“Sneaking about Cheapside with heavy burlap sacks flung over our backs makes it look like we’ve just committed a robbery,” Jacob pointed out. “Even if we toss them all into a wagon. We need a cover story.”
“And a key,” Sybil added.
“I could forge a copy of that key if we could get our hands on it,” Marjorie offered.
Sybil tilted her head. “LaChapelle keeps hers on chain about her neck.”
“See?” Elizabeth said to Jacob, and brandished her sword. “All the more reason to—”
“How many sewing girls did you say the modiste currently employed?” Graham asked.
“She said a dozen,” Sybil answered. “I don’t know if that’s an exact figure, or if she was speaking colloquially.”
“I have a dozen trained weasels,” Jacob offered. “And a dozen extremely swift raptors.”
“You have a dozen everything,” Tommy said. “You make it look like Noah wasn’t thinking big enough when he built his arc.”
“What good would raptors and weasels do?” asked Florentia.
“They have claws,” Elizabeth said. “They can be wing and foot soldiers in my decapitation army.”
“That should make a good distraction,” Tommy agreed.
“But what about the rest of us?” Damaris burst out. “There are two dozen members of the Heist Club. We all want to help, too.”
“For the last time,” Philippa groaned, “please stop calling it a…”
“Of course you can help.” Graham Wynchester’s brown eyes sparkled. “For this plan to come off without a hitch, we must all work together.”
Sybil jerked her head up with sudden hope. “There’s a plan?”
“A plan and two contingencies.” He rubbed his hands together. “Listen closely. Here’s what we’re going to do…”
Chapter 12
Despite the swiftly setting sun, Sybil stood at the side of the road wearing a bonnet with a veil and carrying an open parasol. These were not to protect her from the weather, but rather to shield her face from view, whilst still allowing her to stand close enough to Mlle. LaChapelle’s shop to spy on the action. Gracie had even loaned her a spare gown so that the modiste would not recognize one of Sybil’s few dresses.
The queue had dwindled. Most interested parties had arrived on the scene as soon as the shop opened, in hopes of beating the competition to the best dresses. LaChapelle stood in the doorway conversing with the last straggler now.
Given the late hour, the sewing girls were unlikely to work much longer. Mademoiselle had mentioned her intent to employ a night crew, but had not yet had the opportunity to do so—which worked to the Wynchesters’ advantage.
Just as the final customer was trying to wheedle a last-minute appointment for the morrow, a stately coach-and-four pulled up in front of the shop, catching both Mlle. LaChapelle and her client’s eye.
A white-wigged footman raced to open the door to the coach and hand down his sophisticated passenger.
“Lady Eunice,” breathed Mlle. LaChapelle and her client in tandem.
The modiste quickly rolled back her shoulders and straightened her spine. Thus far, the Overtons were LaChapelle’s highest ranking customers. Mother and daughter had attended the viscountess’s soirée, but lacked a title themselves.
Lady Eunice was the daughter of an earl. To claim her as a client would be quite a coup for Mlle. LaChapelle’s blossoming reputation.
A maid wearing a gown significantly more fashionable than most of the dresses in Sybil’s armoire scrambled out of Lady Eunice’s carriage and hurried to accompany her even more elegant mistress.
Lady Eunice minced up the freshly swept walkway as though her dainty slippers had never before ventured outside of fashionable Mayfair.
Come to think of it, maybe they hadn’t.
“Lady Eunice,” Mlle. LaChapelle gushed, and then flinched as if she feared being perceived as impertinent, or otherwise turn her guest away before the modiste could coax her into becoming a client.
