“As much as I love lists, I’m afraid I cannot afford this one,” Sybil said in awe. “Do you often charge such fees in addition to the gowns?”
“I charge for everything my clients are willing to pay for,” Madame said with an unapologetic twinkle in her hazel eyes.
“Such as being the first to wear your designs every Season. I believe Lady Carmichael and her daughters have held that distinction for the past five years.”
“It would be gauche to speak of exact figures.” Mme. Blanchet gave a conspiratorial wink. “But such preference is not cheap. Unfortunately for Lady Carmichael, another client wanted the honor even more this year. Lady Vanewright proved determined to have her daughter debut in her best form.”
There had been a bidding war for first place? Amongst ladies able to spend hundreds of pounds any time a new gown struck their fancy? Sybil could not imagine the price they’d be willing to pay to be the first to wear Madame’s creations. Especially since Lady Carmichael and Lady Vanewright had been rivals since before they’d become a countess and a viscountess, respectively. She was glad Madame had not shared the exact figure they’d been willing to part with. Sybil’s brain would have turned to porridge and leaked out her ears.
“When will the debut occur?”
“Three days from now,” Madame said with pride. “Lady Vanewright is hosting an exclusive soirée to launch her daughter into society.”
Lady Carmichael’s youngest daughter was also making her debut this season. Losing her place to Lady Vanewright must have come very expensive indeed.
Mme. Blanchet released her gowns in a stair-step pattern. The customer willing to pay the most was first, the one with the second-biggest purse was next, and everyone else came third. Lady Carmichael had been first and Lady Vanewright second for years. Until this Season.
“I presume the countess and her daughters will display their gowns the following week?”
Mme. Blanchet shook her head. “There is no second tier this time. Just first, and then everyone else a fortnight hence. I’ll deliver the first round in time for the Vauxhall ball. It is not my usual method, but Lady Vanewright was très persuasive.”
Sybil could imagine. Not only had the viscountess usurped the countess’s usual place, she’d also prevented her rival from any distinction whatsoever.
She made a low whistle. “That must have cost a pretty penny.”
“As it should. I demand those payments up front, because my clients do not settle their accounts until they’ve taken possession of their new gowns. Yet I must pay for quality materials, which are shipped in from the very best sources. My silk suppliers do not accept promissory notes.”
Sybil hadn’t thought about that. Occasionally, peers and their compatriots—like the ton favorite Beau Brummell—were run out of town for failure to pay their accounts. Debts of honor came first, and tradesmen came last. But what about all of those hard workers like Mme. Blanchet, who counted on that money for their livelihood? The day her clients took possession of their gowns and deposited the corresponding funds would be a happy one indeed.
The carriage turned onto Cavendish Square and slowed on the other side of fashionable linen drapers Clark & Debenham.
“Ah, here we are.” Mme. Blanchet lifted the book from her lap. “Merci beaucoup, Miss Stamper. Thank you for the book and your understanding.”
“I adore your creations,” gushed Sybil. “And I love lists. Could you put my name on a list of people who wish they could be on the real list?”
Madame laughed. “I believe that can be arranged. The first thing I shall do when I return to…” A gasp choked off the rest of her words. The gothic novel fell from her grip as she splayed both hands on the window and stared in panic. “My shop!”
Sybil strained to see around her.
When the tiger opened the door, the graceful modiste all but tumbled from the carriage in her desperation to alight. Sybil scrambled out immediately after.
Mme. Blanchet’s establishment was in the center of a long row of shops. Her store boasted two tall, mullioned windows with a matching glass half-circle on top, and a bright green door in the center. The window to the left featured a moss-and-gold sample of last year’s fashion on a wicker bust.
The window to the right… was no longer there.
Someone had taken a blunt object to the square glass muntins. White-painted glazing bars hung as jagged strips of wood. Broken shards of glass littered the pavement.
“How could this happen?” cried Mme. Blanchet. “This street, it is so busy. Witnesses everywhere…”
“What about the girls who help you sew? Perhaps they chased off the vandal.”
Madame shook her head. “I’ve given them two days’ holiday. We finished the last of the gowns for the Vauxhall ball last night, and needn’t deliver them until… The Vauxhall gowns!”
She rushed to the door, fumbling in her reticule for the key. In seconds, the door was open and Mme. Blanchet disappeared inside…only for an anguished scream to ring out.
Sybil and the tiger chased after her.
There was no time to dwell upon all the lush details in the well-appointed receiving room and fitting area. Sybil continued straight back into a large room filled with half a dozen work tables…and no sign of any gowns.
