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She felt a stab of guilt as she dodged chaperones and their hopeful charges.

She hated lying to Miss Bolton. And truly, Beatrice should have been seeking a husband, for the sake of her family.

Since her sister Louisa had married the impoverished (though charismatic) Frank, the responsibility of securing a fortune had fallen on Beatrice’s shoulders.

Yes, there was still Mary, but one couldn’t pin too many hopes on Beatrice’s youngest sister (nor could you pin any bows to her hair, which was always, strangely, full of dirt).

But Beatrice had come to the city to seek killers, not sweethearts. So she unenthusiastically attended parties, staying just long enough to make her presence known. Then, at the earliest opportunity, she made a hasty departure.

Which is exactly what she did now as she sidestepped a sweating, chatting couple and plunged into the Carnation Club’s tall hedges.

Beatrice fell out the other side only slightly the worse for wear. She had a few tears in her white muslin dress but was otherwise unscathed. She straightened her bonnet and turned to complete her escape.

“I, too, find doors overrated.” A chipper voice made her jump, and she whirled around to see a man leaning against a tree. He wore his fair hair combed back and was clean-shaven, revealing a strong jawline. A pipe was poised in one hand, halfway toward his full lips.

At first, Beatrice wondered if he was an actor.

There were many hanging around the neighborhood, hoping to be discovered—but though this man had the good looks of a performer, he was dressed in an aristocratic ensemble.

He held himself with an air of nobility, she observed, and he had no traces of leftover stage makeup on his visage.

This man was a gentleman.

“Sometimes a lady needs to make a creative exit,” Beatrice said, feeling a flicker of curiosity.

What was a gentleman doing lingering outside a party alone?

“Indeed,” the man agreed. He lifted the pipe to his mouth and inhaled, now looking thoughtful. He exhaled several rings of smoke and added, “It makes her memorable.”

“That was not my intention,” Beatrice said, her curiosity turning to concern. It was the last thing any detective would want, after all; investigating was easiest when no one paid her any attention. Which had been the case thus far in London.

But now she realized that the street outside the Carnation Club was empty apart from her and this man, and her concern grew.

She considered several possible modes of attack, from kicking the man in the crotch to jamming his pipe down his throat.

He lowered his pipe and broke into a warm smile, clearly unaware of her imaginings.

Though he looked oddly familiar, they couldn’t possibly have met, Beatrice thought.

She had been in London for months, but the Season had only just begun, and she had hardly spoken to any eligible men—let alone one as handsome as this.

“I shall try to forget you,” the man assured her, “though I admit…it will be a challenge.” And then he actually winked.

At this, Beatrice turned on her heel and strode away. She had learned that one could never trust a gentleman who was excessively charming and handsome. He might be a cold-blooded killer.

She rounded a corner, and the empty street opened up to a wider passageway lined with flowers.

Sweetbriar was named for the wild roses that grew everywhere, their vines twisting along fences and hedges and buildings.

The color added warmth to the neighborhood’s Gothic architecture: Gray houses with turrets and spires towered over the streets, casting long shadows over gardens, with gargoyles flanking each doorway.

[*] The pleasure garden surrounded the local theater, the Sweet Majestic.

(Unfortunately, the Sweet Majestic was the reason there were so many mimes and amateur actors hanging about; they performed continuous one-person shows in the hopes that a director might pass by and discover their talent.)

Sweetbriar was divided into four sections, and Beatrice was currently in the southeastern corner. It was dubbed the Carnation Quarter, after the social club she had just fled. It was also where Inspector Drake and Beatrice had a small office, which was Beatrice’s destination.

Mrs. Steele was under the impression that Beatrice did occasional “secretary work” in this office (accompanied by Miss Bolton, of course).

Beatrice knew that her mother only conceded to this because she thought it might keep Beatrice’s morbid interests “under control and only discussed behind closed doors.” Neither Susan Steele nor Helen Bolton knew that Beatrice snuck away regularly to spend as much time as possible on her morbid interests—and she hoped to keep it that way.

The afternoon was dissolving into early evening, though the heat of the day lingered.

In the main square, the street was far from empty: Londoners sat at small tables in front of restaurants, sipping tipples; gentlemen hailed carriages; and couples strolled arm in arm down cobblestone streets.

