Work Text:
If Maisie had been an ordinary couturier, the contretemps in the showroom might have been cause for smelling salts, especially when her third-best embroiderer snatched up a length of mauve cellophane and nearly succeeded in strangling a client with it.
“You can’t do that,” Phoebe said to their employee afterward. “Now your cover is blown, and we have to ship you to Montreal to save your skin.”
“I’m not convinced that this isn’t Teddy playing the long game,” Maisie complained.
“I know it’s not,” Phoebe replied. “Because Mr. Merton wired to us the funds for Montreal before the shouting started.”