our team is going to take first prize,’ related Billy now, managing to stuff in a potted-meat sandwich at the same time.

‘Well I’m glad he’s feeling so confident,’ said Joe, ‘because I can tell you now, I’m not. It’s blooming hard work, this rowing lark.’

‘I just think it’s a fearful shame that girls aren’t allowed to take part in the boat race,’ said Lil. ‘Why should the men have all the glory? I can row just as well as anyone. What are we supposed to do, just stand about and watch ? Where’s the fun in that?’

Billy opened his mouth to share his views on girls taking part in boat races. ‘Er – what else will be happening at the fête, apart from the boating, I mean?’ Sophie interjected quickly.

‘There’s a super tea,’ Billy went on, taking obvious pleasure in being the one with all the inside information. ‘I saw the menu on Miss Atwood’s desk. Cold chicken. Salmon mayonnaise. Strawberries and cream, ices, ginger beer. And afterwards, there’s going to be a band and dancing.’

‘I heard about the dancing. The girls in Millinery and Ladies’ Fashions are awfully excited about it. Most of them are getting new frocks specially.’

‘I wish I could have a new frock. I’m jolly short of cash,’ said Lil, with a heavy sigh. She turned to Sophie: ‘I’ve had some rather rotten news. They’ve just announced that the show is going to end its run this week, so I’ll be out of a job.’

‘But why? It’s been a tremendous success, hasn’t it?’

‘Yes, it did ever so well – but silly old Kitty Shaw is leaving the stage to be married, and they’ve decided that the show can’t go on without her. It’s really an awful bother.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Joe, loyally. ‘You’ll get another part in two shakes.’

‘That’s the bright spot,’ went on Lil, sounding more like her usual self. ‘I’ve found out that Mr Lloyd and Mr Mountville are going to be putting on a new show at the Grosvenor Theatre. It’s called The Inheritance and it’s all about high society. It sounds terribly elegant, and I’m determined to get a part – a real part, not just the chorus line. But the auditions aren’t until next month, so I’m going to be rather broke until then.’

‘Well, at least you’ve got Sinclair’s and the dress shows,’ said Sophie.

Lil made a face. ‘Ugh! Parading around in absurd gowns for all those stuck-up old ladies! But you’re right; it is better than nothing. At least it pays for my lodgings. But this is going to be my last tea out for a while. It’s plain bread and butter for me from now on,’ she said grimly, before hurriedly helping herself to another iced bun, as if she thought they might be about to vanish from the plate at any moment.

‘Haven’t you got any of your reward money left?’ asked Billy curiously.

Lil shrugged. ‘Not exactly. I mean, I have a little, but it won’t go far. I spent some of it on singing lessons, and dancing classes, and I thought I ought to get a new outfit for auditions, and then one of the other chorus girls was in rather a fix, so I said I’d lend her two pounds – and, well, it’s perfectly dreadful how easy it is to spend money when you have it,’ she finished up.

‘Couldn’t your mum and dad help you out till you get another part?’ asked Joe, wondering how anyone could possibly spend such a vast sum as twenty-five pounds in just a few short months. He knew that although they were not as grand as some of the rich society ladies and gentlemen who came into Sinclair’s department store, Lil’s family were still well-to-do.

‘I won’t ask them,’ said Lil, a very stubborn expression on her face. ‘I’m determined to prove that I can stand on my own two feet. If I give them half a chance, Mother will have me back at home embroidering idiotic fire-screens, and entertaining eligible young men to tea.’

Lil’s tone made this sound like such a ghastly proposition that Sophie couldn’t help laughing, although the truth was that sometimes she felt a little envious of her friend’s family. She wondered what it would be like to have a mother worrying about you: she could scarcely even remember her own Mama, who had died when she was very small.

‘Oh, I almost forgot!’ she exclaimed, all at once remembering the unopened envelope in her pocket. She produced it now and handed it to Lil. ‘Look at this. It came earlier.’

‘I say, how strange! Could it be something for your birthday?’

‘That’s what I thought at first, but it has both our names on it,’ said Sophie, pointing.

Lil looked intrigued. ‘Let’s find out,’ she said, tearing it open at once.

But once she had taken out the letter and put it on the table in front of them between the teacups and the sandwiches, they were as perplexed as ever. On what was clearly expensive writing paper, there were a few short lines:

‘Well, what does it say?’ asked Joe, looking at the others expectantly. Growing up on the streets of the East End, he had never learned to read.

