Calculation flitted across Mlle. LaChapelle’s face. She curtsied in acquiescence. “Mesdames, if you’ll excuse me for just a moment. Two short minutes, and not a second more. Anne, come and show off these dresses. Let our guests feel their quality.”
A few of the women continued to stare daggers at Sybil, but the rest were enraptured by the opportunity to get their hands on the famous dresses. Regardless of individual sentiment, the crowd parted to allow Mlle. LaChapelle out and the clearly panicked Anne in.
With a warm smile and frigid eyes, Mlle. LaChapelle locked her arm about Sybil’s and dragged her out of the reception area and past the fitting room to a plain wooden door. The modiste produced a key and unlocked the door. With a final glance over her shoulder, LaChapelle yanked Sybil across the threshold and closed the door behind them.
“Now, what is this all about?” the modiste bit out in exasperation.
They were at the foot of narrow wooden stairs. This must be where Mlle. LaChapelle had disappeared to when she’d climbed up creaking steps to retrieve a bit of ribbon and lace for Sybil.
Soft voices sounded overhead.
“Is someone up there?” Sybil whispered in alarm. Was even more wickedness afoot? How deep did this conspiracy go?
“Several someones,” LaChapelle replied. “I have a dozen sewing girls working all day, and am soon to hire another dozen to work all night, just to keep up with demand.”
“You lock them in?” Sybil said in horror.
“I’m not a monster. There’s a key upstairs, and I pay them well. The door is locked not to keep the girls at their posts, but to prevent nosy Nellies from interrupting them. The girls have plenty of work to do duplicating my designs. If you’re not here to pick up your frock or apply for a post, then please let me get back to mine.”
“They’re not duplicating your designs,” Sybil said.
Mademoiselle sighed. “You were right there when I handed eight identical gowns to—”
“It’s not your design,” Sybil repeated. “You stole it from Mme. Blanchet.”
“Watch yourself. You have no proof to back up your slander.”
“Watch me collect it.” Sybil started up the stairs.
LaChapelle blocked her before Sybil could take more than a single step. “What do you want?”
Sybil had wanted confirmation that the missing dresses had not been destroyed. The sudden pallor to Mlle. LaChapelle’s cheeks indicated the evidence was indeed somewhere abovestairs.
Not that she would be allowing Sybil free rein to find it. If anything, Sybil realized with a sick feeling, she had just overplayed her hand. Now that LaChapelle knew Sybil knew where to find the contraband, it would be removed or destroyed at the first opportunity.
“You have so much talent,” Sybil told her. “There was no need to steal.”
“I never said I did,” LaChapelle answered. “Mayhap the missing dresses will eventually return on their own. And if someone stole them, temporarily or otherwise, who cares? The beau monde can afford new clothes, and the ton loves being the talk of the town. Everyone wins.”
“A lot of people lose.”
“Not the people crowding my shop. People like you, Miss Stamper. They’re calling me ‘the affordable Blanchet’. There’s a queue. I should have thought you’d be the first in line to look like a fashion plate on a pauper’s purse.”
Had the opportunity presented itself two months ago when Sybil was spending three years’ savings on a single gown for the Vauxhall ball, she almost certainly would have been at the front of the queue.
But not if she’d known realizing her dream meant ruining Madame Blanchet and everything she’d built for herself through talent and hard work.
And now, the stain had spread to Sybil herself. She would not be donning the beautiful gown she’d commissioned after all. There would be no belle-of-the-ball fantasy unfolding at Vauxhall. Instead of dancing beneath the stars, she would spend the evening at home in an old shabby dress. Alone. Again.
“Why resort to theft?” Sybil asked quietly. “You are such a phenomenal modiste. Why not seek success on your own recognizance?”
“I’ve been seeking success using my own sweat and blood for years,” Mlle. LaChapelle said flatly. “What has it got me? Nothing. To make a name for oneself in this town requires a big splash. I’m not a little fish anymore. I’m a whale. Everything it took to get here—I would do again. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have paying customers to attend to.”
“But—”
“Don’t cross me, Miss Stamper. If even a fraction of your unfounded accusations are true, then I am not the sort of person you want to be at odds with.”
Rather than wait for a response, the modiste flung open the door and pushed Sybil out of the stairway.
