“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 toyou.”
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 considerwherethey’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 completeMiss 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 theside. 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 aV 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!”
