the young woman whispered none-too-softly to her companion as they swept through the narrow entrance of Madame Devy’s modiste shop on Bond Street. “Look, it’s her! The one who’s to marry the duke. Just wait until I tell Sophie, she’ll be positively green with envy.” Genie, the object of such rude consideration, had to stifle a giggle as she watched the two women navigate their enormous ostrich plumed turbans through the treacherously low doorway. If the appalling manners had not given the girl away, Genie thought, the slightly garish ensemble pegged her as part of the rich new merchant class—the nouveau riche. Genie winced at her own snobbery. Obviously, she’d been around the nobility for too long, she was beginning to think like one of them. It had only taken her a quick glance to recognize the subtle distinctions that branded the newcomers as of the merchant class: one too many accessories, jewelry better suited to the evening, gowns too bold in color and style.
