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Chapter Seven

A Secret

Once the last of the ladies had been introduced and stood among the Rose Club members, Mrs. Vane closed the doors to the ballroom.

Beatrice was half mortified, half furious. Drake had abandoned her, and now she stood next to Sir Huxley, of all people. She could barely believeit.

In newspaper sketches, Huxley was always portrayed wearing a top hat, with an emphasis on his full mustache.

She hadn’t recognized him without the facial hair, but there was also a charisma about him that a simple sketch could not have captured.

This was a man overflowing with charm and confidence—a man who knew that all eyes were upon him, and liked it. Just like Percival Nash.

Standing beside Huxley, Beatrice could feel everyone’s gaze upon her, too, but she wasn’t enjoying it nearly as much as he seemed to be. She knew others would be wondering: What was a shabbily dressed lady with a small-town air doing with the most famous man in London?

As she tried to avoid the curious stares, she noticed a familiar face.

Percival Nash stood next to Diana Vane, wearing a fanciful costume, his auburn ponytail and green ribbon gleaming in the candlelight as if Beatrice had conjured him from her thoughts just seconds before.

What was he doing here? she wondered. He was under suspicion of murdering a member of the Rose; it made little sense that he would be welcomed beyond its doors.

After all, though he had not been arrested, he had also not been cleared.

“Welcome, all. Now that our debutantes have been formally introduced, allow me to walk you through the evening at hand,” Mrs. Vane said.

This time her voice was freer, unbound by prewritten statements.

“Rose members, please get to know the young ladies and gentlemen of this year’s Season.

Drinks and refreshments shall be served—I recommend the wine for a memorable evening, and our signature Sweetbriar punch for a forgettable one,” she said, then paused, as if waiting for a laugh.

She was met with silence—Elle had been right about the lack of humor among the group, Beatrice thought—but Diana Vane took it in stride as she continued.

“Once you have become acquainted, we have a special indulgence: By my invitation, the great Percival Nash shall be performing a small preview of the Sweetbriar’s summer opera, the latest installment of Figaro . ”

She gestured to Percival next to her, and he beamed and dropped into a bow.

So that was why he was here: to perform.

Murmurs swept through the crowd at the announcement—it seemed Beatrice had not been the only one wondering about the actor’s presence.

Heads turned, and Beatrice traced everyone’s gaze.

They were looking at Horace Vane—Diana’s husband.

The man Beatrice had met in the fateful carriage incident stood a head taller than most of the crowd, his salt-and-pepper hair striking in the ballroom’s glow.

For a moment he seemed to hesitate, and then he lifted his hands and began to clap.

Diana broke into a smile, and Percival Nash bowed as the rest of the room joined in with the applause.

“Thank you, thank you,” Percival said, putting a hand on his heart.

“If anyone seeks an autograph, I shall be in the conservatory, completing my vocal… warm-ups !” He sang the last word, and the crowd broke into a fresh round of applause.

A footman appeared and ushered him from the ballroom.

Percival blew kisses to his audience along the way.

At Beatrice’s side, she felt Sir Huxley tense.

“How could Horace allow this?” he muttered.

She was wondering the same thing. It seemed a public show of support. Did Mr. Vane believe in Percival Nash’s innocence? Perhaps she had misjudged him.

Once Percival had left, the crowd collapsed into conversation with one another, and Beatrice turned to Sir Huxley.

“Thank you for your assistance,” she began, “though you might have mentioned your identity in any of our previous encounters.”

“And miss the look upon your face when you learned it tonight? Not a chance,” he said with a roguish grin.

“But,” he added, growing earnest, “it was you who assisted me. As a last-minute addition to the Season, I thought I would be alone this evening, so you can imagine my relief when I spotted another unaccompanied soul. I feel much more at ease now that you have graced me with your company.”

He was very smooth, Beatrice thought. He gazed at her intently, as if she were the only woman in the room.

For years, she had followed Sir Huxley’s cases in the London papers. Though she knew now that he was a fraud, the passion of a girlhood crush did not wear off so easily. She must resist the flattery, she told herself. Remember who this manis.

“You’re welcome,” she said finally, trying to match Huxley’s confident tone. “However, I must not monopolize your attention; surely many here wish to converse with you. Perhaps we could make the rounds?”

With the niceties out of the way, she was eager to speak with Mr. Vane. She had questions.

Thankfully, Sir Huxley offered his arm without delay. He led her straight to Mr. Vane, who was now in conversation with another gentleman.

