Page 40

The summer heat had finally broken, and the first whispers of autumn crept across London.

The leaves were tinged orange and yellow, and there was a chill in the air as Beatrice and Drake walked arm in arm through Sweetbriar.

He no longer had to wear a sling, as the cut on his arm from Horace’s knife had healed, leaving only a faint line where the blade had pierced flesh.

Beatrice, on the other hand, had a noticeable mark across her cheek where the NAGS had gotten her.

With this scar, she felt, she was now a true inspector.

Miss Bolton led the way, sporting her latest obsession, inspired by tips from Elle Equiano’s exposé—a cape of ribbons, which rippled in the breeze. A few leaves got caught in it, and Miss Bolton stopped in her tracks, attempting to free them before taking up her trot once more.

Several passersby tipped their caps as the three passed, and one even said, “Good afternoon, Inspectors!” Some, however, scowled. One even kicked a spray of dirt into their faces, though the wide brim of Miss Bolton’s hat blocked it from its intended target.

Overnight, Beatrice and Drake had found fame and respect from crime and art aficionados, as well as scorn from those who believed that they had ruined the Season with talk of murder.

(Never mind that they had not committed it.) Beatrice knew that the NAGS themselves had only been stopped for the time being.

Though Horace, Cecil, and Walter were gone, and Gregory Dunne had been arrested, the group still had members and supporters in the city.

The permit system might have been paused, but like the moths that came out at night, the NAGS were merely lurking in the shadows, waiting for their time to return.

But for now the admiration outweighed the scorn, at least in gold: Cases were pouring in, and for the first time, Beatrice had more than pocket money to send to her family.

Percival had been right when he told them that rave reviews led to compensation.

Reporters stalked them both, desperate for statements on the “Moth Murders,” as they had been nicknamed.

Yet both Beatrice and Drake had agreed: To ensure accurate reports, they would only speak to Elle, the new voice of the crime column.

Elle had thus crafted a full exposé on the Brotherhood of the Moth, detailing their involvement in thwarting local art, complete with proof and witness statements.

She had then retreated to Bath for a much-needed fishing holiday, imploring Beatrice to join her when business finally slowed.

Miss Bolton halted. “I shall never get used to it, without those gates,” she remarked.

They were standing outside the newly refurbished Rose Club—or rather, the Amaryllis.

The iron gates had been dismantled, and the front yard was now full of easels, acrobats, and half-finished costume pieces.

Miss Bolton waded through the disarray, and Beatrice and Drake followed her through the front door.

Inside, it smelled of sawdust and paint.

Percival had been hard at work overseeing the remodel, and Beatrice was impressed as she surveyed the change.

Gone were the austere columns and the colorless marble; Percival had already hung paintings along the walls and retiled the floors in shimmering hues.

“Inspector Steele! Inspector Drake!” Percival appeared, his arms outstretched. He embraced each of them and then turned to Miss Bolton. “You are late. The actors have several questions regarding the stage directions in act five.”

“Oh, yes. The hat number,” Miss Bolton said. “It is challenging, yet pivotal. If you’ll excuse me, I must oversee this. Opening night is in a week, and we don’t have a show !” she told Beatrice and Inspector Drake, looking harried.

“I thought we were going to the office after this,” Drake said, looking confused. “We really must reply to our mail, and lately we have had clients lining up to bring cases to our attention—”

“Oh dear, we never told him our decision,” Miss Bolton said to Beatrice. She turned to Drake and announced, “I have resigned as Beatrice’s chaperone.”

“That doesn’t mean…” Drake looked slightly panicked.

“We aren’t going anywhere,” Miss Bolton said immediately, following his thoughts. “I am simply allowing Beatrice the chance to be…alone. She is an independent woman now; she does not need me following her every move.”

“Yes,” Percival agreed. “She is a spinster. And she achieved that status in only one Season. Quite a feat, Miss Steele!”

“I don’t mean that, ” Miss Bolton said. “She is an inspector ! And Drake is her partner! Chaperones are only meant for sweethearts…. Nothing is going to happen between these two.”

“Yes,” Drake said. He avoided Beatrice’s gaze as he murmured, half to himself, “Nothing is going to happen….”

“I certainly shan’t complain,” Percival said.

He wore no hairpiece these days, his bald head gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the Rose’s large windows—now the drapes were always flung wide so anyone could see in.

“We need Miss Bolton to ensure that this first production goes off without a hitch. The box is reserved for you two, of course,” he told Beatrice and Drake.

“And we won’t bring Sir Huxley this time,” Drake assured him.

“On the contrary. He has already assured me he wouldn’t miss it for the world.

He’ll join you two in the box,” Percival said cheerily, and Drake glowered.

