A maid who was wearing a plain blue-gray dress and crisp white apron, just like the other maids who had delivered tea to the parlor. Although Sybil possessed an admittedly similar dress in her wardrobe at home, she wasn’t wearing it now—or an apron.
Smug Miss Vanewright hadn’t mistaken Sybil for a servant. The debutante was being cruel on purpose.
Miss Vanewright stood in the hallway watching her, sipping a cup of chocolate beside the haggard maid still holding the heavy silver tray.
There would be no searching the town house under that gimlet eye.
Sybil opened the door to the parlor and slipped back inside.
“Back so soon?” asked Lady Vanewright.
“I decided it wasn’t important,” answered Sybil. “I didn’t want to miss another word of your fascinating stories.”
“Quite right,” said Lady Eunice. “Our generous hostess has just reminded me of my invitation to her upcoming soirée. I’ve no doubt your welcome extends to Miss Damaris and Miss Sybil, isn’t that right, Lady Vanewright?”
The viscountess looked as though she’d rather choke down cheap tea with no sugar than show any particular kindness to Sybil, but her thin lips made a facsimile of a smile.
“Of course, Lady Eunice. Any friend of yours is a friend of mine.”
Chapter 5
Two hours later, Sybil stood on a wooden stool in the center of Mademoiselle LaChapelle’s fitting room, gritting her teeth against the occasional poke of a pin as she stared out through a crack in the curtains at the tree-lined street. She vibrated with anticipation.
“How is it coming along?” she asked for the third time.
Did she sound nervous? She sounded nervous. But Sybil needed this gown to be perfect. She was her own fairy godmother, and she was determined to be decked out like a princess at the Vauxhall ball.
The fact that the potential princes would only be charming if she looked and played the part, added to her anxiety. She was not romantic enough to believe she’d meet the love of her life and live happily ever after. But she was optimistic enough to hope that this gown would garner her a few appreciative glances and perhaps even a dance…
Mlle. LaChapelle stepped back and clapped her hands together. “You look… how you say… merveilleux.”
Merveilleux was actually the masculine form of the French word for “marvelous”, instead of the feminine merveilleuse, but Sybil was not compelled to quibble. After all, it turned out the most famous modiste in London was also faking her Parisian roots. Mlle. LaChapelle was doing a more accurate job of copying Mme. Blanchet than she likely realized.
“I just need to note down a few measurements before I unpin you from the dress,” Mademoiselle said, forgetting her foreign accent altogether.
“Of course,” Sybil replied.
She would hate to come between a woman and her note-taking. Sybil held the ritual sacred. Five pages of her own journal were dedicated to a running list of Mlle. LaChapelle’s clientele, which had indeed been gaining in standing over the years. A few even moved with the ton: Miss Overton, Miss Agnew, Miss Pugh.
Mlle. LaChapelle claimed her name would soon be as famous as Mme. Blanchet’s, and perhaps she was right. Sybil was grateful to have garnered her services before they were priced too far out of her reach.
“What do you know about Lady Vanewright and Lady Carmichael?” she asked.
Modistes, much like house servants, were often overlooked as room furniture, and were therefore privy to any quantity of scandalous gossip, without being restricted from repeating it due to being a member of staff.
“I know they would both be my clients,” Mademoiselle said with feeling, “if fine ladies like them would afford me the slightest opportunity to prove myself.”
This was a common refrain from all second-tier-and-below modistes, but Mlle. LaChapelle’s confidence was infectious. Sybil had no doubt she would make the most of any chance she was given.
“I meant personally,” she clarified. “Do you know much about them?”
“Oh, personally. Personally, they’re both dreadful, and you should stay as far away from them as possible. Did you know Lady Carmichael stole Lady Vanewright’s betrothed?”
“I heard something of that nature.”
“I heard it from Lady Carmichael herself. She says she did so in retaliation for the viscountess having upstaged her solo at a musicale, of all things. You’d hope sisters would get on better.”
“They’re sisters?” Sybil said in disbelief.