‘She wants to hire us!’ exclaimed Lil excitedly. ‘As detectives !’

Billy reached across the table and took hold of the note for a closer look. ‘But why would she want to do that?’ he demanded, frowning.

‘It says right there, in black and white,’ said Lil. ‘She heard about how we found the clockwork sparrow!’

‘Well I’ll be blowed,’ said Joe. ‘That’s a turn-up for the books!’

‘But why just you and Sophie?’ asked Billy. ‘I mean, you’re –’ and here he broke off suddenly, his cheeks turning rather pink.

‘Girls? ’ demanded Lil, at once. ‘Girls can be detectives just as well as boys can,’ she burst out indignantly. ‘Girls are just as brave and clever as boys, you know! I realise they aren’t in those silly detective stories of yours – all the girls in those are perfect idiots who do nothing but swoon all over the place – but that’s a lot of old rot.’

Billy looked rather indignant, and opened his mouth as if he was about to argue, but Joe was frowning. ‘It’s a bit of a rum do, though, isn’t it? I mean, why not go to a professional – a private detective? Or the coppers, come to that?’

Sophie frowned. After what had happened in the spring, the last thing she wanted to do was get in any more trouble with the police. ‘Do you think there’s something fishy about it? Perhaps we oughtn’t to meet her?’

‘Of course we should meet her,’ exclaimed Lil. ‘Goodness, don’t be such a lot of stick-in-the-muds. Here I am, at a loose end and desperate to earn a bit of money – and then along comes this letter! It’s absolutely perfect.’

‘But we have no idea what she wants us to do,’ said Sophie. ‘And we aren’t really detectives. How do we know we’ll even be able to help?’

‘We managed to find Mr Sinclair’s missing jewels, didn’t we?’ replied Lil at once. ‘Have you forgotten what Mr McDermott said to us?’

Sophie had not forgotten. The truth was that she had thought of his words very often during the duller moments in the Millinery Department. ‘You have first-rate instincts, Miss Taylor – and with Miss Rose here to help you act on them, I suspect you would make rather a formidable team. If you ever find yourselves tired of Sinclair’s, come and find me. I think there could be quite a different sort of career out there for a couple of young ladies like you. ’ Remembering them now gave her a sudden prickle of pride.

‘Anyway, the absolute worst that could happen is that we go along and aren’t too keen on what she has to say. Then we can just say no to this job – or what does she call it? – commission,’ went on Lil stoutly.

‘Well . . . I suppose there couldn’t be any harm in at least going to talk to her,’ said Sophie. In spite of her caution, she felt a pleasing buzz of excitement.

Across the table, Billy’s face was screwed into a peculiar mixture of eagerness and indignation. Sophie realised that he was just as enthusiastic as Lil, but still rather resentful that he had not been included in the invitation. Joe was watching with a look of quiet amusement on his face, and now he grinned at Sophie as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.

‘Of course, we’ll need both of you to help too,’ said Sophie.

A look of relief crossed Billy’s face. ‘Well, it’s a bit busy at the moment,’ he said in a deliberately casual tone. ‘You know, working for the Captain and the evening classes, and practising for the boat race and everything. But I expect I’ll probably be able to help out.’

Lil looked eagerly at Joe. ‘Course I’ll help, if I can,’ he said, with a smile and a shrug.

‘Hurrah!’ said Lil. ‘That’s settled then!’

‘Lil and I will go and see this Miss Whiteley tomorrow,’ said Sophie with a decisive nod. ‘Then let’s meet again after the store closes, and we can tell you all about it.’

CHAPTER FOUR

Song was angry. ‘What on earth were you thinking?’ he demanded.

‘That’s no way to talk to your father!’ snapped out Mum. ‘I’ll thank you to take a more civil tone!’

‘But they might have killed you!’

Dad gave a little snort. ‘It would take more than that gang of brainless thugs to finish me off,’ he muttered.

Mei stared at him anxiously across the table. She hated to see him so white and tired-looking. The bruises on his face were a constant reminder of the moment she had found him, crumpled on the ground – she had been quite sure that he was dead.

Song looked at their father for a long moment, then sighed and sat back in his chair, his hands bunched into fists in front of him. ‘All I’m saying is that you can’t just refuse to pay the Baron’s Boys,’ he said in his usual quiet voice. ‘That isn’t how things work.’

