“At home in tears, I expect,” the viscountess continued with unconcealed glee. “Outbid in her scheme to be the first family in Mme. Blanchet’s creations. Just look at my Heloise. Have you ever seen a diamond so beautiful? Her dance card was full within the first five minutes. I shouldn’t be surprised if we’re inundated with proposals on the morrow.”
Sybil’s jaw clenched. Ostensibly, tonight was Miss Vanewright’s debut, and by any measure, it was a roaring success. But for her mother, tonight was also an opportunity to rub her rivals’ noses in a public defeat. Not just Lady Carmichael and her daughters, who had not been invited. But also every other lady here, all of whom would be painfully aware that Heloise Vanewright held the distinction of the most fashionable lady amongst them tonight. The rest would not get their chance until Mme. Blanchet’s gowns were delivered.
If her gowns could ever be delivered.
“You and your daughter are so lucky,” gushed one of the matrons.
“It’s not luck.” Lady Vanewright’s eyes shone in the light of the chandelier. “It’s war, and only the general with the most ruthless stratagems will win.”
Stratagems like: outbid the countess for first place, then steal all the finished dresses so that no one but Heloise had a single moment in the footlights.
Enough eavesdropping. If this was war, then a new general had just arrived on the battlefield.
Sybil was here to put things to rights.
Chapter 7
Sybil backed away from Lady Vanewright and her gossip. She’d heard enough. It was time for action. Unlike the afternoon of the tea, this time Sybil’s plan was foolproof. Miss Heloise Vanewright’s casual cruelty had planted the first seed. Sybil had asked herself, “What would the Duchess of Faircliffe—née Chloe Wynchester—do?”
And the answer was: Carry a basket and turn invisible.
She mapped out her path to the door. Rather than rush to freedom, Sybil ambled casually, so as not to call attention to herself. The few souls who were not currently on the dance floor were either distracted by refreshments and gossip, or avidly watching the minuet unfold.
Once in the corridor, she moved quickly to the retiring room. It was empty now that the dancing had begun.
She ducked behind a folding screen and opened her basket. Inside was the embarrassing blue-gray house dress that was indistinguishable from the Vanewrights’ maids’ uniforms… and a crisp white apron to further sell the disguise.
In no time, Sybil’s soirée gown was folded neatly inside the basket, roses on top. The old morning dress slipped on easily, followed by the apron and an oversized white mobcap, floppy enough to keep most of her face in shadow.
She hooked her basket over her arm and rolled back her shoulders. Now she would be able to poke about unmolested.
Of course, if she were actually a real Wynchester, she would know where to begin. Tommy Wynchester could draft an intricate map of every room in the Vanewrights’ house and impersonate the viscount himself if necessary. Graham Wynchester would race across rooftops, slip into secret nooks undetected, and escape through the nearest window, leaping nimbly from parapet to parapet.
All Sybil was armed with were an apron and her wits.
She hoped that would be enough. This was their only shot. If she were caught sneaking about before finding the location of the hidden dresses, it would be a disaster for the case… and Sybil personally. It wouldn’t matter how fancy the new blue gown tucked safe at home was. If she became a pariah, there wouldn’t be any future invitations—or future suitors—at all.
She kept her head low to project subservience and her gait brisk to indicate she was in the midst of some urgent task and ought not to be bothered.
Because of the soirée, most of the Vanewright servants should be on the ground floor, attending to guests, or the door, or the refreshments. Sybil had made a list of their probable duties tonight. Fortunately, the dance salon and the kitchen were the least likely places to hide twenty-five expensive frocks.
As for the likeliest place, well… She’d made a list, but its proper order depended on factors Sybil did not know.
Did Lord Vanewright also know of his wife’s machinations? If so, the missing gowns could be anywhere. A library, an office, an unused wardrobe.
That was where she should begin, Sybil decided. The best place to hide a dress would be amongst other dresses. She’d never seen either of the Vanewright ladies wear the same gown twice, which meant a surplus would be easily explained away, if a dizzying number of dresses raised any eyebrows at all.
A thick journal containing descriptions of all twenty-five missing Vauxhall gowns lay in the bottom of Sybil’s basket. She had paged through Madame’s detailed sketches and descriptive text so many times that she could picture each piece in her imagination.
The trick was finding them in real life.
She hurried upstairs, where she hoped to find private quarters. She was not disappointed. The first door she tried was unlocked. Sybil quickly stepped inside and shut the door behind her.
A lavish, satin-curtained bed stood against the far wall. The lack of personal items indicated this might be a guest chamber. The armoire was large enough to fit a pony, but was unfortunately empty of both clothing and horses.
She glanced under the bed and behind furniture, in case there was a convenient hidden panel leading to a large safe filled with Mme. Blanchet’s handiwork.
The walls and floor remained stubbornly quotidian.
