Page 10

Close up, Beatrice could see that Lavinia wore a choker with a cameo dangling from its chain. It stood out against her pale, swanlike neck. The cameo featured the painted figure of a man, and from the shape of the figure’s mustache, Beatrice could tell it was a depiction of Sir Huxley.

“Do you like it?” Lavinia asked, clearly noticing Beatrice’s gaze on her choker. “I painted it myself. I am the president and founder of the Huxley Appreciation Society,” she explained. “Are you a fan? We’d love to have you at one of our meetings!”

Beatrice was struck with an odd feeling.

Not long ago, she would have given anything to belong to the Huxley Appreciation Society and mingle with other young ladies who admired the detective as much as she had.

But now Beatrice could not imagine being satisfied as simply a fan, after having tasted the excitement of solving a crime herself.

“Thank you for the invitation,” she said finally. “It is very kind.”

“This is Elle Equiano,” Lavinia said, now indicating the woman with the quizzing glass and gray turban. “She writes for the Babbler . You may have read her column, ‘Riveting Ribbons.’ It’s simply fantastic. It has helped me select so many ribbons, and even a pair of gloves!”

“You flatter me, darling,” Miss Equiano said, waving a hand modestly.

“I don’t know why that man thinks he would know fashion better than you,” Lavinia went on, clearly referencing Gregory.

“Because it isn’t about fashion,” Elle replied.

“It’s about control,” Beatrice agreed.

“Precisely,” Elle said, her dark eyes now gleaming with interest. “Now, that would be an interesting column: an exposé about the NAGS.”

“You should write that,” Beatrice said, a bit too quickly—but wouldn’t that be exactly what she needed for her current investigation?

“Alas, I am restricted to ribbons because my editor thinks it unbecoming for a lady to write about any interesting topics,” Elle replied. Though her tone was light, her eyes were serious; Beatrice could tell that this was a point of contention.

“Or talk about them, it would seem,” Lavinia said, adjusting her spectacles.

“If that gentleman with the horrendous sideburns is a member of NAGS, he is a member of the Rose—all of the men in that organization belong to the best assembly hall, of course—and he called me Huxley’s hussy.

I have not even been presented as a debutante yet, and my reputation is already tarnished! ”

“I thought everyone in London was obsessed with Huxley,” Beatrice said, confused. “Why are you criticized for supporting him?”

“It’s best to keep that obsession behind closed doors,” Elle explained. “Especially this Season…”

“Is there something I should know? I am also participating in the Season. I’m actually a bloom at the Rose,” Beatrice said, trying to sound casual and merely curious, as if she hadn’t been eavesdropping from the moment they entered the shop.

“Oh! What fun! So are we!” Lavinia said eagerly, clapping her hands, momentarily distracted from her public shaming. But Elle simply smiled and raised her eyebrow, as if she knew there was more Beatrice wanted to ask.

“Are you saying this Season will be different because of…Walter Shrewsbury’s death?” Beatrice asked quietly.

For a moment she was terrified that Elle and Lavinia would leave the shop immediately, offended at such a bold and disturbing question. After all, they had just been talking about the dangers of discussing tawdry subjects in public.

But instead they leaned in, both clearly intrigued. As Beatrice had hoped and suspected, the two young ladies were kindred morbid spirits.

“I wonder,” she whispered, “if you have any idea who might have killed him.”

“He didn’t have any direct enemies, per se,” Lavinia whispered back, “but Mr. Shrewsbury was a powerful man. And powerful men are often targets. Think of Huxley’s seventy-first case—”

“A Duke in Danger,” Beatrice recalled.

“Exactly! I knew you were a fan!” Lavinia said excitedly.

“Walter Shrewsbury was a founding member of the NAGS, along with Mr. Cecil Nightingale and Mr. Horace Vane,” Elle told her.

“Those three have a great influence over Sweetbriar, as you just saw. They have been cracking down as of late, sending their errand boy Gregory all over town to deliver edicts. They think artists have gotten a little too brazen in their work, and that we ladies have gotten too free in our dress and speech and interests.” She snorted.

“Apparently we cannot even wear bright colors anymore.”

