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asked.
    “Business is good now that the British are back in charge.”
    “I shall toast to that.” Peggy smiled.
    “We got some new dishes today, straight from London. You’re going to love them.” He turned his sharp eyes on Clara. “And who is this?”
    “Oh, this? This is nobody.” Peggy shook her head. “Just my new lady’s maid.” Peggy waved her hand perfunctorily in the direction of Clara. “You know how my parents are suddenly so concerned with protecting my virtue.”
    “So they send this poor creature out to protect your honor?” Stansbury’s eyed narrowed on Clara—her homespun clothing, her dusty boots, her weary posture. Clara balled her fists but bit her lip to prevent the utterance of an impolite retort.
    “Well, I’ll say this much: you know you’re a lady, Peggy Shippen, when you get your own lady’s maid.”
    “Haven’t I always been a lady?” Peggy teased.
    “Well, does she have a name?”
    “Of course, Clara is her name. Clara, this is Joseph Stansbury, the china merchant on Market Street. We’ll pay a visit to his store soon.”
    “A pleasure.” Clara curtsied, as she’d seen her mistress do, before the china merchant.
    “Shall we go get some Champagne?” Joseph Stansbury offered a thin arm to Peggy.
    “In a minute. I’ll come find you inside, Stansbury.”
    “Are you shooing me away?” The merchant pouted, crossing his arms.
    “Please, Stansbury, just go, quick!” Peggy waved the man away as she turned toward a figure in a red coat gliding toward her.
    “Miss Shippen.” The dark-haired officer approached in several smooth strides, the sword at his waist swinging back and forth as his heels clicked confidently on the ground.
    This man, Clara realized, was John André. She could see the resemblance to the cut-out paper silhouette in the bedroom, but he was more arresting in person. Major André’s body was tall and lean, adorned in a stiff red coat and tight-fitting breeches, with the glossy leather boots of the British officer. He wore his dark hair pulled back, a ribbon tied loosely at the nape of his neck.
    “Major André,” Peggy answered, her voice suddenly faint.
    “You look ravishing, as usual, my dear.” André took Peggy’s hand and gave it a soft kiss. He was close enough now that Clara detected the faint, sweet scent of Champagne on his breath. As she stood beside her mistress, Clara felt the smoldering intensity of his brown-eyed gaze.
    “Major André, I—” Peggy said, not taking her hand away from his lips.
    “What is this formality, ma chérie ? I prefer ‘Johnny,’ you know that.”
    “Johnny . . .” Peggy allowed both of her hands to be scooped up in his—her skin even more white against his dark, olive coloring.
    “Johnny.” Peggy inched her body closer to his, so that she was looking up into his face. “I wore the rose gown. It’s your favorite, right?”
    Her hands in his, he lifted her arms wide so that he might stare, unabashedly, at her figure. Clara cringed at how bare and vulnerable her mistress suddenly appeared: her exposed shoulders and collarbone, her tiny waist, the broad cascading skirt. “Magnifique.” André winked at Peggy, and his approval was met with several exaggerated blinks of Peggy’s eyelashes. “Though I must say, whatever dress you put on immediately becomes my favorite.”
    Peggy demurred, a sheepish blush, and Clara realized that this was the first time since she’d met Peggy that her mistress had very little to say.
    “Shall we?” Major André wove his arm through Peggy’s, “Entrons-nous?”
    Leaving Clara near the tent’s entrance, Peggy allowed herself to be escorted under the twinkling chandelier and deeper into the tent. “Oh, Johnny, I’m so glad that Lord Rawdon has arranged for the string quartet tonight. Your military bands—your drums and your fifes—are all fine for your marches and battles, but for cards and Champagne, I just want the violins.” Peggy’s voice was like