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Chapter Thirteen

A Threat

Though the Sweet Majestic was within walking distance of Miss Bolton’s townhome, Sir Huxley insisted upon picking everyone up in his carriage.

Drake refused to step foot in any carriage—especially one owned by his greatest enemy—so he sent word that he would meet them at the theater.

Therefore Beatrice and Miss Bolton waited outside alone, watching the sun sink into the horizon as the heat of the day broke.

Miss Bolton wore one of her signature tasseled gowns and a hat that was comprised of a four-story dollhouse. For the first time, Beatrice wore a new gown that had been created just for her.

The order from the dressmaker’s had finally arrived, just in time for the opera. Beatrice was shocked—and pleasantly surprised—to find that Miss Bolton had chosen tasteful dresses and accessories for her.

“I know you’re less adventurous than I am when it comes to fashion,” she told Beatrice. “Still, I did have one shawl made with tassels…They just look so fetching on you.”

The opera gown that Beatrice wore was made of a smooth, deep-green satin that perfectly fit her plump frame.

It even had built-in pockets, so she did not have to carry her reticule.

This was the one feature she had specifically requested, though it greatly confused the dressmaker.

Beatrice could now store any clues or weapons needed directly on her person, without stuffing them into her bodice.

Best of all, the gown was long enough that Beatrice could secretly wear comfortable, hard-soled walking boots, concealed beneath her skirt.

She was just starting to feel the chill of night ripple through the fine silk of her new gown when a dark blue carriage approached, emblazoned with “LH.”

“Sir Lawrence Huxley really knows how to make an entrance,” Miss Bolton observed as the carriage came to a stop at their stoop.

“One would think an inspector might prize subtlety,” Beatrice murmured, though she was impressed in spite of herself. She had never seen such a large, grand carriage. Even the horses were beautiful, their blond manes arranged in a way that, she noted, looked just like Huxley’s hair.

A footman opened the door and ushered Miss Bolton and Beatrice into the carriage.

The interior was just as lush as the exterior, and Beatrice slid in to sit next to Sir Huxley.

Tonight, the detective had donned a midnight-blue suit and top hat that perfectly matched his eyes, which sparkled at the sight of her.

She was surprised to find that he was not the only person in the carriage.

Mr. and Mrs. Vane sat across from them, both in stunning purple ensembles. Jewels gleamed in Mrs. Vane’s ears and around her neck, and she twisted a ring around her finger.

It was the deep-red garnet that Beatrice had noticed in particular, due to its bloodlike hue. Its stone glimmered by the light of the carriage’s torch.

How perfect, she thought, that she had found herself in a carriage directly across from her top suspect and his mysterious wife. Mr. Vane had much to answer for—but how might she draw him out?

“Miss Steele, Miss Bolton,” Mrs. Vane said dreamily, nodding her head as the footman closed the door and the horses were brought to a trot. “We were delighted to hear that you were accompanying Sir Huxley in our other box this evening.”

No doubt it was Diana’s idea to attend the opera, Beatrice thought. Another show of support for her friend Percival Nash. Surely Horace had agreed to appease her, but it was all for show. Sir Huxley would keep an eye on his suspect—and Horace Vane would keep his finger pointed in accusation.

“It all worked out perfectly,” Mr. Vane said, flashing his boyish grin at Huxley. “Though I never expected your latest conquest to be the woman who drenched herself in mud from our carriage. What will the society papers say?”

“I believe your carriage drenched me, ” Beatrice shot back.

“Miss Steele is no conquest, ” Huxley said, chuckling at Mr. Vane. He turned back to Beatrice and assured her: “It is my honor to escort you.” He held her gaze as he lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her glove.

Her traitorous heart actually fluttered at the motion. He really was good, she thought. But Drake need not to have worried—the only man she was truly interested in was her murder suspect. She respectfully withdrew her hand and refocused on Horace Vane.

“You probably do not know this, Miss Steele,” he told her, “but your suitor is a very famous detective here in London. If you pay close attention to his conversation, you might learn a thing or two about solving cases. Not that this would be useful for a lady,” he added with a laugh.

“I assure you, I am aware of Sir Huxley’s fame,” Beatrice said, sitting up a bit straighter. It was one of the first times Mr. Vane had addressed her directly, and she was determined not to buckle under his gaze. “I have read his column in The London Babbler .”

