Chapter Five
Kitty checked the watch on her chatelaine, only to find hardly ten minutes had passed. She groaned and dropped her forehead onto the stiff mass of tulle on her desk in the room above her shop.
She was usually very good at losing track of time while she worked, especially when she was being paid for said work.
But no matter how many times she drew her needle and thread through the unruly section of tulle that would give the skirt of Lady Ferron’s gown the extra volume she’d had a fit about that afternoon, her mind refused to empty and drop into that peculiar nothingness that came with deep focus.
Every time she tried, she imagined the viscount’s smirk, or the collection of freckles around his jaw that led down his neck.
It had been years since she’d done anything more than kiss a man, but in that moment, when he’d stared into her eyes, she would have agreed to any depraved act he wished.
Not that he would have asked.
She had only heard rumors of the kind of scandalous events he wished to attend, and he already had a mistress, who was now Kitty’s client.
She would remind herself of that fact as many times as it took for her to stop thinking such inappropriate thoughts about Lord Grayson.
His teasing aside, he’d exited her shop with his full attention on a giddy Miss Griffith.
She formed another stitch that would be hidden in the folds where the skirt met the bodice.
Then her finger cramped, and she dropped the long line of thread, which blended white on white on the tulle.
Rather than fuss about finding it, she flipped the garment over and carefully teased the last stitch out of the silver muslin, then rethreaded her needle.
Alyssa should have been doing this work, but Kitty had already dismissed the girl for the night and had hoped sewing would relax her and make it easier for her to fall back to sleep.
It hadn’t.
She stabbed through the fabric so hard that she caused the fragile material to tear, then clenched her teeth and put the dress down.
Lying in bed and staring at the ceiling would be better than ruining her work.
As she shoved her chair back, she heard several dull thuds from downstairs.
A dozen possibilities flitted through her mind.
The wind could have knocked her shutters against the glass.
Or it might have been a stray cat making a home among her bolts of material.
Or someone was robbing her.
Another thud, then the sound of voices raised in anger.
She contorted her body out of her chair to avoid intruders hearing her footfalls.
At least she was still fully dressed, having failed to prepare for bed.
Still, she donned the cloak hanging on a peg on the wall, opened the door as slowly as she could, then padded into the chilly staircase that led to the back entrance of her shop.
Maybe it was foolish to investigate herself, but calling for a night watchman would risk alerting the thieves.
She palmed the hilt of her revolver tucked in her cloak, primed and ready to fire. She had the advantage of surprise and she doubted any robbers would see a young woman and expect her to be armed.
The steps creaked as she descended, but the sound was lost in the crashing and shouting in her shop. Whoever was stealing from her obviously didn’t care if they were caught.
She turned the corner at the bottom of the steps and lifted the fabric partition that disguised the entrance to the hallway.
Inside the room were three men. Two wore the navy uniforms and flat-brimmed hats of sailors and tossed bolts of fabric to the floor with no concern for the damage they were doing.
The third man had on a black bowler hat and a well-worn, brown trench coat.
He watched the others with a narrow-eyed stare as he puffed on a cheroot, the smoke curling around his head and drifting to the ceiling.
Stuck through his cravat was a pin bearing the image of a silver spider on a black background.
Kitty stepped into the room, revolver held high.
The two men destroying her wares stopped and looked at the third.
“Miss Carter,” the man who was obviously the leader said. He bowed. “I am pleased to meet you at last.”
She kept her revolver high. “Who are you?”
“I apologize for my rudeness.” He removed his bowler hat and smoothed a hand over his bald head. “I am Reginald Blaylock.”
It was not a name she recognized.
“What do you want, Mr. Blaylock?” She was relieved when there was no tremor in her voice. Her heart was beating so fast, she was lightheaded, but she could not back down in front of this man, who was obviously determined to get something from her.
“I’m afraid your father owes me quite a hefty sum,” the man said.
“When I brought it to his attention that he had missed his last three payments despite me so generously offering him a loan, I was told something quite unusual.” He took another draw of his cheroot, then blew out the smoke in a single puff.
“Your father told me he gave the money he borrowed from me to you.”
She dropped her arm. Of course. It had seemed odd that her parents had come up with such an enormous sum of money a year ago, but she’d been so eager to leave their home and open her shop that she hadn’t stopped to consider where they’d found the money.
This also explained why her mother had been so evasive earlier.
Mrs. Carter had known her husband had gotten himself into trouble.
As usual, they relied on their eldest daughter to sort out the mess.
“It’s true, then,” Mr. Blaylock said. “You have my money.”
She tucked her revolver back into her cloak. “I can’t pay it back. At least not yet.”
Mr. Blaylock nodded. “I suspected as much. This shop…” He curled his lip. “Is not exactly prosperous.”
“It will be,” she said, bristling at his obvious contempt.
He and everyone else might doubt her, but she would not let that deter her.
Lord Grayson was only the first part of her plan to establish herself as a dressmaker for wealthy members of society.
