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“I suppose you must decide if you wish to give up acting or be hanged,” Beatrice said.

“An impossible decision!” Percival cried.

Beatrice took his hands. “Mr. Nash,” she said, “I know it seems dire, but all is not lost yet. Sir Huxley has not found you, and I am still committed to this case. Now that I know the truth, and am convinced of your innocence—”

“You weren’t before?” Percival sniffed.

“—I will find the true killer,” Beatrice finished. She looked around the room at the crowd of unfamiliar faces.

This was London, she thought. Too many murderers—and too many suspects.

She noticed, then, that the mournful music and conversations around them had been replaced by cries of fear.

Percival grabbed her wrist and pulled her to stand. Beatrice turned toward the source of the shouts and felt her stomach drop.

In the center of the crowd was a tall, handsome blond man, wearing a top hat.

Sir Huxley.

He locked eyes with Beatrice and then looked beside her. Beatrice tried to block Percival Nash, but it was too late. Sir Huxley pushed his way across the room and grabbed Percival.

“He didn’t do it!” Beatrice said immediately.

“Step aside,” Huxley said in a commanding voice. “I am placing this man under arrest.”

The crowd immediately erupted into protestations. Artists tried to block Huxley’s path, but he kept a firm grip on Percival with one hand and used his other hand to nudge people out of his way with his asp-topped cane.

“Let him go!” a dancer yelled. “He is innocent!”

“Percival would never kill anyone! At least, not offstage!” a chorus girl insisted.

“How did this gentleman even get in here?” a painter demanded, jabbing a brush toward Sir Huxley.

“Interloper!”

“Philistine!”

“He thinks the height of literature is the ‘no mimes’ sign at the local tavern!”

“He thinks the height of sculpture is a chamber pot!”

“Excuse you. I make chamber pots. They can be very artistic—”

Sir Huxley ignored the noise, dragging Percival all the way toward the trapdoor. Beatrice trailed behind them, yelling her own protests, but she was drowned out by the performers’ impressive access to their diaphragms.

When Huxley came to the trapdoor, he halted. Good, Beatrice thought with relief. There was no staircase, so he would not be able to exit. They could still save Percival.

But then two figures appeared above, lowering a rope. Sir Huxley was no fool. He had brought backup: two burly Bow Street Runners.

“This is wrong! You are wrong. I can prove it!” Beatrice cried, but Huxley ignored her as he tied Percival’s hands. The Bow Street Runners hoisted the actor through the trapdoor just as Beatrice reached Huxley.

“How did you even find this place?” she asked, watching helplessly as Percival disappeared into the ceiling.

“You took my carriage here, Miss Steele,” Huxley replied. “I merely followed it.”

There were fresh gasps amidst the crowd, and Beatrice could feel angry eyes upon her. Sir Huxley paused, then leaned in so only she could hear him.

“Consider this the favor you owed me.” He winked and she winced. She could smell his cologne, expensive and musky, as he took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “I can’t quite believe I’m saying this to a lady, but it is a pleasure to do business with you, Miss Steele. Let’s do it again soon.”

She tore her hand away, but he merely tipped his hat and then climbed up the rope to follow after his lackeys and his prisoner.

“How could you lead that man here?” someone demanded, jabbing a finger in Beatrice’s face.

“She is no artist!” someone else yelled. “She is a lady !”

“Not according to my mother,” Beatrice said weakly.

“How dare you joke at a time like this!” spat a clown.

“Get out of here, traitor!”

The crowd began to shove Beatrice. A group of mimes pretended to bind her with rope, and she took the opportunity to dodge them and leap toward the trapdoor.

It was useless, she thought; she could never jump so high.

But to her surprise, someone reached down through the trapdoor and hoisted her to safety.

After a confusing scramble that smelled of cinnamon and oranges, Beatrice found herself standing in the antique shop nextto—

“Inspector Drake,” Beatrice whispered. “Thank heavens you’re here!”

“What have you done?” he said, his dark eye flashing.

