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Gregory gasped. “You don’t think the murderer is still in here? I will fight him! I would never leave you undefended, Horace. Of course, I know you can defend yourself. You are so strong. But I will fight by your side…or rather, slightly behind you….”

“We should secure the area,” Sir Huxley informed Mr. Vane. The tall man nodded but stayed in one place as the gentleman detective began to pace the ballroom. He shook the heavy drapes at the window. “No one here,” he murmured. “Now, the closet…”

Through the crack, Beatrice watched as Sir Huxley spun on his heel and walked directly to where she and Drake were concealed.

“Yes, yes, that is good thinking,” Gregory agreed.

Still, neither he nor Horace Vane made any move to assist in the search.

“ I was just going to suggest that. Closets are always filled with all sorts of secrets…not mine, of course, I keep a very tidy house; my servants do not receive any days off, to ensure that it is always spotless—”

Beatrice and Drake looked at each other in a panic as Sir Huxley approached the little coatroom. The possibility of what was about to occur flashed across Beatrice’s imagination.

Sir Huxley would open the closet door to find Beatrice and Drake, and instantly assume that they had committed the murder.

After all, what else would they be doing, hiding in a closet in the room where a corpse was crumpled on the floor?

He would arrest them on sight. The newspapers would report that they were killers—and probably make up some story that they were lovers, due to the fact that they were unchaperoned in a closet together.

Beatrice would be sentenced to death, her mother would die of shame, and Louisa’s daughter—Beatrice’s darling niece—would have to live her life with the reputation that she was related to a murderer, philanderess, and worst of all, eavesdropper.

The closet door creaked open, and Sir Huxley peered inside. Just as he did, Beatrice pushed Drake as far back as he could go into the closet, so he was swallowed up by a mess of coats and shawls.

Her own discovery was inevitable. But maybe, just maybe, she could conceal Drake in shadow.

In spite of his earlier betrayal, she was loyal.

She hoped it would not come to it, but if she was discovered and arrested, Drake could continue their investigation, find the real killer, and prove her innocence.

It all happened quickly: Drake stumbled backward into shadow, Huxley wrenched open the door, and his eyes fell upon Beatrice, seemingly alone.

A look of surprise flashed across his face. He inhaled—but then exhaled, as if deciding something.

“Empty,” he said. And then, to Beatrice’s shock, he shut the door.

“The murderer has gone, but never fear,” Sir Huxley told Mr. Vane and Gregory, striding over to where they still stood in the center of the ballroom. “I shall find the criminal who committed this crime and apprehend them in as dashing a manner as possible.”

“I am certain that you will,” Mr. Vane replied. “It may be time to draw the curtains on these performers once and for all,” he added, almost to himself.

The words sent a chill down Beatrice’s spine.

“Yes,” Gregory agreed immediately. “These artists, with their creative ideas and pleasing voices, are trying to upend our entire society! They’ll turn our wives against us next by teaching them to express themselves!”

“Pardon me,” Sir Huxley said, confused, “I didn’t know you were married, Mr. Dunne.”

“I’m not,” Gregory said tartly, “and I never shall be, if such utter chaos persists.”

“A great loss for eligible ladies, I’m sure,” Sir Huxley replied.

His eyes flicked to the closet, where Beatrice watched through the crack.

She held her breath. But he put his hands on Mr.Vane’s and Gregory’s shoulders, steering them toward the ballroom doors.

“Might I suggest you refrain from inviting any more suspects beyond your doors?” he said as they walked.

“And perhaps more security at the front gates…I can recommend reliable guards from the ranks of the Bow Street Runners…. In the meantime, obviously I will continue my dogged pursuit of the killer….” He closed the door firmly behind them.

For a moment Beatrice and Drake waited in silence. Beatrice half expected Sir Huxley to burst back inside and cry out, with a flourish, that he wouldn’t let them get away that easy. She thought he would expose them, arrest them… something .

She looked at Drake, who had emerged from the back of the closet. His eye was wide, and he held a hand to his injured nose. Beatrice took a handkerchief from her reticule and stepped toward him.

“It’ll stain it,” he whispered, shaking his head.

“As a detective, I am destined to have bloodstained handkerchiefs,” she assured him. She pushed aside his hand and gently pressed the fabric to his nose. He winced but let her stem the bleeding. It was not so bad, but Beatrice lingered there, looking up at him. His eye met hers.

They stood there for a moment, the air thick between them as they waited.

But Huxley never returned.

Finally, Beatrice pushed open the closet. She and Drake stepped out into the empty ballroom.

“That knife is not from the Sweet Majestic,” Drake told her immediately, still holding the handkerchief to his nose so the words came out slightly muffled.

“How do you know that?” Beatrice asked.

“They would never use a sharpened weapon in the theater,” Drake explained, lowering the handkerchief.

“Actors use prop knives, which retract upon stabbing, for the safety of the performers. That wound,” he said, now using the bloody handkerchief to point to Gregory’s bloody back, “is not from a prop knife.”

“You think someone took a real weapon and had the name of the theater engraved upon it?” Beatrice knitted her brows together, wondering. “Why would they do such a thing?”

“To frame Percival Nash,” Drake said grimly. “He was right to come to us. Considering what we just heard, I am now certain that Percival—and perhaps all the artists in this town—are in grave danger.”

“Drake,” Beatrice said, her chest tight with concern, “Huxley saw me. I’m sure of it. Why didn’t he say anything? Why is he letting me go?”

“There is only one thing Huxley likes more than unearned adoration,” Drake told her, his eye darkening. “People owing him favors.”

“So now…I am in his debt?” Beatrice said, understanding.

“Exactly,” Drake agreed.

“Then we must catch the killer,” Beatrice told him, her concern dropping to her stomach and solidifying there, “before Huxley comes to cash in.”