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Chapter Nineteen

A Disguise

The Sweetbriar pleasure gardens were in the center of the neighborhood, cordoned off by a tall hedge. Beyond the greenery walls lay a wild garden in the English style, thick with roses and peppered with stone fountains.

The air smelled of spices and fruit and baked confections, all offered by vendors on the outskirts of the gardens. But other than the chatter of guests securing drinks and refreshments, it was quiet.

Without any artists, the so-called party was more of a quiet shuffle through the garden. There was not even a single song with sweet notes to decorate the breeze. The NAGS had successfully created an event with no artists—and, Beatrice thought, it was as dull as to be expected.

“Punch?” a woman at a stand offered.

Miss Bolton took a long sip. “Lovely and strong,” she exclaimed, “and thank goodness for that! My costume did not allow extra space for backup beverages.”

Miss Bolton had transformed herself into an elegant squirrel for the evening, sporting a brown gown covered in fur that Beatrice suspected had been shed by Miss Bolton’s dog.

A majestic tail sprang from her back, and she wore a hat shaped like a giant acorn.

Beatrice had helped sew tassels onto the ensemble, as Miss Bolton now considered them “necessary to any chic city garment.”

“They must ensure we have plenty to drink, considering we cannot dance to silence unless inebriated,” replied Elle Equiano. Fitting for a fisherwoman, she was dressed as a mermaid, with a gown of gold scales and sparkling lures as earrings.

Lavinia kept bumping into them, in a wide hoop skirt: She was the shepherdess from Sir Huxley’s fourteenth case, the Murderous Herder.

She had hand-embroidered a lavish pastoral scene across her gown and carried Miss Bolton’s dog, Bee Bee, whom she had knitted into a sheep costume.

It was a feat of crafting, but as they strode into the gardens sipping their punch, it was Beatrice’s look that turned heads.

She wore heeled boots that gave her enough height to see the world in a new way, as well as—shockingly—trousers.

She carried an asp-topped cane, wore a top hat, and had a full mustache affixed to her visage.

The only off-theme accessory she wore was Miss Bolton’s frog brooch, glistening on her lapel.

Whispers and giggles met her ears as she passed people.

“My goodness,” someone said loudly. “She is Sir Huxley!”

“You really look just like him,” Lavinia told her, tripping over her skirt and steadying herself with her shepherd’s crook.

“Thanks to you,” Beatrice said, affecting a gentlemanly bow. “I would trust no one else to know Sir Huxley’s wardrobe and looks so intimately.”

“It was nothing,” Lavinia said, flushing scarlet. Bee Bee barked her approval.

What Lavinia did not know was that the costume was both playful and practical. Thanks to Elle Equiano’s forged note, Gregory Dunne would be waiting at the center of the maze at nine o’clock, expecting to meet Sir Huxley.

And “Sir Huxley” would be there, ready to apprehend him for his crimes.

Until then, Beatrice had time to kill. Elle, Lavinia, and Miss Bolton were clearly enthralled by the masquerade, and she followed them from stand to stand, grateful for something todo.

She was buzzing with anticipation.

“This way,” Miss Bolton said. “I must have some of those roasted nuts…such a snack will fit perfectly with my costume….”

She and Lavinia joined the line at the booth, while Elle and Beatrice waited for them by a rosebush.

“You must explain this business with Mr. Dunne,” Elle said the moment they were out of earshot of Miss Bolton. “I know you were skeptical about Huxley as a match, but Gregory is much worse. Think of the sideburns!”

“Do not worry,” Beatrice assured her. “Gregory Dunne is not my top sweetheart. Only my top suspect.” She held Elle’s gaze.

“Hmm. I would like to hear more about that, ” Elle said, nodding. “Perhaps you can tell me everything after the masquerade. Tea at my town house, at sunrise? I am certain Lavinia will want to join as well.”

Beatrice’s heart swelled. “Yes,” she said immediately. “I will be there!”

If she could pull off what she hoped, she would apprehend a killer and then celebrate with her newfound friends, Beatrice thought. A dream come true—

If she could pull it off.

Miss Bolton secured her nuts, and they shuffled to the side of the crowd to stand along the hedgerow, watching clusters of costumed ladies and gentlemen passby.

“I wish you could have seen it last year,” Elle sighed. “There were acrobats on stilts…a portraitist who created the most comedic sketches…and of course, the Busy Nothings.”