A certain spirit seemed to have arrived with the swell of heat; people had an extra sparkle in their eyes.

A joie de vivre, one might say, if one were forced to speak French.

Beatrice watched one group in particular—a swathe of fashionable ladies, out for a stroll. From their chic gowns to their confidence, they radiated a cosmopolitan air that Beatrice envied. Would she ever be like one of those city women, walking with such ease—such belonging?

She was jolted from her musings when a carriage careened past. An arm grabbed her and pulled her back, and she turned to see a tall man. She felt a thrill of excitement when she saw that he was holding a skull—

Until she realized that it was fake, and he was using it as a prop in an impromptu sonnet.

“She paid no mind to carriage or to me, the lass who wore a gown from season last,” he began mournfully. “She nearly perished right here in the street—had it not been for one quick-thinking lad—”

“Yes, thank you,” Beatrice said, dropping coins into an overturned top hat at the man’s feet. “Though you should know that ‘last’ and ‘lad’ are really just a slant rhyme, which some say isn’t a real rhyme—”

“I pulled her far away from certain death, I saved her life right here before your eyes,” the man continued loudly. A crowd had gathered to hear the poem, and Beatrice squeezed away from them, not interested in more lines about her close call with the carriage.

But just as she thought she had gotten away from the performer, he appeared in front of her again.

“And how will she repay me, one might ask?” he said loudly. “By passing on my portrait to a cast…ing director.” With great flourish, the street performer handed Beatrice a piece of parchment. His likeness was sketched above a list of stage credits.

“I don’t know any casting directors. I am egregiously unconnected!

” Beatrice insisted, but the man had already turned away and launched into a fresh sonnet about the beauty of a passing woman.

No doubt it would end with the same poorly worded couplet she had just heard, Beatrice thought as she stuffed the man’s portrait into her reticule and took off down the street once more.

London was so different from Swampshire. It was more than the street performers; the city sizzled with heat and energy and…a whiff of murder?

No, she realized as she sidestepped a splash of liquid—someone was emptying a chamber pot out a window above.

“Squirrel incoming!” someone else yelled, and the group of well-dressed, cosmopolitan ladies in front of Beatrice ducked.

Beatrice was too slow on the uptake, and the flying rodent came out of nowhere. It smacked her in the face, and she stumbled back.

(The Carnation Quarter was the most affordable part of the neighborhood, as it bore the worst of the squirrel infestation.)

“Watch where you’re going,” a passerby scolded, pushing past Beatrice impatiently.

She stepped out of the walkway, pressing herself against the cool stone exterior of a shop, until she finally recovered her composure. Even considering her hometown’s frequent hailstorms and squelch holes, she had never had so many near-death experiences on one simple stroll.

She was out of breath and flustered by the time she finally reached her destination: a small office with discreet gold letters on the door, spelling out DS INVESTIGATIONS .

The initials made Beatrice’s heart lift.

Would it ever feel real to see the “S” on the sign and know it stood for “Steele”?

Would she ever truly believe that she was one half of an actual detective office in London?

Her life in the city was not exactly as she’d pictured it, but this, at least, felt like a dream come true.

She wrenched open the door and stepped inside, where a small room held two desks piled high with letters and notebooks.

Shelves stuffed with books lined the walls, and two armchairs faced a pin-striped chaise.

In the center of the chairs sat a chessboard atop a mahogany coffee table, a game paused in play.

Golden light from the sun filtered inside, casting a glow over the cozy office.

As Beatrice entered, she saw a familiar, tall Indian man wearing a rumpled suit and an eye patch.

Though he had a scowl across his scarred face, she knew from the flash in his remaining eye that he was glad to see her.

She met his stern look with a smile. For a moment she thought she saw his mouth twitch up at the corners—but then his jaw clenched, and he affected an even sterner look.

“Miss Steele,” said Inspector Vivek Drake. “It’s about time.”

Skip Notes

* The people of Sweetbriar were obsessed with gargoyles, as they thought these stone guardians protected against “the ancient curse of the wolf.” Beatrice did not understand this random obsession.

Her hometown did not contain a single gargoyle, and there had never been any issue with wolves or curses. At least, nothing confirmed.