Duchess Lyra's carriage, a magnificent vehicle of polished black lacquer and silver, stopped in front of the establishment entrance. She stepped out of the carriage as she adjusted her fine leather gloves and the elegant, wide-brimmed hat that sat perfectly upon her styled hair. Mr. Prescott, Augusta's informant and man-of-all-work, was waiting for her at the entrance of the Ellington Textile Establishment. He bowed low as she approached.
"Welcome, Your Grace," he said, his expression one of surprised deference. "We were not expecting you today. If I may?" He gestured for her to enter, ready to show her the way.
"Lead the way," Lyra replied, her voice cool and authoritative.
Prescott took Lyra inside, through the bustling main office, and to the door of Augusta's private study. Augusta, who had been hunched over her ledgers, immediately stood up as the Duchess entered. She smoothed her dress and greeted her with a deep, respectful curtsy.