“The Busy Nothings?” Miss Bolton squawked. “I have not seen them since their tour in 1769, when I danced to their music all night, and they signed my bosom! That, er,” she said, glancing sidelong at the young ladies, “that is what we used to call a reticule.”

“Wait,” Elle said, holding up a hand. “Do you hear that?”

The still night air had been pierced with the unmistakable sound of a quartet tuning their instruments. At once, Elle grabbed Beatrice and Lavinia and dragged them toward the noise. Miss Bolton followed, roasted nuts flying as she hurried to keepup.

Soon, they came to a larger opening in the garden maze, where a dance floor had been constructed. A cluster of musicians sat at the edge, tuning, and a crowd of excited guests began to gather.

“How did they get in?” Beatrice asked, looking around the crowd. “I thought no artists were allowed….” Her eyes fell upon a hole in the hedge.

There was a door there that allowed surreptitious entrance into the maze. A pale hand held it open, a key dangling from one finger, a blood-red garnet ring flashing on another.

Diana.

She had clearly unlocked the hidden door, and more artists squeezed in through the opening: Jugglers, mimes, painters, and dancers dressed in colorful gowns poured into the party. The entire mood shifted nearly at once. Soon, the air was alight with excited chatter, poetry, and—

“Music!” Miss Bolton sang as the quartet struck up a tune. “Thank goodness, we can dance !”

But Beatrice was too distracted to dance.

She moved toward the hole in the hedge. Diana Vane was meant to be in mourning, hidden away from society for the proper amount of time after the death of her husband.

Yet here she was, making way for the artists of Sweetbriar to crash the masquerade.

Before Beatrice could reach the woman, however, a figure blocked her path.

“Now, here is the best costume of the night. You look dashing.”

It was Sir Huxley, dressed as a knight in shining armor. Of course. But Beatrice had to admit, the chain mail was flattering to his figure.

“All credit is due to Miss Lee,” she informed him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

But Sir Huxley did not step aside, instead offering his hand to her. “Mrs. Huxley—I mean, Miss Steele—you must honor me with a dance.”

Before she could protest, Beatrice found herself swept onto the dance floor in the arms of the man she had once admired.

“Really, such an impressive costume,” Sir Huxley said again, pulling her into a spin. “I feel it is a testament to the perfection of this evening. Percival Nash is behind bars, and the deaths are also behind us.” He shook his head. “Such a nasty business.”

“A trivial description for what occurred, don’t you think?” Beatrice said tartly.

“You are right, of course. It is tragic. That is where we are alike, Miss Steele. You and I understand the importance of emotion when solving cases. One cannot put aside one’s biases, one’s feelings . This is what Drake does not understand. Feelings are the core of a detective.”

“Then why did you chide him for his?” Beatrice demanded.

“Because I knew it would drive him away from you.” Huxley pulled Beatrice closer, enveloping her in his cloying cologne.

“I cannot keep my own feelings obscured any longer,” he murmured.

“You are exactly the type of woman I have been searching for. Intelligent, interested in my line of work, attractive…You keep me on my toes, which I never thought I needed. After all, I am already so tall. Yet you raise me even higher.”

Her stomach fluttered with a glimmer of the nervousness she had experienced with Inspector Drake on the rain-soaked street. Her lips seemed to tingle as they had before.

But in that case, she had wanted nothing more than for Drake to reveal his true thoughts. Now, she found, she wanted Sir Huxley to keep his to himself.

“I am a detective,” she said firmly. “That is what I have always wanted. It is why I came to London.”

“But you would not need to work,” Huxley insisted. “Not if you were mine.”

Unlike Drake’s subtle scent of cinnamon and oranges, Huxley’s expensive musk was overpowering. Stifling.

“Already your presence has made me an even better investigator,” he went on. “Thanks to you, I swiftly arrested a wanted criminal.”

“Because you followed me,” Beatrice fumed. “And you arrested the wrong—”

“Think about it, Miss Steele,” Huxley continued. “You would not have to solve my rejected cases. You would be the first to hear about my investigations, to contribute your opinion…if you were my sweetheart.”

“So I would be waiting for you to regale me with tales of your adventures, and having none of my own,” Beatrice summedup.

Somehow, she had found herself in the exact place her mother had always hoped she would be: between two men.

