He stared at the back of her head. “What?”
She straightened. “Masquerade balls. They seem exciting until you spend three hours in a stuffy room, unable to wipe the sweat from your face because of your mask.”
Before he could respond to that, the door to the shop opened, and a short, silver-haired woman in a severe brown gown stepped inside.
“Oh, no,” Miss Carter whispered.
He didn’t recognize the woman, who was glancing around the shop with barely disguised contempt. “What is it?”
“A problem,” Miss Carter said. She brushed her hands over her dress, then walked toward the woman. “Good evening, Lady Ferron.”
Chapter Five
Kitty checked thewatch 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 beingpaidfor 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.