‘It’s a matter of principle,’ said Mum, rather stiffly. ‘People round here look to us to set an example, Song, you know that. We all work hard. We’ve all got precious little as it is. We can’t let them turn up here and demand our money. It’s nothing more than bullying. If we all stand up to them, maybe we can put a stop to it.’

Song made a noise of frustration in the back of his throat. ‘But you can’t stand up to them, Mum. That would be like . . . one mouse against a hundred cats! Besides, no one else is going to put themselves in danger, especially when they see what happened to Dad. People are afraid .’

There was a long pause. Then Dad spoke. ‘Song is right . . .’ he said slowly. His voice was heavy. ‘We can’t stand against the Baron, Lou. He runs the East End. Everyone knows that. We should be grateful it’s taken him this long to reach into China Town.’

Mei felt a slow chill creep over her. She knew about the Baron, of course: everyone in Limehouse did. He was the villain of every whispered tale – the monster who was ‘coming to get you’ in all the children’s games. No one had ever seen him, but almost everyone claimed to know someone who’d caught a glimpse, just once, and come to a bad end. To see the Baron himself would be the worst of all bad omens – worse than a black cat crossing your path, worse than breaking a looking glass. There were dozens of stories about him. Some people said that he was a bloodthirsty murderer who had left a trail of horribly dismembered victims all across the East End. Others said he had once been an ordinary man, until he had sold his soul to the devil. Either way, everyone was afraid of him. To Mei, he was the dark shadows underneath the bed, the creaking floorboards, the distant shriek in the night.

But the Baron was much more than just a fairy tale, a bogeyman from a child’s nightmare. He was the top man in the East End and everyone knew it. His net stretched from Spitalfields to Bow. The Port of London Authority might think that it ran the docks, but the folk of the East End knew better. They knew that the Baron had eyes on every load that came in or out of every ship that docked. They knew that he did his own business there too, and they carefully looked the other way when ships slipped in and out under the Baron’s protection. No one would dare to cross him.

As for the Baron’s Boys, they were almost as feared as the Baron himself. They were the ever-growing gang of toughs who did the Baron’s business – legitimate or otherwise. They collected his rents – the protection money he demanded from most of the East End – and dealt with those who got in their way. People hurried in the opposite direction if they saw them standing on a street corner. Conversation fell away when a group of them swaggered up to the bar of the Star Inn, demanding the landlord’s best beer, or when one or two came striding into the fish shop for their penny bit and ha’p’orth of chips. And now they had been here, to Lim’s shop.

Mei felt sick. The back room had always seemed like the safest place in the world when the family were sitting around the table, in the warmth of the range. But suddenly it was just a room, any room, small and cold. All the laughter had gone out of it. The green parrot in the corner was silent, and even the twins sat still and quiet, their eyes round as saucers.

As if it was their silence that had suddenly reminded her that they were there, Mum glanced over at the twins. ‘Boys, go outside,’ she said curtly. ‘Run along now, chop-chop.’

Dad shook his head weakly. ‘No, Lou. I don’t want them out there. It’s too dangerous,’ he said.

‘Upstairs then,’ said Mum firmly.

‘But, Dad – we’ve got to go out.’ Jian spoke up, looking alarmed and astonished. ‘We’re s’posed to meet Spud and Ginger for a kick-about after tea. They’ll be waiting for us!’

‘Well they’ll be waiting a long time, then, won’t they?’ snapped Mum. ‘You heard your father. You’re not to go out. So upstairs you go. And Mei, you can get started on clearing things up in the shop.’

They wanted them out of the way so they could talk, Mei knew. There was no sense in arguing. She got up, and obediently shepherded the boys out of the back room and up the crooked stairs towards the bedroom. The twins had forgotten about the Baron’s Boys already. They were babbling away in the funny mixture of playground slang and their own peculiar twin language that they used when they were speaking to each other. Now, they seemed to be jabbering something about a game of cowboys and Indians.

‘Come and play with us, Mei,’ said Jian. ‘We’ll let you be the squaw.’

‘We’ll make Song’s bed into our fort,’ said Shen with a grin.

But Mei shook her head. Normally she’d have been happy to have the excuse to join in with one of the twins’ make-believe games, but today, she couldn’t think about anything beyond Dad’s bruised face and the Baron’s Boys.

