Fiona prepares for her voyage

"Wait here, please,” said the shopgirl, checking over the list Fiona had just given her. “This may take a few moments.”

“As fast as possible, please. I’ve no time to spare. My train departs in less than half an hour.”

“And where are you off to?”

“The world.”

“I… see,” the shopgirl said. They were standing in one of the most elegant and fashionable women’s clothing shops on Pall Mall, only a few blocks down from the Petticoat Club. “So you’re after international travelling attire. Comfortable, simple, easy to move in.”

“Right. Skirts no longer than ankle length, and five of your lightest corsets.”

“Won’t be a moment. Just wait in this dressing room, please.”

“But of course,” said Fiona, stepping behind the velvet curtain that shielded the cool space of the ladies’ change rooms from the bustling shop floor. “Where should I put my clothing? Naturally, I’ll save time by beginning to undress right now.”

“It would be ridiculous for you to do otherwise,” the shopgirl said. “Just throw them over the curtain rod, and admire yourself in that mirror for a bit while I fetch your new outfits. You’ve got a lovely figure, you know.”

“Why, thank you. What lovely manners you shopgirls have nowadays. You don’t know who owns this establishment, do you?”

“Couldn’t possibly say.”

“Pity. I’ve got a mind to write them a thank-you note.” Fiona, who had been rapidly undressing as she spoke, tossed her white tea gown, corset and bloomers over the curtain rod, and turned to look at herself in the changing room mirror.

She was, of course, indescribably lovely. A buxom flower of English womanhood, with golden locks, a winsome smile, a peaches-and-cream complexion, a pert bold bosom with strawberry-pink nipples that inescapably inspired thoughts of harvest festivals and rolls in the hay. Divinely inspired curves of hip and thigh framing a silky grotto, a thatch of deliciously buttery curls adorning the delectable velvet secrets of her sex.

Five minutes went by.

“Hm,” said Fiona. “I wonder what’s taking the girl so long.”

Another five passed.

“Well, this is just ridiculous,” said Fiona. “Perhaps I won’t be writing that thank-you note after all. Doesn’t she know I’m in a hurry? Still, there ought to be plenty of time to take a hansom cab to the station.”

Another five passed.

“Oh, that’s torn it. I don’t possibly have time to buy a whole new outfit now! I’ll just have to get my clothes on the Continent,” said Fiona. She reached out to retrieve her dress from across the curtain rod, where she’d draped it, and discovered that it was no longer present. Neither were her bloomers or her corset.

A dreadful thought occurred to her.

Lady Evelyn Crooke, who happened to own a dozen high-class ladies’ fashion establishments all across London, including this one, watched with interest as the curtain of the dressing room twitched aside and a shy little face peeped out. She smiled at Fiona, and gave her a friendly wave.

The curtains twitched shut.

Then, they were flung wide open. Fiona Fairweather, the perfect English rose, stark naked except for her patent-leather boots, spared Evelyn not a glance as she sprinted across the shop floor, before some very startled patrons and a hysterically laughing shopgirl. The store was full of dresses, of course, but stealing one at this late stage would create legal trouble she didn’t have time to deal with.

Lady Evelyn watched her flee, smiling sardonically to herself. She’d hoped Fiona, the silly little creature, would be far too scared to leave the safety of the changing room, thus dooming her entire ridiculous enterprise to failure before it had even properly begun. But it turned out the blonde was braver than she thought.

She rose, plucked her black umbrella from its stand, and stepped out into Pall Mall.

It was still raining, though not hard. A large number of very astonished businessmen in three-piece suits and bowler hats were reeling about in utter confusion, having just observed the unprecedented phenomena of an extremely beautiful and hotly blushing blonde running down one of the busiest shopping streets in London with nothing on but her boots. Evelyn allowed herself the luxury of a chuckle, and raised a hand to hail a hansom cab.