“And I am certain that they planted a story about my club in the paper to hurt my reputation and dissuade our gatherings,” Lavinia added.

“No doubt one of them saw my society meeting for tea and overheard a bloody conversation. And I mean ‘bloody’ literally,” she explained.

“We were discussing a stabbing. But we are fascinated with the pursuit of justice, not the act of committing a crime.”

“Believe me when I tell you that I understand completely,” Beatrice assured her.

“I am sure the NAGS have made enemies with their current efforts,” Elle said. “And now that one of their own has been murdered, I fear they will begin to impose even stricter rules for us all.” She sighed. “They’re frightful spoilsports, if you ask me.”

It all aligned with Percival’s fears, Beatrice thought. Wealthy gentlemen did not care for the way society was changing and blamed the arts. Yet Horace and Diana Vane claimed the NAGS supported local culture. Once again she was struck by the contradiction.

“I shall probably be kicked out of the Season at once, considering all of these rules,” Beatrice murmured, somewhat to herself, but Elle Equiano immediately shook her head.

“Of course you won’t, darling. We shall help you. Won’t we, Lavinia?”

“Yes,” Lavinia said, nodding eagerly.

“You must become our special project, Miss Steele,” Elle said, and Beatrice felt both nervous and exhilarated at the young woman’s sudden look of anticipation. “A murder, a heat wave, and a new friend…Perhaps this Season will turn out to be fun after all.” Her lips curled into a mischievous grin.

The dressmaker reappeared with the pink gown, now packaged up in a box. Elle took it and then turned back. “Until next time, just remember,” she told Beatrice, “be careful with whom you discuss murder.”

With that bit of advice—or was it a warning?—the two ladies exited the shop with a swish of silk.

Beatrice watched them fold into a crowd on the street outside.

She was struck with a sudden vision of herself, clad in an elegant ensemble, going into dress shops with Elle and Lavinia. Discussing the latest intrigue and defying any petty gentlemen they encountered.

Could this cosmopolitan dream actually become reality?

“Beatrice, did you hear me?”

Beatrice blinked and then looked down to see Miss Bolton standing next to her.

“I said, what do you think about this one?” She held up a bolt of blue fabric, so bright that Beatrice resisted the urge to shield her eyes.

Evidently Miss Bolton had been so caught up in shopping that she had missed the entire encounter that had just occurred.

“That might be more your shade, not mine,” Beatrice said politely. An idea forming, she went on. “Perhaps you should be measured for a new wardrobe yourself, Miss Bolton. After all, you are my chaperone, so you will be attending many events, too. You wouldn’t want to be seen in last season’s garb.”

“Oh, I don’t need anything new,” Miss Bolton began to protest, but Beatrice interrupted.

“I have heard people call you a trendsetter. You wouldn’t want to let them down, would you?”

“I suppose I’ve never really thought of it like that,” Miss Bolton said, looking at the dressmaker. “Could you fit me in?” Without waiting for a reply, she helped Beatrice off the dressmaker’s podium and stepped up herself. “Beatrice, you don’t mind waiting?”

“Of course not,” Beatrice assured her. “I could browse ribbons for hours.”

The moment Miss Bolton looked away, raising her arms to be measured, Beatrice slipped out of the shop.

This would likely be her last chance to speak with Drake before they were presented at the Rose, and she wanted to make sure they were prepared for the evening.

But more truthfully, her head was spinning with everything Elle and Lavinia had just said, and Beatrice wanted to hear Drake’s calm, logical take.

The dress shop was thankfully close to DS Investigations, and Beatrice pushed her way through the door.

“I have to tell you all about—Good heavens!”

Inspector Drake was standing in the middle of the office, wearing only trousers. Beatrice whirled around, her face burning, but she had already seen his broad, bare chest.

“Miss Steele,” Drake said, sounding flustered. “I did not expect you today. Miss Bolton sent a note, saying you were to be fitted for a new wardrobe….” He cleared his throat. “I am decent.”

Beatrice slowly turned around. Drake now wore a loose white shirt, and she tried not to glance down at the sliver of chest that was revealed by its open neck. He was barely decent, and surprisingly muscular—the observation made her lightheaded, for some reason.