Instead, as they bounded up the stairs, she went slowly through into the deserted shop as Mum had told her. It looked quite sad and unlike its usual self. The door was locked and bolted, and Song had nailed boards over the broken windows so that only one or two beams of light broke through. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light.

She decided to light a lamp to try and break through the gloom, but the glow it cast out seemed somehow feeble. She looked around her, feeling despondent. There was so much to do that she hardly knew where to begin. Listlessly, she took up the broom and began to sweep the floor, making a little mound of spilt tea and tobacco and broken glass.

She could hear more voices now, in the back room. It sounded like Ah Wei, Song’s boss at the Eating House, and Mr and Mrs O’Leary from the baker’s, and Mrs Wu from the Magic Lantern Show. Their voices sounded solemn and grave. Traces of their conversation reached her as she swept: ‘. . . can’t go on like this ’, ‘. . . that sort of money ’, ‘. . . making an example ’, ‘. . . far too dangerous ’.

She didn’t want to hear them. To block them out, she began to tell one of Granddad’s stories to herself, an old tale about a talking fox, but she could not concentrate. She was getting it all wrong. The story of the fox kept getting mixed up with the cobbler’s warning, with Dad lying crumpled on the floor, and then with Granddad himself. Thinking of Granddad made her want to cry, and that would not do – Song would say she was being a cry baby. He said she needed to grow up now she had left school: she was too old to be a feather-brain; she shouldn’t spend so much time playing with the twins; she oughtn’t to always have her nose buried in a book.

Once, she and Song had been the best of friends. They had done everything together; told each other all their secrets; but things had changed. He seemed so much older, all of a sudden. She could hear him now in the back room, his voice forceful and authoritative, although she couldn’t make out what he was saying. When had he become one of the grown-ups?

Then someone in the back room made an unhappy gasping sort of sound – a strangled sob. It wasn’t Mum or Dad or Song, but all the same it pulled her up short. She even stopped pretending to sweep. Instead, she sat down on the stool behind the counter, and wedged her hands over her ears. There was a copy of yesterday’s newspaper lying nearby, and she pulled it towards her and opened it, hoping for a new episode of the serial story to distract herself with. She turned the pages rapidly over a report of a murder in Whitechapel, and a robbery in Shoreditch, but there was no story today, so instead she fixed her attention upon the society pages. She liked to look at them, sometimes, intrigued by the pictures of young ladies in white dresses with elegant-sounding names like Lady Cynthia Delaney or Miss Louisa Hampton-Lacey . The fancy descriptions of grand balls and elegant gowns could have so easily come from one of her favourite fairy tales.

Now, she read them with grim determination, taking in every word of an account of a charity fashion show at a West End store; a report on the upcoming marriage of a glamorous actress; and an article about a lavish society ball. The voices rose and fell in the back room, but Mei read on, filling her mind with words like opera and bazaar and waltz .

Then she stopped short. Two words jumped out at her from the page, and all at once, it was as if the sounds in the next room had vanished into abrupt and ominous silence. She saw and heard nothing: all that was left were those two words, printed in smudgy black ink, in the middle of a paragraph: Moonbeam Diamond.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Ladies’ Lounge at Sinclair’s was a most elegant place. Arrayed like a fashionable drawing room, it was decorated entirely in white and gold, with bowls of flowers set here and there, and plenty of soft chairs and comfortable sofas. It was no wonder it had become a favourite destination for London’s society ladies to meet after a busy day of shopping. That afternoon, the room was full of them: ladies drinking iced lemonade in tall glasses served to them by maids in frilled white aprons; ladies talking vigorously in lively groups; ladies sitting alone, studiously reading the newspaper. There was a low buzz of civilised conversation in the air, and the delicate chink of china and silverware. As Sophie and Lil entered the room, they could not help feeling a little awkward, unsure of exactly who they were looking for, or what they ought to do.

But almost at once, one of the maids came up to them, and directed them to a corner over by the window. Glancing at each other apprehensively, they hurried over. Sophie was not quite sure who she had expected to find, but it certainly was not the young lady who sat waiting, small but very upright, in a large velvet armchair, coolly drinking a cup of tea.

‘You are Miss Taylor and Miss Rose, I suppose,’ she said in a high, rather petulant voice, looking them up and down critically.

‘Yes, I’m Sophie Taylor. How do you do?’ said Sophie, holding out a hand. The young lady looked at it uncertainly for a moment, then gingerly took it in her own lace-gloved fingers.

