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Chapter Twelve

A Makeover

Beatrice should have known that a London soirée would be completely unlike a simple country evening—but she still felt both impressed and overwhelmed when she and Miss Bolton were ushered into the upstairs ballroom at the Rose for the first dance of the Season.

There was no longer a corpse in the middle of an otherwise empty floor. Cecil Nightingale had been cleared away, his blood removed, and in place of the dead body there was something much more frightening: couples, everywhere.

The most fashionable woman in Swampshire, Arabella Ashbrook, had been obsessed with forcing everyone to learn complex dances.

Beatrice had always thought these a particular hobby of Arabella’s to show everyone she was superior on her feet, but she saw now that city folk preferred intricate choreography to a simple skip, hop, and turn.

The women flung themselves around the room, defying gravity as they danced.

Even the men spun in a circle, a complicated move for them that would have been unheard of in her hometown.

Instead of a small string section, there was an entire orchestra filling the room with dramatic, pulse-pounding music. Clearly, even the punch was stronger than a country beverage. Beatrice had only just arrived, but the guests’ eyes already looked glassy, their voices loud and boisterous.

Groups of men gambled at small tables on the perimeter of the ballroom, throwing dice and laying down cards with joyful cries and angry shouts.

Beatrice could not help noting how much money changed hands with each bet.

If it were permissible for her to join them, she would have been tempted—those kinds of winnings could change her family’s life—but she did not see any other ladies indulging, not to mention that she had no money for a buy-in.

“Do you have any idea how one secures dances with gentlemen?” Beatrice asked Miss Bolton as they stood against a wall, both nursing glasses of incredibly strong “signature Sweetbriar punch.” Mrs. Vane had not actually been joking, Beatrice thought as she sipped it; the Londoners liked their spirits potent.

Perhaps the liquid courage would fortify her as she navigated this tricky social situation.

After all, in her hometown, Beatrice knew everyone, but here in London she had not yet been introduced to most of the gentlemen meandering around the ballroom.

Since ladies could not introduce themselves, it created quite the quandary, especially if one wanted to get close to a man for interrogation purposes.

“I was hoping you had learned,” Miss Bolton said, taking a big gulp from her glass. “I’m a terrible chaperone! Things are so different from how they were in my day….”

As she began to recount a ball from her youth that actually sounded rowdier than the current party, Beatrice felt a rush of relief when she located two familiar faces in the crowd.

Lavinia Lee and Elle Equiano had both just finished dances with identical-looking red-haired gentlemen.

They curtsied in unison, and then Miss Equiano pulled a giggling Miss Lee away from the dance floor.

Their heads were bent together as they exchanged some secret, and Beatrice felt a pang of longing.

When she first came to London, she thought she might have such a rapport with Inspector Drake—yet again tonight, he was nowhere to be found. She feared what his absence meant for their partnership—especially considering the words they had exchanged the day before.

How was it possible, she wondered, to feel alone in such a huge city?

There were so many people surrounding her, yet she felt more isolated.

Perhaps it was because the others were paired up like Miss Lee and Miss Equiano, laughing and dancing and drinking.

Nothing made a person feel lonelier than watching others who were not.

But it was not to be tolerated for long: Mercifully, Miss Lee and Miss Equiano were making their way toward Beatrice and Miss Bolton.

“Miss Steele,” Elle Equiano said, dipping her head in greeting.

“And Miss Helen Bolton, so good to see you. We met the other evening, after I explained to her that you were testing out different perfumes in the powder room and might be gone a while,” she told Beatrice, giving her an almost imperceptible wink.

“Your chaperone is so knowledgeable about fashion. She gave me some very intriguing ideas for my next column.”

“Two words,” Miss Bolton said, nodding seriously at Miss Equiano. “More tassels.”

“If you don’t mind, darling, we were hoping we might borrow your charge?” Elle asked.

“Of course not!” Miss Bolton said, looking delighted. “Debutantes must stick together!”

“Yes,” Lavinia Lee said, “we could not agree more!”

Before Beatrice could protest, or ask where they were taking her, Elle Equiano and Lavinia Lee had steered her straight into the ladies’ powder room.

The place was a pink confection filled with bouquets of wild sweetbriar in glass vases. Clusters of ladies squeezed in front of beveled mirrors, reapplying powder and rouge and whispering about suitors. The air was thick with the smell of perfume and cosmetics.

