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“It is fine,” he assured her. “I have accepted past criticisms and I am henceforth dedicated to proper behavior and social commitments,” he said, looking seriously at Beatrice, who was certain he had been replaced with an imposter—until Drake added, so only she could hear, “for the good of our investigation.”

With that, he dropped Beatrice’s arm and turned to escort Miss Bolton from the carriage. She exited slowly, taking care that her dollhouse hat’s attic did not scrape the ceiling of the carriage.

Beatrice let Sir Huxley lead her away, into the swathe of ladies and gentlemen ascending the stone steps of the Sweet Majestic. Everyone was dressed in their finest, a colorful sea of jewels and gloves and suits.

Arm in arm, Sir Huxley and Beatrice stepped into a grand entrance hall.

It was framed by curved archways and crowded with audience members, anticipation for the show palpable in their excited chatter.

Beatrice could not help but share in the anticipation.

She had never been to a performance before, apart from Miss Bolton’s one-woman plays back in Swampshire.

Something about the grand hall, her new gown, and Sir Huxley beside her made her finally feel as if she were living in the London of her long-ago dreams.

“I have solved several cases behind these doors,” Sir Huxley told her conspiratorially. “Beyond the artifice of comedy lies terror.”

She had been determined to resist his charms, but how could she, when he spoke such romantic words? “I do recall when you foiled a murderous plot against a prima donna,” she blurted, before she could stop herself.

Huxley looked at her with a surprised, pleased expression. “I admit, I am truly flattered that you follow my cases in the papers,” he said. Was that a blush upon his cheeks?

“I only read them once in a while.” Beatrice felt flushed herself. She was meant to be an inspector in her own right, and Drake’s partner. Not a gushing fan. Not anymore.

“That particular investigation was so challenging,” Sir Huxley went on. “In fact, I thought I was stumped, until I received an anonymous tip suggesting that I examine the understudy’s understudy.”

“Because the understudy had a solid alibi—not to mention that the understudy killing the prima donna would be too obvious!” Beatrice exclaimed. “One had to consider that there would be a twist.”

“Precisely!” Huxley agreed.

“What a genius suggestion this…anonymous person gave,” Beatrice said, trying to affect breeziness.

She could remember writing that letter, back in the days when she was forced to serve as an armchair detective—solving cases from afar.

It had seemed easier, back then, but perhaps part of that had been due to Sir Huxley’s widespread influence and access, which came through in his articles.

Tonight, she hoped, her proximity to Huxley would allow her a fraction of this privilege.

Because she was not going to get caught up in any fantasies.

As always, Beatrice had a plan. After all, Huxley might have been acting like a doting beau, but she concurred with Drake’s theory: Huxley meant to flirt with her, in order to irritate Drake and distract her from the case.

However, what Drake hadn’t considered was how Beatrice might use the situation to their advantage and get the opportunity to question the exact person they needed to speakto.

“Sir Huxley,” she began coyly.

“Are you feeling ill, Miss Steele?” he asked, alarmed. “Your voice—something is not right.”

She cleared her throat and returned to her normal tone.

“I am fine. I merely wanted to inquire if we might be able to go backstage before the show. As you know, I have never been to the theater, and I am so enchanted by all of it. I would love to explore, and perhaps even meet a real performer! Like Felicity Lore, the soprano? To do this all with the man who has solved so many cases behind these big, beautiful walls would be more than I could ever dream!”

Perhaps she was laying it on too thick—but Beatrice suspected that there was no such thing as “laying it on too thick” when it came to a man’s ego.

“Miss Steele,” Sir Huxley said gallantly, proving her suspicions correct as he took her hands in his. “I asked you here to impress you, and I plan to oblige. Come this way.” He began to guide her through the crowded lobby.

“Sir Huxley!” Miss Bolton called, still trailing behind them with Inspector Drake. “The box is in the other direction—”

But Sir Huxley pressed on and did not stop until he and Beatrice had reached the edge of the lobby. Drake rushed to catch up, slowed down by Miss Bolton on his arm.

“Where are you going?” he called after them. “Late seating is disrespectful to the performers. We must get to our box before curtain!”

Ignoring Drake, Sir Huxley put his hand on the wall. He felt along the wallpaper, revealing a seam. With a thrill, Beatrice realized that there was a secret door concealed there.

“With me, ” Huxley said, holding intense eye contact with Beatrice, “you can go anywhere you desire.”

