Discreet Services

This was perhaps the most foolish thing she’d ever done—but that didn’t mean she was going to turn back.
Amelia Lancaster took a deep breath and glanced up and down the quiet street. It was dusk, and she was wearing a dark cloak and a bonnet with a deep brim; it was unlikely that any of her friends or family would spot her in front of this modest brownstone in a respectable but unremarkable neighborhood. Amelia clamped down on her nerves, gathered her skirt in one hand, and climbed the four scrubbed white stone steps, lifting the polished brass knocker and letting it fall.
A moment later, the door opened to reveal a dark-skinned gentleman dressed in an exotic silk tunic, pants, and wrapped turban. The ruby in his headdress winked as he bowed low, gesturing with a white-gloved hand.
“Please to come in, Lady,” he said in a musical voice that carried an accent Amelia had never heard before. She had a quick moment of panic, but she’d come too far to turn back. She slipped inside the door, which was promptly closed softly behind her.
“Good evening.”
Startled, Amelia looked up to see a woman descending the narrow, mahogany-railed staircase that led from the second floor down to the entrance hall. Like the house, the woman’s dress was tasteful and unobtrusive—rich black satin with cobweb lace at throat and wrists, accented with a pair of pearl earrings and a gold and pearl brooch. She was perhaps ten years older than Amelia, and she looked as ladylike as any of Amelia’s social acquaintances.
The woman reached the bottom of the staircase and held out a hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Miss…Smith,” she said, a wry smile quirking one corner of her mouth as she acknowledged the pseudonym. “Call me Mrs. Jones. Welcome to my home.” She turned to the doorman. “Tea, Rashid?”
“Immediately, Mistress.” Rashid bowed low and disappeared towards the back of the house as Mrs. Jones gestured towards the staircase.