But it was not quite how she’d imagined.

Huxley wanted her as a paramour and not a partner, and Drake wanted her as a partner and not a paramour.

At least Drake respected her as an inspector, though his attempt to deny his personal feelings had essentially destroyed their partnership.

They were both idiots, she decided, and she did not need either one of them now.

“I already belong to someone,” she said finally.

“Vivek Drake?” Sir Huxley scoffed. “That sullen, serious, opera-obsessed—”

“I meant myself,” she said, correcting him, and touched the frog brooch on her bodice. “My ability to thrive is about who I am. And I am a detective.”

“Are you… rejecting me?” Huxley said, flabbergasted. “You do not care for me?”

“I thought I did, once,” Beatrice said, thinking of the many cross-stitches she had completed that read, Sir Huxley and Beatrice, sitting in a tree, i-n-v-e-s-t-i-g-a-t-i-n-g… She had harbored feelings for him, yes, but she had also been interested in solving crimes.

And that was exactly what she was going todo.

The only idiot she needed to deal with now to do so was the person who had killed Horace, Cecil, and Walter. An idiot named Gregory Dunne.

Without another word, she left Huxley alone on the dance floor.

She rushed away, dodging out of sight of Elle and Lavinia. Miss Bolton had brought Bee Bee and was sharing a plate of finger sandwiches with her dog while they swayed in time to the band’s music. None of them noticed as Beatrice wove through the hedges toward the maze’s center.

Deeper into the maze, it was quiet. Beatrice passed a couple in the shadows, who whispered scandalously to each other, and dodged a group of contortionists who had gotten themselves into a pretzel she did not wish to see untangled.

She checked her pocket watch. It was nearly nine.

Beatrice picked up her pace as she made her way through the maze. The moonlight cast a silvery glow upon her path, and as she pressed toward the center, there were fewer and fewer stragglers.

The hedges widened. Stones crunched under her boots as she stepped forward. It was quiet, the air still warm. Somewhere, she could hear a clock strike.

“Detective.”

A voice rang out behind her, and Beatrice turned to see a man step into the clearing.

He wore a long cloak and a mask that—she realized with a shiver—was fashioned to look like a moth. But behind the mask, she could still see his thick, unbecoming sideburns.

“Mr. Dunne,” she said, affecting a low, arrogant voice.

Gregory halted. “Why does your voice sound like that?” he demanded.

“Er…too many cigars,” Beatrice said.

“Ah. I have been there.” Gregory shifted. He seemed nervous, Beatrice thought as she watched him lick his fingers and smooth his sideburns beneath the mask. “I received your note,” he said finally. “You said you wanted to discuss something? Some…concerns?”

“You killed Horace Vane.” Beatrice decided to go with a direct approach. Since she was dressed as a man, she felt that for the first time, she could get away with such forthrightness.

Even in the moonlight, she could see Gregory Dunne turn pale. “What? Of course I didn’t!” he snapped. “How could you say such a thing? Didn’t you arrest Percival Nash for the crime?”

“I was wrong,” Beatrice said. This was a mistake she regretted immediately; Sir Huxley would never have admitted such a thing.

“When did you regrow that mustache?” Mr. Dunne said suspiciously, taking a step forward. Beatrice took a step back.

“Yesterday,” she choked out.

“So quickly?”

“I am Sir Lawrence Huxley,” Beatrice announced. “I can do anything.”

Gregory Dunne halted and then sighed. “Yes. I appreciate how dedicated you have been to this case. You know that Horace and I were close. We were best friends, actually. So you can understand how offensive it is to suggest I had anything to do with his death.”

She had not exactly expected a confession, but she felt thrown. Gregory seemed sincere.

“We are all in this together,” Gregory went on.

“You have done your job in arresting Percival, and now I will do mine. Just because Horace, Cecil, and Walter are gone, it does not mean that the NAGS will falter. It is up to me now,” he said, squaring his shoulders.

“And I have big plans. Just enjoy the distraction—I mean, the masquerade—and leave everything else to me.”

With that, Gregory turned on his heel and strode away. Beatrice watched him go, his words ringing in her ears.

The distraction? Gregory Dunne was up to something, and she refused to let him get away withit.

She slipped into the shadows, following his form as he made his way through the maze.

Like a moth to a flame.