“I thought I would take the afternoon to do the same,” Drake went on, gesturing to a pile of suit jackets strewn across his desk. Beatrice could see now that he was halfway through trying on formal wear.

“And…you couldn’t do that at the tailor’s?” she asked, her voice coming out weirdly hoarse.

“I can’t afford a tailor,” he said stiffly. “Percival Nash sent these over from the theater’s costume department for me to borrow so I will fit in among the gentlemen at the Rose.” He pulled on one of the jackets. “I did not expect to see you. You’re rarely here.”

“I am here right now,” Beatrice shot back. She gestured to the jacket he had pulled on. “That one is nice. I’d suggest you wear it for our presentation.” Her cheeks felt hot.

“Thank you,” Drake said stiffly. “I suppose I will.”

He avoided her gaze as he took it off, back in only a thin white shirt once more, and he tossed the jacket aside.

“So…why are you here?” he asked.

She explained her encounter with Gregory, Elle Equiano, and Lavinia Lee. Drake began to pace the room, listening as Beatrice informed him of the tidbits she had gleaned. She tried to focus her gaze on their chessboard, though her eyes kept wandering to the opening of his loose shirt.

“So the NAGS will be imposing stricter rules, whatever that means,” he said, his brow furrowing as he considered Beatrice’s words. “This could apply to actors as well as ladies. Percival mentioned the tension between artists and gentlemen.”

“Yes,” Beatrice said, “our first goal at the Rose should be to establish relationships and gain trust. The more we understand the inner workings of this club, the closer we shall be to catching the killer. After all, as Lavinia said, all of the members of the NAGS are members of the Rose. They are the gentlemen at the top of society here in Sweetbriar.”

“Yes…” Drake stopped pacing and looked at her, his jaw tense. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

“What do you mean?” Beatrice exclaimed, turning from the chessboard to meet his gaze. “Of course I am. This is all I have ever wanted!”

“That is the problem,” Drake told her. “You think you can do it all. As in, be an inspector and a debutante. But I must urge you to put this case ahead of any social goals.”

“My position as a debutante is purely a ploy to appease my mother, and a way to get access to suspects for questioning,” Beatrice assured him.

“So you are not using this as an opportunity to secure an engagement?” Drake pressed.

“What do you want me to say? That I am committed to becoming a spinster?” Beatrice asked, growing irritated. What business was this of Drake’s?

“I am merely trying to glean your interest level in the eligible gentlemen we shall meet. It might affect the investigation,” Drake insisted.

“It is very low, unless they show bloodthirsty tendencies. I trust your ‘interest level’ in the ladies we meet shall be the same?” Beatrice shot back.

Drake pursed his lips.

“I am glad we cleared that up,” he said finally.

“If you do take an interest in someone, though, let me know. I am happy to play matchmaker,” Beatrice said, unable to resist taunting him. He deserved it, after behaving in such a galling manner.

“You will do nothing of the sort. I have seen someone swayed by the promise of high society and the allure of a flirtatious glance,” Drake said sternly, though he still looked flushed. “Neither of us must fall to this fate,” he added.

“You’re talking about Sir Huxley,” Beatrice said, now understanding the reason for Drake’s ire: He had worked with the gentleman detective, until Huxley had let a murder suspect go free because he had thought himself in love with her. “We are nothing like that fraud,” she assured him.

“The London Season is a whirlwind of parties, promises, and power,” Drake said, still seemingly unconvinced. “It might be more than you can handle.”

He leaned toward her, and her heart began to pound in anticipation—but he was merely reaching over to pick up his knight. He knocked her rook aside, placing the knight in its new square on the chessboard.

“It won’t be,” Beatrice told him firmly.

“If we solve this case, we will establish ourselves as worthy investigators. Cases will pour in—as will cash.” She started toward the door, then turned back.

“But if you truly do not want to find a sweetheart, I’d suggest you keep your clothes on from now on.

Otherwise you shall drive the debutantes mad. ”

She had said the words so he would be the one to blush, but as she took her leave of the office, she found that her own cheeks were still warm.

Skip Notes

* Beatrice rarely interacted with her youngest sister either; Mary liked long, solitary walks in the forest, and preferred the company of other animals as opposed to human women.