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She wore a deep-red gown—“Amaranthus, what a daring hue!” Miss Bolton whispered—and her silver hair was swept atop her head, held in place once more with a long hat pin.

As Mrs. Vane drew a piece of parchment from her bodice, Beatrice noticed a beautiful ring on her fourth finger.

It was studded with garnets, and they caught the light, gleaming.

Almost like blood.

“My blooms,” Mrs. Vane said wistfully, breaking the anticipatory silence.

She unfolded the parchment and began to read: “?‘By participating in this Season, you are joining a long and important tradition. This tradition upholds the values of dignity, gentility, and leadership in our community. There are those who might criticize the exclusivity of the Rose, but as you have all been selected, you understand that preferential acceptance is necessary to ensure continued adherence to these values. So on behalf of myself and the other members of the Rose, we welcome you, and we look forward to one day entrusting this club—and its ideals—to this next generation.’?”

There was a smattering of applause and Mrs. Vane smiled.

“She is so chic,” Miss Bolton murmured.

Yes, Beatrice thought, it was obvious why Mrs. Vane held the position of patroness. She stood out, even in a crowd of fashionable women.

What was it that made her so alluring? Beatrice wondered. Her outfit and jewelry were tasteful, yes, but it was more than that. She led the most exclusive assembly hall in London yet claimed to support artists far below her in social status. The woman was a walking contradiction.

Even her voice represented this inconsistency; it was dreamy, but her words were rote, read from a paper that she surreptitiously crumpled and dropped to the floor.

It was most unusual. Had someone forced her to say such pointed remarks about tradition, and thus she’d crumpled them up in protest?

And why even bother saying such things at all, Beatrice wondered as she stared at the paper on the ground.

Everyone already knew that the Rose was exclusive, and no one here wished it otherwise.

After all, they had been chosen.

It seemed that Mrs. Vane was finished with her piece, for she had now produced a scroll. She unfurled it and then turned toward the ballroom.

“Miss Breanna Carey,” she announced, reading from the scroll. A tall blond lady stepped forward, straightened her posture, and then walked through the double doors. Applause sounded from the other room, making butterflies rise in Beatrice’s stomach.

But at least Drake would be waiting for her.

Tall, scowling Drake, stern but steady. Perhaps he already had leads for them to follow and suspects to question.

These thoughts calmed her immediately. Her heartbeat slowed to a normal pace as she stepped forward with the other blooms in anticipation of her own name being called from the scroll.

Beatrice straightened her gown, as if smoothing out the skirt would somehow change the plain fabric into silk.

“Miss Elle Equiano,” Mrs. Vane continued.

Elle stepped forward. She turned back and caught Beatrice’s eye, struck a little pose as if to say, Nothing to it, and then allowed Mrs. Vane to usher her through the doors.

“The other chaperones were all talking about her,” Miss Bolton whispered in Beatrice’s ear.

“Evidently it is her third Season. She is very rich and well sought after— perfect penmanship—but no one has secured her hand. She is considered too clever for her own good…you may have read her column in the Babbler .”

“?‘Riveting Ribbons,’?” Beatrice finished. “Yes, I heard something about that….”

Too clever for her own good. Beatrice had heard such judgments before. But why should Elle have to change herself to fit a suitor’s preference? She did not need to marry for money. If she wished to marry for love, diminishing herself to gain affection would hardly indicate true romance.

To marry for love. What a concept, Beatrice thought. She had never considered it for herself, as it had never been an option considering her family’s dire economic straits. But if she truly did establish herself as a worthy inspector, with an income, it might actually prove possible.

Beatrice blinked the thoughts away. If she spent the evening daydreaming about love, she would never find the killer.

She refocused on the ladies entering the ballroom, each stepping inside after her name was announced, trailed by her chaperone.

She could not see beyond the doors but could tell there were many people inside, judging by the thunderous sound of the applause after every entrance.

But she refused to let concern creep back into her thoughts.

Drake was there on the other side of the door, waiting for her. They would perform the necessary rituals and then turn their full attention to the case at hand.

“Miss Beatrice Steele,” Mrs. Vane called, and Beatrice felt herself go hot with anticipation.

“Go, go, go!” Miss Bolton whispered, and shoved her toward the door.

Beatrice stepped into the ballroom and immediately froze.

There was a huge crowd of people, all staring at her.

She gave a perfunctory curtsy sans ankle and turned to her left, reaching out for Drake. But to Beatrice’s horror, there was no one. She looked to her right, but still, she was utterly alone.

Whereas the other debutantes stood in front of the crowd of Rose Club members, all draped on the arm of their escorts, their chaperones standing proudly behind the couples, Beatrice was companionless.

Where was Drake?

Someone rushed up to Mrs. Vane and whispered into her ear, and her eyes widened.

“It appears that Miss Steele’s escort cannot be located,” she told the crowd. There were a few murmurs of confusion, and Beatrice heard someone snicker.

For the first time in her life, she thought she might actually faint, unlike all the times she had pretended to do so in order to get out of a difficult situation.

Beatrice stood in front of a judgmental crowd, wearing an old, unfashionable gown, her ineptitude laid bare for all to see.

She couldn’t help but pinch her arm. Was this a nightmare?

Would she wake up back in Swampshire and find that she had never even moved to London at all? Would that be a relief?

She felt someone’s arm loop through hers and turned to see a blond man smiling at her. With some surprise—but mostly relief—Beatrice realized that it was the gentleman from the Carnation Club’s hedges.

“It’s you,” she said, and the man smiled, revealing his dimples.

“Yes, Miss Steele. I saw a damsel in distress and had to act,” he said. “Come, this way.”

He led Beatrice toward the crowd, and the clapping resumed.

“Wonderful. Beatrice has been saved by the man who consistently saves us all,” Mrs. Vane announced. “Sir Lawrence Huxley.”

Skip Notes

* Mary was also athletic—her bite had an almost canine strength to it—and though she was often overlooked, her bark could attract attention when necessary.