Like her, these were women who had little to begin with. Many were here to hand over pennies they could ill afford to lose in the hopes of improving their lot.
“Mlle. LaChapelle is the next best thing to Mme. Blanchet,” one of the young women in the queue gushed to her friend. “Her style is indistinguishable.”
Humph.
“She’s better than Blanchet,” an older woman put in, her eyes glinting with satisfaction. “She’s for us.”
The happy chatter turned to murmurs of discontent as Sybil edged through the waiting throng and into the shop.
“Pardon me,” Sybil murmured as she threaded a path through. “I’m not part of the queue.”
Nonetheless, several scuffed boots “accidentally” trod upon her toes, and more than one sharp elbow found its way into her ribs as she passed.
Inside the shop, Mlle. LaChapelle held court in the center of a sea of fawning future clients, each of them eager to beat the others to the armful of identical dresses draped over LaChapelle’s arm.
She held one up to the light. “This is the exact design worn last night at a soirée hosted by no less than Lord and Lady Vanewright!”
“Oooh,” cooed the women in unison, despite clearly already being privy to that bit of gossip. The dress’s high pedigree and low price were the reason all of them were here.
This was not a crowd likely to receive invitations from a viscount and viscountess. But if they could look the part, they could stand out from the rest. Appropriately attired young women attained a higher class of suitor… and might achieve the dream of one day belonging to the glittering world of the ton.
The leap in status would be worth any price. Sybil could imagine any of the women here handing over their life’s savings for the chance at a better life for themselves or their daughters.
Unfortunately, it would all come crashing down once Mlle. LaChapelle’s theft became public. A modiste, no matter how talented, could not produce dresses from within prison. Her designs would lose their cachet overnight. Those wearing them would be mocked rather than wooed, making the gowns a poor investment indeed.
And there would be no hope of getting their money back.
Unless Sybil put a stop to it here and now, before the situation got any further out of hand. She elbowed her way to the front of the crowd. “Mlle. LaChapelle!”
The other women glared at her for the disturbance and her presumption.
“Miss Stamper, are you here to pick up your dress? I’m afraid you’ll have to wait in the queue, chérie. Oh, is that parcel the trimmings I let you borrow? Just hand it to my assistant, if you please.”
LaChapelle had an assistant now?
“Mlle. LaChapelle let that woman borrow trimmings,” whispered one of the young women.
“She really does have a heart of gold!” exclaimed another.
Sybil clenched her teeth together. She’d felt exactly the same when first offered the ribbon and lace, but now that she knew what else Mlle. LaChapelle was capable of…
If the missing dresses weren’t returned within the week, dozens of other ladies would find themselves empty-handed. It would not only spoil their night, but also jeopardize their marital opportunities.
And poor Mme. Blanchet! If enough of her clients did not settle their open accounts for failure to deliver, the famed modiste would not be able to pay her rent and her suppliers. It would destroy her reputation and the ability to run her business. Her shop could be forced to fold.
Which might have been Mlle. LaChapelle’s plan all along.
“I need to speak to you at once,” Sybil called out.
“I’ve no time at the moment, darling. Anne—” The modiste waved her fingers at a terrified looking girl in a far corner. “Take the packet from Miss Stamper, s’il te plaît. Then show her to the door.”
Sybil didn’t move. “I must insist. The matter is urgent.”
“Can’t you see she’s in the middle of something important?” snapped a woman to her left.
The others murmured their agreement.
Sybil locked eyes with the exasperated modiste. “I promise you’ll want this conversation to occur privately.”