‘And I’m Lilian Rose,’ said Lil, seizing the young lady’s hand in her turn and giving it such a hearty shake that she looked alarmed and pulled her hand hurriedly away.

‘My name is Veronica Whiteley. I am pleased to meet you,’ said the young lady, with a haughty nod. Sophie looked at her in surprise. The tone of her letter had conjured up a vision of an elderly spinster, but this girl was young – really, she couldn’t have been much older than Lil – and she was dressed very beautifully in a much ruffled, lace-trimmed ivory gown. She must be one of this season’s debutantes, and a particularly wealthy one at that. What was more, Sophie realised that she knew her. She was one of the three young ladies who had been in the Millinery Department the previous day – the one who had tried on the Paris hat.

But Miss Whiteley gave no indication that she recognised Sophie. ‘Do sit down,’ she said, giving a queenly waft of her hand towards the two hard chairs placed opposite her. As they took their seats, Sophie watched the young lady with interest. Although her clothes were expensive and beautifully made, Sophie couldn’t help thinking that they didn’t suit her very well. She was pretty, with china-white skin, a small pink mouth and carefully waved red-gold hair. But all the frills and flounces made her look rather like one of the expensive porcelain dolls that were on sale in the store’s Toy Department. Yet there was nothing at all doll-like about her expression: she was looking at them both with eyes like gimlets, a frown creasing up her white forehead as she sipped tea from a bone-china cup.

‘How can we help you?’ Sophie asked curiously.

‘I have been told that you were responsible for finding Mr Sinclair’s stolen jewels,’ Miss Whiteley began, assuming a very formal manner. Lil opened her mouth to say something, but Miss Whiteley was evidently not expecting there to be any interruptions, and swept onwards. ‘I contacted you because I wished to discuss a similar commission. It is of a highly confidential nature – I trust I can be assured of your complete discretion.’

They said she could, and she went on:

‘I was recently given a gift by a gentleman. It’s one of a kind and extremely valuable – a jewelled brooch in the shape of a moth, made especially for me. Last week it went missing, and I would like you to undertake to find it.’

Veronica found that her hand was shaking slightly as she replaced her teacup in its saucer. She had borrowed her haughty manner from the Dowager Countess of Alconborough, always so imperious in her black velvet and jet beads, assuming complete control of any conversation. Today, she wanted to be no less impressive. It was imperative that these girls took her seriously: she would not be dismissed as just another idiotic debutante.

Although, looking at them again, her lips pursed. She had not expected them to be so very young . Why, the smaller one looked even younger than she was herself ! She had expected them to be older: sophisticated and perhaps a little daring, women of the world, like the heroines of the rather scandalous novels she borrowed from Isabel, her stepmother, on the sly. These two looked more like a pair of schoolgirls than young lady detectives! But it was too late: she had already told them about the jewelled moth, and she would simply have to go on with it now.

It was quite a ridiculous position to find herself in, she thought crossly. If only she were an adult, she would have been able to hire a real detective to find the missing brooch for her. But being a debutante meant that every moment of the day was supervised, from the moment that her maid woke her in the morning, to the moment she went to bed at night after yet another ball or reception. Father and Isabel treated her as if she were a baby. She’d had far more freedom back in the schoolroom with her governess! Now, she was chaperoned every minute of the day, and there was no chance whatsoever that they would ever let her go off alone to a secret appointment with a private detective.

Thankfully Sinclair’s department store was different. Here, Isabel didn’t mind letting Veronica wander off on her own to look at the hats and gloves or the counters selling scent and powder, whilst she shopped and gossiped with her friends. It was here that Veronica had first had the idea of hiring someone to help her find the jewelled moth. She didn’t read the newspapers much – all dreadfully dull stuff about the navy and taxes – but it had been impossible to miss the stories about the dramatic robbery at Sinclair’s. Everyone in London had been talking about it, and she’d heard that Mr Sinclair’s private detective had been helped by two fearfully clever young ladies who worked at the store and who had been the ones to find the jewels. The idea of hiring them to find the jewelled moth had seemed rather a stroke of genius. After all, no one could possibly make a fuss about her talking to two other young ladies in Sinclair’s department store. She had felt as clever and daring as one of the characters in Isabel’s novels.