Elle steered Beatrice toward a mirror, in front of which was an empty pink armchair.

“Sit,” she instructed. “Before you disappear on any clandestine errands this evening, we must take care of a few things.”

“It is for your own good,” Lavinia said, nodding.

“ What is?” Beatrice asked, growing nervous.

“You are wearing a gown which does not suit you, your hair is all wrong, and no one has done their rouge that way since seventeen ninety-nine,” Elle listed off. “Beatrice Steele, my darling, we are going to give you a makeover.”

Lavinia squealed and clapped her hands. It wasn’t what Beatrice had expected, but she supposed she did need that sort of help.

So far she had been out of her element at the Rose, and thus would take any assistance she could get.

And a makeover, she told herself, was really just a type of disguise that she might use to her advantage.

“All right then,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “What should I do?”

“Your hairstyle could use refreshing,” Lavinia informed her. She began to rearrange Beatrice’s dark curls. Beatrice could not see much of a difference but allowed Lavinia free rein. “And you must take off the rouge. Simply pinch the cheeks; it is nature’s blush!”

“You can borrow this.” Elle took a decorative chain from her neck and placed it around Beatrice’s.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Beatrice began. “I have a bad record of losing jewelry….”

“I have sixteen more like it, darling,” Elle assured her. “And it comes in useful, in case you need to examine any clues. Romantically, I mean,” she added, showing Beatrice the small quizzing glass at the end of the decorative chain.

“I hope you won’t need a magnifier to see the gentleman’s good qualities,” Lavinia said, aghast.

Beatrice shot Elle a grateful look. The young lady might have written a column about ribbons, Beatrice thought, but she was an investigative reporter at heart. It was clear that not much got past Miss Equiano.

“Now, are there any gentlemen who have caught your attention?” Elle inquired. “We can try to make introductions, if it’s someone we know.”

“And if it’s Sir Huxley you’re after, I promise not to stand in the way of true love,” Lavinia said, though the very thought seemed to devastate her.

“I am not after Sir Huxley,” Beatrice assured her.

“It’s just…the way he looks at you…” Lavinia trailed off. “How did you two meet? I have been following his cases for years, and following him—I mean, in a friendly way. It’s not like I broke into his office and sprayed perfume on anything last month. But he has always been so out of reach…”

“It was by accident,” Beatrice said, recalling the chance meeting outside the Carnation’s hedges.

“I wish such an accident would befall me.” Lavinia sighed.

“He is handsome, I will give you that,” Elle said, adjusting Beatrice’s sleeves so they were puffed instead of wilted.

“But once you marry, things become as dull as a stream with no trout. I took up fishing last Season,” she added when Beatrice gave her a perplexed look.

“The gentlemen talked about it so much, I had to see what all the fuss was about.”

“You don’t know that marriage would be dull,” Lavinia insisted. “You have never been married!”

“And thank goodness for that, darling!” Elle said, tossing her hair. “I am having plenty of fun on my own. But we aren’t talking about me; we are discussing Miss Steele. Now: Your first step is to stop pining over that tall man with an eye patch who abandoned you at your presentation.”

“I am not pining,” Beatrice said immediately. She could see two pink patches on her cheeks through the mirror. Evidently she did not need to pinch them to achieve a natural blush.

“Then I think you should prove it,” Elle told her, a mischievous look in her dark eyes. “Dance with Sir Huxley. You have been introduced, after all. And everyone can see that he has taken an interest in you.”

“He has not,” Beatrice insisted, but Elle grabbed her dance card and scribbled something onit.

“Look, he already requested this dance!” she said, pointing to Huxley’s name, now inked on one of the lines.

Lavinia took the card and examined it. “Goodness, that looks just like his writing!” she exclaimed. “Not that I have intercepted any of his mail so as to study his hand,” she added, clearing her throat.

“I am a penmanship expert,” Elle said with a shrug. “That includes forgery.”

“Fishing, penmanship, social graces, ribbons…Is there anything you can’t do?” Beatrice asked, only half joking.

“Bake scones,” Elle said seriously. “No matter what I do, they always come out dry.”

“Miss Equiano,” Beatrice said with a rush of affection, “I am so glad we found each other. And you as well, Miss Lee,” she added.