She merely needed a chance to show them her work and then they would line up to secure her services.
“I can give you fifty pounds,” she said. It wasn’t even a quarter of the total, but it was all she had available. She was very glad she’d insisted Lord Grayson pay a portion of Miss Griffith’s bill upfront.
Mr. Blaylock tapped the end of his cigar, sending ashes falling to her freshly swept floor. “Perhaps I should take your merchandise and sell it to other shops. Or hold it as collateral.”
“No!” she cried. Then she cleared her throat.
“You would not get a fair sum, and certainly not enough to pay the debt in full. Surely, we can come to an alternative arrangement, Mr. Blaylock. I have a very prosperous client who will be paying me more than enough to settle my father’s debt.
I only require time.” She mentally calculated how long it would take her to complete Miss Griffith’s outfits, then doubled it to give herself room for negotiation. “Two months.”
Mr. Blaylock looked around again, as if appraising the value of everything he saw.
After a moment, he nodded, presumably coming to a total that was far below what she was offering.
His ready agreement stung, even though it was in her favor.
She knew she was not wealthy, but to be dismissed so easily as having a worthless collection of wares, beneath the notice of even this criminal, stung.
“You have two weeks, and I require an additional hundred pounds of interest,” Mr. Blaylock said. “This I offer because I would not want your lovely mother and sister to suffer.”
Kitty’s stomach churned. “You don’t have to threaten my family. I will pay you.”
She didn’t bother negotiating for more time, as she intended to pay him in full before the month was up, even if it meant doing without sleep until she finished Miss Griffith’s garments.
But when Mr. Blaylock and his burly accomplices finally left, the courage that had filled her vanished, and she found herself fighting tears as she stood in a dark room that she would have to clean and rearrange before she opened in the morning, or risk losing customers.
She swallowed heavily and squared her shoulders.
She would prepare a large glass of brandy, then get started.
The good news was that all her finished and in-progress dresses were safely stored in her room.
She could still fix things. All was not yet lost.
A sob bubbled up her throat. She felt like a porcelain plate full of cracks.
If she let emotion overwhelm her, she would shatter.
So, she pressed her palms to her eyes until the tension flowed out of her like water through a spigot.
Only then, when she was cold inside, did she go upstairs, drink a quarter of a bottle of brandy, then return downstairs and turn on the gaslights.
It was worse than she’d realized. The men hadn’t bothered to wipe their boots before entering, so the bolts that had fallen to the ground were covered in dirt and muddy shoeprints.
She would not only have to put everything back on shelves, but also have Alyssa wash the fabrics in the copper tub in the back room when she arrived in the morning.
Kitty lifted a heavy bolt of cream linen that was only slightly flecked with mud. Salvageable.
Yes, this was easier. Analyzing the problem with cold intellect rather than dwelling on the cruelty of the men who had stomped all over her heart. Tears would accomplish nothing.
As she cataloged the destruction and calculated the sum of what it would cost to replace what had been irreparably damaged—refusing to let that number cause her any further distress—she remembered her mother demanding Betty have new gowns.
She slammed a bolt into place a tad harder than necessary and grunted as her pinkie scratched along a section of broken metal, tearing a chunk out of her flesh.
She stuck her finger into her mouth and bit off the hanging skin, then walked over to the small box she kept beneath her front counter.
A strip of soft fabric wrapped around the injured digit, and she was ready to continue her work.
Spinning a fantastic scenario made the work go faster.
She created a ballroom in her mind, with Lord Grayson in attendance.
He wore another of those remarkable suits, this time in navy twill with a cream lining and a matching top hat.
She curtseyed before him, spreading the voluminous skirt of her glittering, turquoise gown.
The garment was embroidered with stars and the overdress was held up by bows, revealing a bit of the ruffled petticoat beneath.
The dress formed in her head as the ballroom melted away.
She rushed back to her worktable, shoving the detritus to the side.
She ripped a section of brown sketching paper, not even caring when the rest of the roll fell off the edge of the table and thumped to the ground. Her fingers itched to create.
She grabbed a box of sketching material and upended it on the table, then picked up a bit of charcoal and set her hands in motion.
The bodice would be long, coming to a V in the front. A slight bustle in the back, as the shape was coming into mode. She would have to order out for whalebone hoops. Then she could gather the fabric in a pleasing ruffle.
There was a sound of rapping on the front door.
Her hands cramped, but as the ideas exited her mind, the constant noise of her thoughts quieted. She tossed the charcoal aside and ran her hands over her colored pastel sticks until they landed on the perfect shade of soft blue.
“Kitty?”
She heard but was too consumed with figuring out what kind of neckline to choose to react to her name.
Heart-shaped, square, or off the shoulder?
She’d always fancied her collarbones. It didn’t matter that she’d never create the dress, as she only allowed herself a few hours each month to work on her own wardrobe.
“Kitty!”
A loud slam drew her out of her focus. There was a familiar short figure standing outside her door, grinning and waving.
It was her sister.