Last night, she had left the Vanewrights’ ball after Miss Pugh turned up in the same dress as Miss Overton. Lady Eunice had stayed behind with Damaris for another hour—long enough to see a third young lady, Miss Agnew, wearing the same attire.
None of the women were flaunting the missing Vauxhall dresses. Mme. Blanchet never made two of the same pattern. These were modified copies of the original design.
And there was at least one woman talented enough—and ambitious enough—to steal a competitor’s product and pass off a derivative as her own, in a blatant attempt to usurp the original. The tell-tale improvised flourishes gave her identity away as plainly as a signature.
Sybil should know. She shopped at the same modiste. The duplicate dresses boasted intricate lace from one of the top three lace-makers in London, according to Sybil’s lists. The same lace-maker who had fashioned the bit Sybil had added to her own dress, a gift courtesy of none other than—
“Mlle. LaChapelle,” Miss Overton confirmed with a bright smile, not five minutes later. “She gave me twenty-five styles to choose from. Wasn’t my dress gorgeous? Magnificent as a Blanchet, at the price of a LaChapelle.”
“Less than the price of a LaChapelle,” Mrs. Overton corrected her daughter. “Because her sewing girls can create multiple copies of the same gown in quick succession, without personalized design elements, the process is faster and cheaper than trying to turn a fashion plate into reality.”
“Not to mention easier than trying to secure an appointment with Mme. Blanchet,” Miss Overton added.
“And cheaper,” Mrs. Overton agreed. “Isn’t Mlle. LaChapelle absolutely brilliant? Mme. Blanchet can keep her spoilt countesses and duchesses. Mlle. LaChapelle makes beautiful clothing at affordable prices for the rest of us. I highly recommend giving her a try. Have you got her card, Miss Stamper? I’ve got one here somewhere…”
“That won’t be necessary,” Sybil said quickly. “I’m familiar with her work.”
Too familiar.
Mlle. LaChapelle might have swept up a wave of paying customers in the short term, but once the news of her perfidy broke… Even if she’d destroyed the evidence and there was no way to prove her the mastermind behind the theft, rumors of blatant copying would destroy her reputation.
Wouldn’t it?
Sybil took another look at the blissfully happy Overtons. They did not appear to realize that their new gowns looked like Mme. Blanchet’s genius because it had literally been modeled after the famed modiste’s unreleased designs.
Then again, what if they did know? Perhaps no lady of the ton would lower herself to wear an inferior product. But those who could afford Mme. Blanchet were already her patrons.
Those who could not dream of frequenting a fancy French modiste—even a fake one—would leap at the opportunity to look like their betters, at a fraction of the price. No questions asked.
Mrs. Overton was right. Mlle. LaChapelle was absolutely brilliant.
But was she clever enough to have destroyed the original dresses? Or might they still be hidden somewhere? Not just evidence of her treachery, but the rightful property of dozens of innocent ladies, eager to look their best at this Season’s balls.
“Thank you for your insight,” Sybil said. “I’ve taken enough of your time.”
“I mean it,” said Mrs. Overton. “Do consider dropping by to visit Mlle. LaChapelle.”
“Don’t worry,” Sybil said grimly. “I will.”
Although catching Mlle. LaChapelle red-handed could mean gaol for the ambitious modiste. Mademoiselle was unlikely to return her clients’ money. As a convicted criminal, even her prior creations would become suspect and passé. The stigma would extend to anyone who wore her work. They’d be tarred by the same brush.
People like Sybil, who had saved every penny for years to be able to afford a Mlle. LaChapelle gown. The gown she intended to wear to the Vauxhall ball. Instead of being an evening in which all Sybil’s dreams come true, the impending ball was now a nightmare. She could not attend wearing a LaChapelle, which meant she could not attend at all. By then, Mademoiselle LaChapelle would be in gaol, and Sybil and all her other clients would be out of money and out of luck.
Unless Sybil could talk Mlle. LaChapelle into giving the stolen dresses back.
Chapter 10
Sybil alighted from a hackney carriage several buildings down from Mlle. LaChapelle’s shop, not out of any desire for stealth, but because twin rows of hackney carriages crowded the tree-lined road.
This corner of Cheapside was not usually as busy a shopping district as the expensive section of Cavendish Square, where Mme. Blanchet’s shop was located. Then again, at four-thirty in the afternoon, most of Madame’s aristocratic clientele would be promenading in Hyde Park to show off their latest acquisitions in fine couture.
Sybil had removed Mlle. LaChapelle’s red ribbon and white lace from her gown this morning. The trimmings were now in her hand, tucked safely into their brown paper parcel.
It was as good an excuse as any to visit Mlle. LaChapelle—not that Sybil had ever required an excuse before. After she confronted the modiste today, however, she doubted she would be welcomed again. This was her last opportunity to enter the shop and peer about as a friend rather than a foe. But she had to try to resolve the situation without ruining any of Mlle. LaChapelle’s clients.
If indeed there was any room for Sybil inside!
The shop overflowed with women of all ages. They spilled out of the main door and onto the pavement, every one of them wearing big smiles… and simple day dresses of about the same quality and age as the one Sybil was wearing.