Thus, he pushed open the door and revealed—

Chaos.

Beatrice and Sir Huxley stepped into a backstage chamber to see actors and actresses in various states of dress—and undress.

Some leaned in front of mirrors, retouching makeup; others drank from little bottles marked HONEY or THROAT TONIC .

A man wearing only breeches helped a woman tie her ballet slippers, and a violinist walked around, calling, “For the last time—has anyone seen my rosin?” The air was thick with perspiration and excitement, and no one seemed to notice the group of audience members in their midst. They were preoccupied with their craft.

But what struck Beatrice the most was their demeanor.

The performers were not standing pin-straight or editing every movement for the sake of an audience.

Whereas ladies in high society were forced to perform whatever version of womanhood their gentlemen audience demanded, these actors were unbound.

No wonder the NAGS were so fearful of their influence.

Drake and Miss Bolton finally caught up to Beatrice and Sir Huxley, just as Percival Nash appeared in a cloud of powder and shimmer.

“Inspector Drake, Miss Steele!” He strode forward, arms flung out in welcome.

Tonight the actor wore a rich green suit, his thick auburn hair pulled back into a ponytail with a matching green ribbon. Beatrice could not help staring at his hair. Was it a wig? she wondered. One simply could not tell.

“How good to see you two—” Percival began, but broke off when he noticed Sir Huxley. His expression darkened. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Are you acquainted with Mr. Nash?” Sir Huxley asked Beatrice, looking confused. After all, she had just told him that she had never been to the theater.

“I send him fan mail,” she said immediately. She shot Percival Nash a look, and understanding passed over his expressive eyes.

“Yes, I never forget a fan,” he said immediately—an adept improviser. “Miss Steele and Inspector Drake are the most doting admirers.”

“I have seen every installment of Figaro, ” Drake said, nodding. “Though of course, with the erasure of the pit, it shall be considerably more difficult to secure admittance—”

“But—you have never been to the opera,” Sir Huxley said to Beatrice, still perplexed. “Why send fan mail if you haven’t seen a show?”

“As a lady, I am”—Beatrice began, thinking quickly—“prone to flights of fancy and imagination! And the descriptions of shows in the Babbler were very vivid. Similar to the explanations of your cases, the opera reviews really…come to life.”

“That makes complete sense,” Sir Huxley told her, nodding. “Good reporting can really place one at the scene of the crime. Or, in this case, the opera.”

“The Babbler finds this performance a crime,” Percival Nash sniffed. “Didn’t you see the latest review? The NAGS have issued the Sweet Majestic a ‘temporary permit,’ pending a rewrite.”

“A travesty, and completely false,” Drake assured him.

“No doubt you are pleased,” Percival shot at Sir Huxley.

“I am no critic,” Huxley insisted. “And I am not a part of the NAGS. I have nothing to do with any artistic decisions—”

“Your baseless suspicion of me has everything to do with it,” Percival replied, still cold.

“If you gave an alibi for the night of either murder, I could easily clear your name,” Sir Huxley told Percival.

“Obviously I was at the Rose the night of Mr. Nightingale’s death, by Mrs. Vane’s invitation,” Percival snapped.

“I was preparing for the performance, not committing murder. At least the Vanes support me,” he added.

“Their attendance tonight is assurance of their loyalty to the theater and its performers.”

Sir Huxley pursed his lips, but he did not contradict this, though Beatrice knew he could have. Evidently Horace’s secret accusations were safe with Huxley.

“We are all loyal to you, to be sure!” Miss Bolton chimed in, breaking an uncomfortable silence.

She shimmied her way into their circle, her dollhouse hat swaying.

“If you are ever looking for a new play, Mr. Nash, I hope you will consider my latest composition, Altus …It is an homage to both Latin and the most overlooked of singers, the altos….” She launched into a description of the plot, while Percival listened politely.

“Felicity must be around here somewhere,” Sir Huxley told Beatrice.

He looked unshaken by Percival’s ire, and Beatrice had to admire his composure.

The gentleman detective seemed confident that he would find the truth in time.

If only she could find the same certainty in her own sleuthing abilities…

“Ah,” Huxley said, pointing over Beatrice’s head. “There she is now!”

Beatrice spun around to find herself face-to-face with a woman. She had cascades of curls and wore heavy stage makeup, but even through the costume, Beatrice recognized her at once.

She would have known those cunning eyes anywhere.

“Caroline Wynn!”