The modiste’s eyes went as round as guineas. This would not only be a significant income, but also a walking advertisement of the custom designs Mlle. LaChapelle had been salivating to create for years.
“Oh, forgive me, I am so rude.” Lady Eunice fanned her neck. “Damaris, have you met my new modiste?”
Mlle. LaChapelle’s mouth fell open. “Miss Damaris Urqhart? The one who invented the military cipher that helped bring down Bonaparte?”
“Your reputation precedes you.” Lady Eunice gave air kisses to each of Damaris’s cheeks. “Come with us, darling. If Mlle. LaChapelle’s insights are half as clever as they say, you’ll want her to redo your wardrobe for the Season as well. Won’t everyone be green with envy?”
“Hmm,” said Damaris. “I do like the idea of wearing something new.”
“I can be avant-garde,” Mlle. LaChapelle blurted out. “I have ideas no one else has had, just waiting for the right armoire to call home.”
“See?” Lady Eunice tapped Damaris on the shoulder with her fan. “Then that’s settled. Come along, we’ve work to do. I’ll have the kitchen send up a chilled bottle of champagne to make the minutes fly faster.”
Mlle. LaChapelle glanced over her shoulder at her assistant Anne and her client Mrs. Ipsley, who the modiste clearly hoped would carry gossip about this latest victory to every ear in London, then grinned and hurried after Damaris and Lady Eunice to take the gleaming coach to Mayfair.
It would never arrive there. The driver was instructed to lead the horses as far away as possible from Cheapside, only to suffer an unfortunate mechanical failure of some indeterminate source, which would require his tinkering for the rest of the evening, interspersed with assurances of, “Just one more minute.”
The only way back to Mlle. LaChapelle’s shop would be on foot. Even if she gave up waiting for the driver to mend the coach, Sybil and the others ought to have at least a solid hour before any fear of her return.
Anne stared after the departing coach in obvious dismay. When it disappeared from sight, her shoulders slumped, and she vanished back inside the dress shop.
Far above her, a dark silhouette leapt from rooftop to rooftop.
It was time for part two of the plan.
Chapter 13
As Graham Wynchester leapt from cornice to chimney, a hackney carriage pulled to a stop in front of the shop. Sybil hurried forward to greet it.
Elizabeth Wynchester alighted from the carriage leaning heavily on a large hazel sword stick.
Sybil tipped back her veil so that Elizabeth could see her face.
Elizabeth ignored Sybil’s face, choosing instead to glance in both directions over Sybil’s shoulders. “Where’s the Heist Club?”
“For the love of God,” came a strangled voice from inside the carriage. “It’s not a…”
“Let me out of this death trap!”
The oldest woman Sybil had ever seen in her life emerged from the carriage. This was Great-Aunt Wynchester, whose wrinkles had wrinkles, and whose belligerence had no bounds.
Rather, it was Tommy Wynchester, dressed as Great-Aunt Wynchester, who did not actually exist.
Behind her came Great-Uncle Wynchester, whose prodigious gray sideburns were so bushy there was unlikely to be enough room for anyone else to sit beside him in the carriage. He, too, was an old man composed primarily of wrinkles and disgruntlement.
Great-Uncle Wynchester was just as fictitious as Great-Aunt Wynchester. This was Philippa in disguise.
Even if Sybil hadn’t known the truth, the grumbles about Don’t call it Heist Club would have given her friend away.
Tommy-as-Great-Aunt-Wynchester held out her elbow to Philippa-as-Great-Uncle-Wynchester. “Ready to waltz, my love?”
“With you, I’ll dance anywhere.” Philippa’s voice was as scratchy and quavery as Tommy’s, but the warmth in their eyes was undeniably real.
Elizabeth leaned on her cane. “Can I give the signal?”
“Does your signal involve bloodshed?” Philippa asked suspiciously.
“Slight amounts. A barely perceptible bloodbath. A genteel massacre worthy of a refined lady.”