But now she wondered if it had been quite such a brilliant idea after all. They were so very ordinary. The tall one, Miss Rose, was rather unusual-looking, she supposed, but otherwise they could have been any old shop girls in plain, cheap-looking frocks and no ornaments at all. They didn’t look particularly clever either.

Well, she would simply have to hope they were brainier than they looked, she thought with a sigh. She had to get the moth back and would do anything to find it.

‘I must have the jewelled moth in time for my debutante ball next week,’ she said firmly, as she fixed the two girls with her most haughty, determined look. ‘You’ll be well rewarded, you may be assured – but you must return it to me .’

Half an hour later, Veronica was back with Isabel, up in the Marble Court restaurant, acting as if she had done nothing more that morning than look for a new fan. But she couldn’t stop thinking about the jewelled moth. Telling those girls about what had happened had made her uncomfortable all over again, and she found herself simply toying with the fish course instead of eating it. She felt tense and irritable. This was supposed to be the most thrilling time of her life, and now it was quite spoiled, all because of the loss of the brooch.

Of course, she reminded herself, it wasn’t as though everything about being a debutante was so very thrilling. There were the endless boring dress-fittings for new gowns, where she was stuck all over with pins as though she were a pincushion; the tedious dinner parties where she had to make polite conversation with fearful old bores; and the balls where she got lumbered with partners who trod all over her feet – but all the same, most of her first Season had been splendid. Now, all of a sudden it did not seem glittering and exciting; instead it was simply horrid.

She couldn’t even concentrate on the conversation going on amongst her luncheon companions, who were ranged around a table covered in spotless damask and arrayed with gleaming silver. Instead, she eyed them from under her eyelashes. First of all there was Isabel – Veronica’s very own not-so-wicked stepmother, her round blue eyes widening at something the Countess of Alconborough was saying. As usual, Isabel looked exactly like a fashion plate, with her crimped blonde hair, carefully rouged and powdered face, and outfit straight from the pages of La Mode Illustrée . Next, the Dowager Countess herself: tiny yet stately in her rustling black gown. Then, beside her, Lady Alice, the Countess’s daughter: taller, plumper and infinitely more insipid, nodding in agreement after every word her mother said.

With them were Veronica’s fellow debutantes: first of all Phyllis, Lady Alice’s eldest daughter and the Countess’s granddaughter. She had yellow hair and smiled a lot. Veronica thought contemptuously that she had probably never said two interesting words together in her life – though of course, Lady Alice and Isabel had decided between themselves that she and Phyllis were the very best and dearest of friends. Then there was Miss Emily Montague. Emily’s family lived next door to Lady Alice’s London residence, and Emily had been to finishing school with Phyllis, though the two of them were quite different. Where Phyllis was gentle and placid, Emily was quick and shrewd and sharp. At that very moment, Emily was staring around the restaurant, looking quite as bored by the conversation as Veronica was herself. She looked distracted and out of sorts, though Veronica suspected she was probably just sulking because she hadn’t yet managed to attract the attentions of any eligible beau.

‘So, my dears, how are you enjoying your first Season?’ the Countess asked suddenly, smiling indulgently at the three young ladies.

Lady Alice answered for them. ‘They’re having a simply delightful time!’ she bubbled. ‘There have been so many lovely parties for them to enjoy.’

‘Well of course, Lady Fitzmaurice’s ball is always quite an occasion,’ said the Countess, nodding in agreement. ‘Dear Sylvia is such a wonderful hostess. And Beaucastle’s garden party too – his grounds are quite spectacular.’

‘Then there is the York House ball tonight,’ went on Lady Alice. ‘Phyllis has a divine new dress for it, don’t you darling?’

Isabel had just noticed Veronica’s plate. ‘Veronica!’ she exclaimed, sharply. ‘You’ve hardly touched your luncheon!’

‘Is there something wrong with it?’ demanded the Countess, swivelling her flinty gaze back in Veronica’s direction, and peering through her eyeglass suspiciously at the fish.

‘No – nothing,’ said Veronica. ‘I’m not very hungry today, that’s all.’

‘She obviously has a modest appetite,’ said the Countess, staring at Veronica. Her eyes were like dark grey pebbles. ‘Well, a ladylike appetite can be an excellent thing, just as long as you keep your strength up. The Season can be exhausting, you know, especially for the more delicate young girls.’ She turned to Isabel. ‘Is she delicate? She looks rather . . . peaky.’

