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Chapter Six

A Debut

Beatrice thought she had seen opulence. After all, Swampshire had once been home to the infamous Stabmort Park, a mansion with dozens of rooms and a turret (before it burned to a crisp).

But she felt, now, that Stabmort was a swamp in comparison with the splendor of the Rose: Beyond the iron gates was a sprawling garden, ornate pillars flanking the grand front staircase to the club, and not one but six turrets.

Inside, it was even more lavish. Busts of former members lined the room, as well as statues of various Greek gods and goddesses.

Everything was made of white marble, from the walls to the floors, as if all the color had been drained from the room.

That is, except for the roses. They were everywhere, their vines tangled around the bases of statues, clinging to the walls, the air heavy with the scent of their perfume.

Somewhere within those walls, Walter Shrewsbury had been murdered. Perhaps his killer was even in attendance tonight.

The evening marked the beginning of the Rose Club’s Season, and Beatrice and Drake’s official debut among the ladies and gentlemen seeking to make advantageous matches.

But more important, it was their first chance to speak with members of the Rose who may have seen or heard anything about the recent death behind the mansion’s closed doors.

Beatrice was tense with anticipation, a feeling she could tell Drake shared from how tightly his jaw was clenched.

She followed him into the center of the receiving room, where a footman held out a tray of crystal glasses. Drake took two. He passed one to Beatrice and then one to Miss Bolton, who trailed behind her.

“To think, both you and Beatrice have been invited to the top social club in Sweetbriar!” Miss Bolton gushed as she took the glass. “Even though Beatrice is poor and unconnected, and you are a workingman who was fired from his previous crime-solving position and therefore publicly disgraced!”

“Thank you for that reminder,” Drake said dryly.

Miss Bolton wore a thick velvet hat, in spite of the summer heat (“Fashion does not take a break for the summer, Beatrice!”), and it dampened her hearing enough that Beatrice was able to lean toward Drake for a private word.

“We should find out who knew Mr. Shrewsbury best and start our questioning with them,” she suggested. “I could ask the ladies and you, the gentlemen—”

“Where are all the gentlemen?” Drake inquired, glancing around.

They were surrounded by swathes of women only, Beatrice realized. There were no eligible bachelors to be seen.

The question of their absence was answered promptly, when a harried-looking attendant appeared and beckoned to Inspector Drake.

“Gentlemen must wait in the ballroom,” she said frantically. Drake looked back at Beatrice as the attendant ushered him down a hallway, his expression pained.

Beatrice stared back, her gaze an attempt to communicate the plan.

Don’t think of how much you hate society events. Think of solving the murder at hand.

His look back seemed to say, If I am forced to dance, there shall be a second murder….

Beatrice shot him a last look before she and Miss Bolton turned toward the women gathered in the atrium.

There were about twelve ladies there, with their chaperones, including Beatrice and Miss Bolton.

The ladies were dressed in evening gowns, nervous expressions upon their faces.

Beatrice was certain that her own expression mirrored this anticipation.

For the first time since she had moved to London, she felt she fit in with her peers—at least in this one regard.

She spotted two familiar faces among the crowd, and relief welled up within her. Beatrice pushed her way over toward the two young ladies from the dress shop.

Miss Lavinia Lee and Miss Elle Equiano were clad in fine evening wear: Lavinia’s spectacles shone, perfectly polished, and she wore a sapphire-blue gown.

Her white-blond hair was pinned back, showing off painted earrings.

As Beatrice grew close, she was unsurprised to see that they were miniature portraits of the handsome, mustachioed Sir Huxley.

It seemed that the negative comments in the society columns had done little to quell Lavinia’s public appreciation for the gentleman detective.

For her part, Elle Equiano seemed to be the only debutante who was not nervous. In fact, she looked bored, her expression contrasting with her exciting ensemble. She wore the bright pink gown from the dressmaker’s window, paired with a matching headpiece, which shimmered in the candlelight.

As the new wardrobe had not yet arrived from the dressmaker, Beatrice was being presented in her plain brown dress, made even more drab in comparison with her peers’ lively ensembles. At least she had a colorful sash of tassels, which Miss Bolton had insisted upon.

Beatrice squared her shoulders, trying to affect a confidence she did not feel. “Good evening,” she said, and both Lavinia and Elle turned to appraise her.

“Miss Steele,” Elle said, her bored expression giving way to delight. “We were wondering where you were.”