“You flatter me,” Sir Huxley said, clearly pleased.

“I read all of the columns in the Babbler, ” Beatrice continued. “For example—did anyone see the review of tonight’s opera? The critic did not think highly of Figaro, to be sure.”

“Ridiculous!” Miss Bolton said, shaking her head and sending a miniature love seat flying.

“We don’t pay attention to such things,” Mrs. Vane said wistfully. “We prefer to decide for ourselves.”

“Not everyone does. I imagine that such a review will negatively affect ticket sales, which evidently are already dwindling, thanks to the erasure of the theater’s pit,” Beatrice replied.

“I see we have a bluestocking on our hands!” Mr. Vane laughed. “Miss Steele, you are very concerned with theatrical comings and goings.”

“It is the goings which concern me. There seem to be so many of them, of late,” Beatrice told him, watching his face for any hint of a reaction.

“Most concerning,” Mr. Vane agreed, “but I assure you, my wife and I are doing everything in our power to help.”

At these words, Diana smiled at her husband. Beatrice observed the two of them closely.

“How did you two meet?” she asked, adding, “As you can imagine, a hopeful debutante like myself is eager to hear the origins of London’s most celebrated couple.”

“We met at the Rose,” Mr. Vane explained. “Before it was what it has become today. It was merely another assembly room in London. Hardly notable. But after we found such success there in our union, we vowed to give the same gift to others.”

He flashed Beatrice his boyish grin. The one, she had noted, that did not reach his eyes.

Who was this man? His very expression seemed to shift in the light, one moment innocent and charming, the next domineering and cold. When they had first met, he had refused to address her, and now he spoke as if they were old friends.

“I never thought I would end up with a man like Horace Vane,” Diana chimed in. She began to rifle through her reticule, her expression unfocused.

“I would not accept a denial,” Mr. Vane said grandly.

“See here?” He took something from his pocket and held it out for all to examine.

It was a frame that encircled two panes of glass.

Between them, a rose had been pressed, thus preserved inside.

“I gave this sweetbriar to Diana when I first asked for her hand,” he explained.

“She denied me, but I refused to give up. Eventually, I won the prize. And this I kept as my trophy.”

Mrs. Vane had stopped rifling through her reticule and was now staring wistfully out the window.

“Wild roses symbolize a love which will never fade,” she murmured. “I was always intrigued by such symbolism. I suppose I was a bluestocking….”

“So you see, there is hope for you yet, Miss Steele.” Horace Vane chuckled. “Even the wildest bluestocking can be tamed.”

Tamed…or hunted down? Was the whole story romantic, or was Diana like the wild rose, trapped in glass?

Beatrice leaned forward. She had so many more questions burning within her—but alas, the carriage screeched to a halt.

“Miss Steele,” Sir Huxley said, “may I be the first to welcome you to the opera.”

As if on cue, Huxley’s footman opened the carriage door, revealing a sea of ladies and gentlemen dressed in finery. Behind them, the Sweet Majestic loomed in all its grandeur.

Mr. Vane immediately escorted Mrs. Vane out of the carriage, his purple tailcoat smacking Beatrice in the face as they exited.

“See you inside,” Diana called back dreamily before they were enveloped by a crowd of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen.

Sir Huxley stepped out next, turning back to extend a hand to Beatrice.

“If I may,” he said gallantly.

But just as she reached for it, another hand appeared from outside the carriage.

“If I may,” said Drake.

Beatrice found herself holding both Sir Huxley’s and Drake’s hands, the men flanking her on either side as she stepped from the carriage onto the candlelit front steps of the Sweet Majestic.

She turned to Drake, and her stomach flipped.

He looked himself, yet different. His dark hair, normally tousled, had been combed back neatly, and he was clean-shaven, his usual stubble gone.

He wore a dark green brocade suit and eye patch—both of which, she could not help but notice, perfectly matched her gown.

“Good evening, Drake,” Sir Huxley said pleasantly. “Miss Steele and I shall advance from here, so you can escort Miss Bolton. It is ever so kind of you.”

“But I—” Drake began, but Sir Huxley cutin.

“You would not want to leave a lady on her own, would you? I know you care little for society, Mr. Drake, but this is the opera. One must show some respect .”

“There is no one who respects the opera more than Drake,” Beatrice told Huxley, but Drake shook his head.