They all peered at her over the table: the Countess critical, Lady Alice concerned, Emily smirking with amusement and Isabel just annoyed. Veronica burned with indignation under their gaze, whilst beside her, Phyllis continued eating her stuffed grouse quite cheerfully, apparently not noticing that anything was wrong.

‘She’s probably just excited about the dance tonight,’ said Lady Alice, kindly. ‘I remember how excited I used to be before a ball. Why, I could never eat a thing at supper! Perhaps she’d be better off with something sweet – an ice, perhaps? You love your sweets, don’t you Phyllis?’

‘Yes, Mama,’ lisped Phyllis happily.

The Countess glanced at Phyllis for a moment, her lips pursed, looking rather displeased, then turned back to pin her steely gaze upon Veronica. ‘Well, from what I hear, she has rather good reasons for being excited,’ she said archly, addressing Isabel and Lady Alice, although her eyes remained fixed on Veronica. ‘I understand that Beaucastle has been paying her attentions,’ she went on in a suspicious tone, rather as if she suspected Veronica of having somehow tricked him into it.

Isabel was positively delighted by this change of subject. She jumped in at once: ‘Yes, Veronica is a dreadfully lucky girl. Lord Beaucastle has been so very attentive and kind.’

Veronica couldn’t help feeling pleased to see that both the Countess and Lady Alice were looking rather peeved. She suspected that they were disappointed that Lord Beaucastle – who was, after all, one of London’s most eligible bachelors – had chosen to pay attention to her over their dear little Phyllis.

‘He gave her the most wonderful gift, you know, to mark her presentation at court,’ Isabel was saying blithely.

‘The jewelled moth – yes, I heard about it,’ said the Countess, rather shortly. ‘A very special piece, I understand. Not at all the sort of present one would give to a young girl. I would have thought a nice pearl string more suitable.’

‘Papa gave me a pearl necklace for my debut, didn’t he Mama?’ said Phyllis, with a smile. Everyone ignored her.

‘I must say, I was surprised that he would give away a treasure like that. I hope you’re taking very good care of it, my dear,’ the Countess snapped out to Veronica.

Her words were like a gush of cold water. Veronica reeled for a moment. Surely the Countess could not possibly know the truth about what had happened to the jewelled moth? The Countess was still talking, and Veronica realised gradually that her comment had no special significance. But the ice-cold feeling still lingered and there was a rushing in her ears that seemed to drown out everything else being said.

The truth was that Veronica had disliked the moth brooch on sight. It was so big and heavy: it had quite spoilt the look of her white satin court dress, and had torn an ugly hole in the beautiful rose-coloured gown she had worn to Lady Fitzmaurice’s ball. She knew the brooch was expensive and fashionable, and had been made especially for her by the most elegant London jewellers, and that was all very well – but she did think there was something a bit creepy about it.

Of course, she had been terribly proud when Lord Beaucastle had given it to her. It meant he wanted to marry her, and it went without saying that she was pleased about that. After all, he was rich, titled and a society favourite – everyone knew him and liked him. It was a tremendous compliment to have been singled out by a man like him! None of the other girls in her ‘set’ was even close to a proposal, and here she was, with one of society’s most eligible gentlemen showering her with attention. She knew that the others were all terribly envious of her. Why even now she could see Emily watching her with the oddest expression; and the other girls were forever making snide remarks that smacked of jealousy.

And yet . . . it had all happened so quickly. She had barely been out in society for a month! One minute Lord Beaucastle had been just a friend of her father’s – rather old, though awfully nice, of course – and the next he had been sending her bouquets of hothouse flowers, taking her into supper at balls, and then presenting her with this extravagant gift. Although she had dreamed about finding a husband during her first Season – that was what all the girls hoped for; no one wanted to be left on the shelf until next year – she had imagined it happening so differently: meeting a handsome young man in a ballroom, drinking champagne on a moonlit balcony, falling head over heels in love and then having a triumphant wedding, all ivory lace and orange blossom, and living happily ever after. Lord Beaucastle was perfectly pleasant, and certainly very generous – but she was not in love with him. The thought of it made her squirm.

Perhaps that was why she hadn’t wanted to wear the brooch at Lord Beaucastle’s garden party. Isabel had been nagging her about taking care of it, but instead of doing what she was told, she had left it inside the house, pinned to her silk shawl. Now, she cursed herself for being so reckless. For when she had come back in from the garden, the shawl was lying exactly where she had left it – but the jewelled moth had vanished.