A chain of acrobats formed a human ladder below the trapdoor, growing close to reaching them. Drake flipped the door shut on them and dragged a heavy vase on top.

“They will be trapped,” Beatrice said, but Drake scoffed.

“They shall figure it out. They are creative.”

For a moment it was silent, the tension thick between them—and then Drake turned on his heel and left the shop.

Beatrice did not hesitate. She rushed after him, frustration rising.

“I didn’t do anything,” she told him. “I was trying to help— what were you doing here?” she added, realizing: “You came without me.”

“And you did the same, Miss Steele,” he snapped. “Though my presence did not imperil the very actor we were meant to protect. I told you that Huxley always collects his debts. And now you have repaid him—by leading him straight to Percival.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

“You never should have come here,” Drake said darkly, raking a hand through his thick hair, obviously furious.

“To Percival’s…or to London?” Beatrice asked, trying not to let her voice quiver.

Drake did not answer, and her chest clenched.

“You asked me to come,” she said. “I am half of DS Investigations—”

“And perhaps that was a mistake,” Drake said, not looking at her. Beatrice felt her stomach drop.

“Do you not think I have what it takes?” she said.

But instead of wallowing in defeat, she chose to let anger well up inside her.

“You didn’t even give me a chance to prove myself,” she went on. “You put my name on the sign of DS Investigations, and then you cut me out of this case at every turn. You do not trust me. Admit it.”

“I told you from the beginning that I do not approve of Huxley’s methods,” Drake shot back. “That I do not want to fall prey to biases and let personal feelings get in the way of an investigation.”

“I am not doing that!” Beatrice shouted. She could no longer bear his constant dismissal. She had done nothing but try to be the best inspector and had thought of nothing but the case at hand, yet Drake never seemed satisfied.

“No, you aren’t,” Drake said hotly, “ I am.”

“Because of what Huxley said? He was wrong, Drake. Your love of opera does not matter; Percival Nash is innocent. What he confessed tonight confirms it,” Beatrice said in a rush.

“This is not about Percival Nash,” Drake growled. “It’s not even about the blasted investigation.”

“I don’t understand,” Beatrice began. The rain was falling in earnest now. It clung to her gown, making the silk stick to her skin in an embrace as cold as Drake’s words.

He raked a hand through his dark hair. “Huxley wasn’t talking about my love of opera, ” he said. “He meant that I am distracted by you .”

He stepped toward her, jaw tense. Her heart began to pound furiously at his sudden proximity.

“I have told you that you do not need to worry about me. I can take care of myself—” Beatrice began, but Drake continued.

“I am not worried about you, Miss Steele. I am jealous. Of Huxley. Getting close to you. Taking you to the opera. Dancing with you. Doing all the things I wanted to do.”

Beatrice was breathless. The air had changed between them. What was goingon?

Drake continued. “I have been…consumed. I think not of the case at hand, but of you. When I am around you, I cannot focus on evidence; I am overcome with feelings . Therefore I found it prudent to push you away. To cut you out of the case, so I could ensure an unbiased approach. It was not because of your shortcomings but mine.”

“You were cruel because…you cared for me?” Beatrice asked, hardly believing that it was Drake—serious, stoic, logical Drake—who stood in front of her, speaking such words.

“Yes! But I failed miserably, and now have made a mess of this investigation,” Drake said, his dark eye fixed upon her. “The truth is…you drive me mad, Miss Steele!” With that, he grabbed her face and kissed her.

Time seemed to stop as Drake and Beatrice embraced, rain pouring down from the heavens, pelting them with droplets. Beatrice hardly registered the storm.

After what seemed like both an eternity and a mere second, Drake broke away.

“Go home, Miss Steele,” he said tensely. “Sir Huxley left his other carriage just down the street; the driver can take you back. It is all over.”

With that, he left her, his tall, dark figure disappearing into the pouring rain.

Beatrice watched him go, more confused than she had ever been.

What did he mean by “it is all over”? The case? Their partnership? Or his feelings for her? And which of these did Beatrice hope for?

She did not know.

All she knew was that her mouth still tingled where his lips had met hers.