“Sound familiar?” Viv cried. “He’s one of the best milliners in England. His designs were revolutionary in the seventies. When his wife died, he packed up his studio and left London. No one knew where he went, and he doesn’t design professionally anymore. I’d heard he was a recluse but I had no idea he lived in the country. I thought he’d taken off for France or Italy.”

“Nope.” Andre glanced up from his phone. “It says here that he lives in the village near Waverly Castle.”

Andre met my gaze and winked. Well, color me impressed. How had he thought to look for hat designers in Sussex to leverage Viv into going? Brilliant!

“We have to visit him,” I said. I sensed Viv’s resistance was crumbling. We just needed to hammer it in the right spot. “I’m betting he’d be thrilled to talk shop with another milliner after so many years in seclusion.”

Viv bit her lip as she considered. She glanced up at Piper. “With this little time, the hats won’t be ready until the wedding, and quite possibly the very day of the wedding. You’re going to have to pay a rush fee and I will have complete artistic control. What I design is what you get, no quibbling.”

“Understood.” Piper sat up straight. “I’m sure I’ll adore whatever you create.”

“Of course you will,” Viv said. She sounded bored. She reached across the table and took Piper’s cup out of her hands and set it down on the tray. She then gathered the rest of our cups. She lifted the tray and headed for the workroom. “Work out the details with Scarlett. I need to think.”

“Don’t you want to know the color and style of my bridesmaids’ dresses?” Piper asked. Her eyes went wide in alarm.

“Not necessary,” Viv said. She carried the tray on one hand and waved her other hand dismissively.

“Oh, goodness, what have I done?” Piper asked. I was certain she had visions of hats that clashed with her chosen colors or were an artistic statement of Viv’s that would overshadow her, the bride, on her special day.

“You’re not the first bride to ask that question,” Andre said.

I shot him a quelling look. This was actually why I was needed at the hat shop. I was the customer pleaser, the client liaison, the person who convinced the patron that wearing an enormous peacock on her head really was the height of fashion. Thankfully, I’d only had to do that once. A photo of the woman had made the society pages above the fold, and she was delighted with the notoriety.

“What colors have you chosen?” I asked Piper.

“Blush,” she said. “Silk with high waists, mini length, and cap sleeves.”

“Sounds lovely.” I nodded, stifling a yawn.