She dared not tell anyone what had happened. She couldn’t tell Isabel – she would be simply furious if she knew that Veronica had left Lord Beaucastle’s valuable gift so carelessly unattended – and the other girls would be sure to crow over her if they knew. She could all too clearly imagine the cutting little jibes that Emily would make. She had known that she must find a way to get the brooch back – and quickly. If she lost the gift that Lord Beaucastle had given her, he might be so offended that she would lose her chance at an offer of marriage from him. He would probably never speak to her again! Everyone would know about it, and she would be utterly shamed.

Her coming-out ball was due to take place in less than a fortnight. Lord Beaucastle had offered to host it at his own splendid mansion, and everyone was whispering that he was going to propose. They would all expect to see her wearing the jewelled moth. She simply had to get it back!

‘But I’ve always said, Beaucastle knows his own mind,’ the Countess was saying, her voice suddenly loud again in Veronica’s ears. ‘We all thought he was quite set on bachelor life, but evidently that is not the case. I must say, though, I’m surprised to see him paying his addresses to a debutante. Why, he must be twice her age!’

‘Well, those matches can work, you know,’ said Isabel, hastily, turning rather pink.

Veronica’s father was almost twice Isabel’s age, come to that, Veronica thought.

The Countess waved her hand, as if swatting Isabel’s words away. ‘Oh, I quite understand. There could scarcely be a finer suitor. Why, the man has everything: a title, a fine income, that beautiful estate. And such a distinguished military record! He joined the army when he was a very young man, you know,’ she added in a conspiratorial tone. ‘He never did see eye to eye with his father – a nasty, cantankerous old fellow, if you ask me.’ She paused for a moment, as if daring the others to disagree with her, but of course, no one did.

‘Was he really?’ fluttered Lady Alice.

‘He was indeed,’ confirmed the Countess. ‘But the army was the making of Beaucastle –’

Isabel interrupted suddenly, changing the subject. ‘Look – over there! Isn’t that Edward Sinclair?’

They all turned to look, even the Countess. The owner of Sinclair’s department store was something of a celebrity, even amongst London’s society set. Beautifully dressed, with his signature orchid in his buttonhole, he bowed to a distinguished customer, and then went to talk to the Head Waiter.

‘He’s rather handsome, isn’t he?’ said Isabel, looking over at him with interest.

‘Hmmm,’ said the Countess, peering through her eyeglass. ‘Too showy, if you ask me. These Americans always are. And he’s new money of course.’

Veronica saw that Isabel’s cheeks were going pink again. No one could be more ‘new money’ than Charles Whiteley, Isabel’s husband and Veronica’s father. He might now live in Mayfair and dine with the city’s most eminent families, but London society would never quite forget that he was not an aristocrat. He was an industrialist: the wealthy owner of several very lucrative mines in South Africa. Isabel, on the other hand, was from real society stock, which was exactly why Veronica’s father had married her, after Veronica’s mother died. That, and because he liked having a beautiful, expensively dressed young wife on his arm. And Isabel had married him for his wealth, and for as much shopping at Sinclair’s as even she could ever desire, thought Veronica with a shudder.

‘They say he’s quite the ladies’ man,’ Lady Alice was commenting, still watching Mr Sinclair. ‘Why, Mrs Balfour told me . . .’ She leaned forwards, and began murmuring something under her breath, whilst Phyllis craned around curiously, and even Emily looked over at Sinclair with interest. But Veronica didn’t even bother to glance in his direction. What did she care for some ridiculous American shopkeeper? She was simply grateful for the distraction, which allowed the waiter to take her plate away without anyone noticing that she hadn’t taken a single bite more.

PART II

Excursions and Amusements

There is no more pleasant entertainment than an excursion out of town. The absence of all ceremony and formality is certain to be conducive to a delightful gaiety of spirit. Yet whilst relishing the novelty and freedom of an excursion, a young lady in society must at all times guard against rowdiness and unseemly behaviour, just as she might in the confines of the most fashionable drawing room.

Lady Diana DeVere’s Etiquette for Debutantes: a Guide to the Manners, Mores and Morals of Good Society, Chapter 17: Excursions & Amusements – On Picnics – On Field Sports – Boating – Cycling – On the Conveyance of Guests and of Provisions – Things Not to be Forgotten – Tea

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