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“She can’t be that wonderful,” Beatrice said, a bit irritated by Drake’s reverent tone. “ I’ve never heard of her.”

“She has never performed here in Sweetbriar,” Drake replied.

“She will soon!” Mr. O’Dowde assured him. “She is appearing in the next installment of Figaro, at the Sweet Majestic!”

“Tell me this is not a jest!” Drake cried. “I cannot believe it! Miss Steele, we must go,” he said eagerly. “Felicity Lore, here in Sweetbriar…one cannot even comprehend it!”

“I think we should definitely go see her,” Beatrice agreed, “seeing as she was in possession of a murder weapon .” With a grunt, she picked up the squirrel statue and waved it in front of Drake. His face fell.

“It must be some misunderstanding,” he said, shaking his head. “I am certain that Felicity Lore couldn’t have had anything to do with a”—he lowered his voice to a whisper, as if he could not even bring himself to say it—“ murder. ”

“I should hope not!” Mr. O’Dowde piped up. “If she were, the Sweet Majestic’s permit could be revoked!”

“Permit?” Drake asked, knitting his brows together in confusion.

“It is a new edict from the NAGS,” Mr. O’Dowde explained.

“All artists must apply for a permit in order to perform or practice their craft.” He sighed.

“It never used to be like this. When I was a boy, Sweetbriar was a haven for London artists. It was filled with salons, music halls, galleries…there were beautiful statues like these for sale in every shop, romantic sonnets filling the air, mimes and street performers everywhere you turned—”

“That is still the case,” Beatrice said, “with the mimes, at least.”

“But it is different,” Mr. O’Dowde insisted.

“Now only acts approved by NAGS can be performed. I am certain we shall see a decline in expression. Particularly expression which offends the upper classes. You know—stories of servants rising in the ranks, portraits of disgruntled cooks poisoning supper, parodies of beloved classic literature—”

“Or Figaro,” Drake said gravely. “After all, he is a conniving servant who subverts evil plots from the upper classes. Also, he is French.”

“It seems that does not go over well,” Beatrice mused, “with high society.” She looked up at Drake. “So these gentlemen abhor art, and they might try to take down Figaro. A character who is portrayed by Percival Nash.”

She could see why Sir Huxley suspected the actor in the first place.

“But,” Beatrice mused aloud, “surely a simple permit cannot stop art.”

“What about a fire, or a flood?” Mr. O’Dowde asked, his pale eyes wide. “Or a suspicious infestation of squirrels?”

“What are you talking about?” Beatrice asked, confused.

“The NAGS will stop artists, one way or another,” Mr. O’Dowde said gravely.

“Let us hope that Miss Lore has nothing to do with a murder. Right now, the Sweet Majestic is nearly all we have left.” He shook his head, his bright countenance returning.

“Anyhow. Would you like to see my collection of hair wreaths?”

“Absolutely not,” Drake replied.

“Thank you for your time, sir,” Beatrice told Mr. O’Dowde. “You have been very helpful. We will recommend your store to all our friends.” She whirled around, eager to leave. The shop was stuffy, and she wanted to be alone with Drake so they could more openly discuss these new revelations.

But as she turned, her foot caught on something on the floor. She reached out to steady herself, and her hand nearly collided with a large vase, which began to wobble dangerously, causing Mr. O’Dowde to gasp.

“Madam! Mind the porcelain, please!”

Drake caught the vase with one hand just before it could fall to the ground, and Beatrice’s arm with the other.

“My apologies,” Beatrice said. She looked around to make sure she hadn’t caused any more damage and found what had caused her to trip.

There was a seam in the wooden floor of the shop, an uneven bump that had led to the tumble. As Beatrice peered at it more closely, she could make out the outline of a trapdoor.

Mr. O’Dowde had more than just antiques in this shop, she thought with a thrill. What was beyond that door?

But that was a mystery for another time, she thought; they had gleaned the information they needed. She hastened from the pawnshop before she could knock over anything else.

As she reached the front door, she could hear Drake following close behind. They exited, slamming the door behind them.

There was an unfortunate tinkling sound of breaking glass.

“Walk quickly,” Drake instructed. “If one breaks it, one buys it.”

They raced down the alley from whence they had come, cleared the stream with a second launch (not quite as clumsy as the first), and continued on, only slowing down when they had arrived back in Sweetbriar.

“We must go to the opera tonight,” Drake said once they had caught their respective breaths, “and speak with Miss Lore.” She couldn’t tell if he was breathless from the idea or their quick escape.

“Though affordable tickets are no longer available, perhaps we can try to get in touch with Percival before the show….”

“I agree,” Beatrice told him, “but it will have to wait until tomorrow.”

“What? Why?” Drake demanded.

“We have a ball at the Rose tonight,” Beatrice reminded him.

“Well, we shall have to skip all that society nonsense. We have a lead to follow,” Drake insisted.

“You know that the Rose’s blooms are expected to attend every event. We can’t miss it, else we could lose our spots on the list, and therefore our access. Lest you forget, ‘all that society nonsense’ is how we were able to investigate the scene of the crime.”

“Yes. A scene that we had to hand over to Huxley,” Drake shot back.

“Relationships matter, Drake,” Beatrice said sharply. “We must ingratiate ourselves with the members of the Rose so we can gain their trust and they will answer our questions. That is how you find a killer.”

“That is how you find a killer,” Drake pointed out. “ I prefer facts and evidence, which are leading us to the opera, not to inane small talk and silly dances.”

While Beatrice agreed with him about the futility of these tiresome customs, she was growing frustrated over his refusal to see the sense in her approach. She took a step forward. “I know you are accustomed to doing things your way, but you have a partner now. We have to discuss these matters.”

Drake gave no reply, instead staring at her as if he was holding something back.

Beatrice’s heart fell.

They were partners, that was true—but was Drake regretting that? His silence left too much room for her doubts to fester.

“Fine,” she said finally, her voice coming out clipped and unnatural. “Tonight, I will be at the Rose. I hope you shall be there, too, as our attendance is expected. Any absence could cause suspicion. You recall what I said before about unexplained disappearances tarnishing one’s good name?”

“Yes, I remember all too well your dedication to society,” Drake said stiffly.

“While you might not care about public opinion, I should remind you that the future success of our business rides, at least in part, on the respect of others in society,” Beatrice shot back. “That is, if you still want this partnership at all.”

With that, she broke away from him, heading back toward Miss Bolton’s town house.

She hoped she was making the right decision. In a city with so many choices, and so many different voices advising her one way or another, it was becoming difficult to tell.