She handed both items to Sybil. “I’ll rent this to you for a shilling. Use the lace to trim the bottom of one of your dresses, and add the ribbon beneath your bodice. Add the bloom of a fresh rose as an accent, et voilà: Sybil the magnifique!”
Sybil had exactly one shilling in her reticule. It had been earmarked for a fresh journal, but she handed it over to Mlle. LaChapelle at once. “You are too kind.”
“This is how I define success,” the modiste answered with a smile. “Adding a splash of sunshine to worthy women like you.”
Sybil thanked her again and promised to return at the same hour on the morrow to pick up her gown for the Vauxhall ball.
Her head was so filled with thoughts of soirées and pleasure gardens and stolen dresses that she didn’t even notice the distracted fop mincing toward her until his walking stick flashed in front of Sybil’s ankles and tripped her into the mud.
She landed on her backside with both arms straight up in the air, instinctively protecting her empty reticule and her precious packet of ribbon and lace.
A well-dressed Black woman with beautiful brown skin and toned muscles leapt from the shadows and blocked the lad from fleeing. A matching pair of daggers appeared in her hands from out of nowhere.
The visibly tipsy dandy blanched and backed away, palms up. “Oh, I say! A thousand apologies. I didn’t mean to!”
“Apologize to her,” the woman said in a strange accent. “Then help her up.”
The man showed absolutely no sign of stepping closer to the twin daggers.
“I’m sorry,” he said to Sybil, then threw a handful of coins at her. “That should pay to clean your dress.”
He pranced off without waiting to see if this was good enough.
“Thank you,” Sybil said to her pretty, black-haired rescuer.
The daggers vanished from the woman’s hands just as quickly as they’d appeared, and she helped Sybil to her feet. Her hair was dressed in elaborate braids beneath a bonnet trimmed in the brightest pink Sybil had ever seen in her life. “Are all your Englishmen so irksome?”
“I hope not,” Sybil answered. In her list of things that could go wrong at the ball, being shoved into the muck wasn’t even in her top ten.
There was no sense attempting to dust off her backside—the mud had soaked straight through her shift—so she bent to collect the coins from the muck. She’d assumed the dandy had thrown farthings or half-pennies, but there were several shillings and even a crown amongst the spoils.
“Do you want any of these…” Sybil began to offer, but her rescuer had disappeared.
Bemused, Sybil stepped back onto the path to continue walking home. She now had more than enough coin to pay for a hack, but she didn’t want to dirty the seat—or waste her unexpected windfall.
Two tall, well-muscled Black gentlemen with matching frowns on their handsome faces stepped into Sybil’s path.
“Excuse me, miss. Have you seen a woman who looks like…” The taller one described Sybil’s rescuer right down to the style of her braids and the color of her hat ribbon. His accent was exactly the same as the mystery woman’s…who apparently did not wish to be found.
“No,” Sybil answered. “I’ve seen no one matching that description.”
The men exchanged looks of exhaustion, then marched on.
Sybil held her packet of ribbon and lace to her chest, and gripped her reticule full of muddy coins. She would go home and change into clean clothing, then set about sewing the new trimmings onto her prettiest dress.
As for the new coins? An entire day remained before Lady Vanewright’s soirée. It was the perfect opportunity to treat herself to a new book and a delicious cup of middling-quality tea.
Things were looking up.
Chapter 6
Sybil arrived at Lady Vanewright’s soirée with not one but three white silk roses at the center of the red silk ribbon beneath her bodice, a basket hidden behind her back, and two of her closest friends at each elbow. In the receiving line, the viscountess first welcomed Lady Eunice and her mother, who had accompanied the trio. Lady Vanewright greeted Damaris just as effusively.
Then her gaze fell on Sybil.
Sybil forced her cheeks to keep their smile and dipped what she hoped was a respectful curtsey. If Lady Vanewright cut her here, in front of dozens of witnesses… It would not only be the end of tonight’s mission for Sybil, but also the end of her dream to stand out at the Vauxhall ball. All of these same people would be present—and merciless.
Lady Vanewright inclined her head. “Miss Smith.”