“I was hoping to find you both,” Beatrice confessed. “I could do with any advice for the evening.”

“Indeed, my darling,” Elle said, beckoning her closer into their fold. “We were just discussing curtsies. We are meant to perform one as we are presented.”

“I seriously doubt anyone would consider one of my curtsies a performance,” Beatrice said, nerves rising. “Unless they like tragedies. Or, I suppose, comedies.”

“No one will laugh at you tonight,” Elle assured her. “Not even if you tell a joke on purpose; trust me, I’ve tried, and these society types never get it. Just nod, smile, and keep your dance card full. Oh, and don’t show an ankle during your curtsy, else you may start a riot.”

“I heard,” Lavinia said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “that last year, one of the debutantes did not secure any dances at the first ball, and she was so embarrassed that she hid in the kissing closet.”

“That was me, darling,” Elle said, flipping her hair. “And I wasn’t embarrassed; I had ten pages left in a Gothic and simply had to finish it!”

“How do I secure dances?” Beatrice blurted. “What is a kissing closet? How do I ensure my ankles don’t cause a riot? And,” she continued, her alarm hitting her throat and forcing her voice up an octave, “what do I do if there is a riot and I cannot hide my enthusiasm for pandemonium?”

Several other debutantes and their chaperones looked over, and Beatrice could hear titters as they whispered judgmentally.

This only added to her distress. If she did not behave correctly tonight, she risked losing access to the places, suspects, and gossip pivotal to solving the case at hand.

Thus she was very , very concerned about the ankle situation.

Mercifully, Elle and Lavinia pushed in closer to Beatrice, shielding her from the curious looks of those who had overheard her outburst.

“Do not fret,” Elle said evenly. “First of all, a kissing closet is simply a nickname for a ballroom’s small coat chamber.”

“Because some people use it for other purposes,” Lavinia explained in a whisper. “Not here, of course,” she hastened to add. “The gentlemen of the Rose are very respectable.”

“And you curtsy once your name is called,” Elle went on. “It’s simple, really, just don’t expose any skin. Or move too quickly. Or dip too low, or not low enough…”

“There should be some sort of guide which enumerates all of this,” Beatrice said, still feeling overwhelmed.

In her hometown, women had been able to consult The Lady’s Guide to Swampshire for questions of etiquette.

But here in London, there seemed to be so many unspoken rules that everyone but her knew.

How could she focus on a murder investigation when she could not solve the puzzle that was the basic rules of decorum in London?

“Don’t fixate on the ankles, darling,” Elle told her, waving a hand. “Unless yours are particularly alluring…”

“My mother always called them ‘sturdy,’?” Beatrice said.

“Then you have nothing to worry about!” Lavinia said happily.

Miss Bolton reappeared.

“There you are, Beatrice,” she said, looking flustered. “Come, come…everything is about to begin….”

She grabbed Beatrice’s wrist and tugged her through a cluster of debutantes and chaperones, toward the ballroom’s doors.

“I have determined the course of the evening from the other chaperones,” she said excitedly.

“It seems that each young lady will be presented in front of current members of the Rose, who are all waiting in there.” She indicated the doors to the ballroom.

“When your name is called, you will step forward, curtsy, take the arm of your escort, and wave to the crowd.”

“The…crowd?” Beatrice felt a sudden twist in her stomach.

She had imagined an informal evening of introductions, during which she might gather information about Walter Shrewsbury’s death. No one had said anything about standing in front of a bunch of judgmental strangers.

She had never liked being the center of attention; her sister Louisa had always held everyone’s gaze.

Rightly so, for Louisa was athletic, beautiful, and sweet.

[*] Beatrice was likely to say the wrong thing or make an unladylike remark—it was best that as few people as possible overheard such talk.

“You will be fine,” Miss Bolton said, giving Beatrice’s arm a kindly squeeze. Once in a while, the peculiar woman seemed as if she could read Beatrice’s mind, and tonight Beatrice was grateful for the reassurance.

Even if she worried that it was misplaced.

The doors to the ballroom opened, and there was a flurry of movement as all the debutantes and chaperones turned.

“It’s her,” Miss Bolton said excitedly. “Mrs. Diana Vane!”

Indeed, it was the tall, silver-haired woman from the carriage—the Rose’s patroness. A hush fell over the crowd at her appearance.