Was this a coincidence, Beatrice wondered, or was Huxley pulling at the same threads she wished to follow? Either way, she planned to capitalize on his celebrity. People would talk to Huxley—and Beatrice would listen.

“Miss Beatrice Steele of Swampshire,” Sir Huxley said, “may I present Mr. Horace Vane and Mr. Cecil Nightingale?”

“How do you do,” Beatrice said, dropping into yet another awkward curtsy. “Mr. Vane, we met before—”

“Do not take offense, Hux,” Mr. Vane said at once, ignoring Beatrice. He angled his body, blocking her so he could speak only to Sir Huxley.

“…my prime suspect,” she heard Huxley mutter. The gentleman detective was obviously irritated, and Mr. Vane put a hand on his shoulder. He murmured something in reply, his words frustratingly unintelligible.

They were arguing about Percival, clearly—yet Beatrice would not be privy to whatever information was being exchanged. Properly shut out, she was forced to turn to the other man.

“Miss Beatrice Steele,” Cecil Nightingale said, taking her hand in his sweaty palm. “What a little doll you are. Where did Diana Vane find you? You are so gloriously provincial !”

He was short and muscular, with a face too small for his large head. Beatrice withdrew her hand at once, already annoyed at the man’s cloying tone.

But she now recalled that Gregory had mentioned a Cecil Nightingale during the carriage incident.

Mr. Vane and his friends Cecil Nightingale and Walter Shrewsbury—may Walter rest in peace—saved our neighborhood by starting the association.

This man, Beatrice realized, was the third founding member of the mysterious NAGS, the group that seemed to control culture in Sweetbriar.

“I wanted to ask—” she began, a thousand questions on the tip of her tongue, but at that moment Mr. Vane and Sir Huxley turned back to the circle.

Mr. Vane smiled, and Sir Huxley looked resolute; whatever words they had exchanged had evidently appeased the gentleman detective as to Percival Nash’s presence.

If only Beatrice knew what those words had been.

“Sir Huxley is joining us for our shooting party on the Glorious Twelfth,” Mr. Vane informed Cecil Nightingale. “Always a relief when all of this is over and we can get on with the real season—hunting and fishing, that is. You should have seen the size of the trout I caught last year—”

“Horace, not in front of the lady,” Mr. Nightingale warned. “She will be worried about the little fishies!” he added, smiling indulgently at Beatrice.

“If she is cavorting about with Sir Huxley, she has likely heard worse,” Mr. Vane said lightly. “Now, I shall excuse myself; I must make the rounds. May you catch the prey you seek,” he added, flashing a boyish grin at Sir Huxley. With that—and no acknowledgment toward Beatrice—Mr. Vane swept away.

“That Horace,” Sir Huxley chuckled. “He loves his wordplay.”

Beatrice felt both disappointed and irritated. She was hardly cavorting about with Huxley, and she was no prey to be ensnared. She might have gained access to the Rose—but its occupants were proving even more impenetrable. How was she to find answers if she could not even ask questions?

“Mr. Nightingale,” she said, determined to get some question past the literal and proverbial gates, “are you excited to hear the opera preview? What do you think of Percival Nash?”

“Oh, little pet,” Cecil Nightingale said, taking up a saccharine tone once more, “you are too young to know how it used to be. In the halcyon days, actors stayed onstage where they belonged. They didn’t mingle with respectable society.”

Well. At least Mr. Nightingale deigned to talk to her, Beatrice thought.

“One could say that all the world’s a stage,” Miss Bolton cut in, appearing at Beatrice’s side. Beatrice moved over to allow Miss Bolton—and her unwieldy hat—to join the circle.

“Please, no Shakespeare,” Mr. Nightingale admonished her. “We NAGS do not approve of him and his filthy turns of phrase. It’s not fit for little ladies like yourselves.”

“Oh, I have read—and written—much filthier works,” Miss Bolton assured him. “Odes to inexpressibles and the like—if I may recite a few lines—”

“Figaro is even worse than that!” Cecil Nightingale exclaimed. “He is a character who acts above his station. Very indecorous. We often discuss whether his story should be permitted to continue….”

So the fate of Figaro did hang in the balance. Would Mr. Vane tip the scale? Beatrice wondered. He seemed to support Percival, judging by his public applause just moments earlier.

“Back in my day, such a story would never have been told,” Mr. Nightingale went on. “You are too young to remember that, my dear,” he added, and—as Beatrice had dreaded—he patted her head.