“He confessed that he never really believed I was the culprit,” Percival went on.

“It was all pressure from Mr. Vane to accuse me. Such a charming man, that Huxley…”

“Indeed,” Miss Bolton agreed. She squeezed Beatrice’s arm in farewell and then lowered her voice. “Just don’t tell your mother about any of this.”

“Never,” Beatrice said with a smile.

With that, Miss Bolton tipped her hat (a scale model of the newly refurbished Amaryllis), turned on her heel, and disappeared with Percival into the chaos of artists.

“Shall we?” Beatrice asked Drake.

He offered his arm to her once more.

They took off down the street, now alone together.

Likely there would be gossip about this, among the pages of The London Babbler —but for the first time in her life, Beatrice did not care about her reputation.

She had participated in the Season and successfully snagged a fortune—but it was thanks to her own skills as an inspector.

She would not have to rely on a marriage of convenience in order to support her family.

Even her mother could not argue with cold hard cash.

And she hadn’t—Beatrice had not received any desperate letters in a fortnight, only notes of gratitude.

For the first time she knew for certain that change was possible.

She could feel it in the air, upon the breeze from passing flying squirrels.

Beatrice and Drake reached the stoop of DS Investigations. Drake opened the door, and Beatrice strode inside.

Their office had undergone a transformation in the months following the Moth Murders case. Now the desks overflowed with letters from admirers and those hoping to have cases solved by the famous Steele and Drake. Every surface was covered with flowers and gifts.

To keep everything organized, they had also decided to hire a secretary.

“Oh good, you’re here.” Lavinia Lee rushed to her feet. “You had five clients come in with murder cases. I took notes…my penmanship is not as good as Elle’s, I fear, but it is mostly legible….” She shuffled a stack of papers on the desk, scrambling to bring them to Beatrice and Drake.

Beatrice noticed, with slight embarrassment, that Lavinia now wore a choker featuring miniature portraits of Beatrice and Drake. She was a devoted fan—but no one had a more encyclopedic knowledge of crime, Beatrice knew. Lavinia was the best woman for the job.

“I also had something I wished to discuss with you both,” Lavinia said, setting down the papers.

She crossed to the office closet and opened it to reveal a stash of wigs, jackets, and prosthetic parts.

“I borrowed them from Percival,” she explained.

“I know I am meant to be a secretary, but some of these cases are going to require undercover work. Perhaps I might also be deemed your disguise creator?”

Beatrice and Drake exchanged a look. Beatrice nodded, but Drake crossed his arms.

“I shall agree on one condition: You both must promise to never dress anyone as Sir Huxley again. One of him is enough,” he said sternly.

“This is wonderful,” Lavinia said, clapping.

“Of course, I agree; imitation is not nearly as satisfying as the real deal. Even though I admire both you and Sir Huxley, of course…I suppose there is room in my heart for the original and you two. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, grabbing her bonnet and shawl from her desk, “I do have a few more pieces to pick up from Percival. I did not want to bring over the heavier ones, in case you said no….”

She flitted out the door before Beatrice could inquire why costumes should be heavy and suggest that this might impede an investigation as opposed to helpingit.

Now she and Drake were finally, truly, alone. They stood in the center of the office by the coffee table, both looking down, an awkwardness growing thick in the air.

Suddenly, Drake moved, reaching out—toward Beatrice?—but no, she realized with a flush. He was moving a piece on the chessboard.

He had finally taken her queen.

Drake cleared his throat and then strode over to his desk.

“We must be selective in what cases we take on next,” he said as he sliced open a letter and pored over the contents. “After all, everyone is watching us.” He held up the letter. “Ah. That man’s spectacles were on the windowsill, by the way. He sends his thanks.”

“Excellent.” Beatrice swallowed hard as she plucked a note from a bouquet of angelicas and skimmed it.

“?‘Congratulations on solving the case,’?” she read aloud.

“?‘Sending love to my biggest fans, from Felicity Lore.’ And there is a portrait of her on the back of the note,” she said, irritated, as she flipped the note over to reveal the painting.

“How kind of her,” Drake exclaimed.

Beatrice rolled her eyes and picked up a box and opened it to find—“A miniature sword?” She pried it eagerly from the container. The small hilt was set with a black and white pattern that, she thought, resembled the streak of white in her own dark curls.

“I had Mr. O’Dowde send it over. You should not always have to rely on sharp jewelry to defend yourself,” Drake told her. “Not with the cases we have coming.”

“I love it,” Beatrice told him, slipping the sword into her pocket, where it fit perfectly. “That was very thoughtful.”

“Well, we broke half his shop. We owe him our patronage for years to come,” Drake muttered.

Beatrice suppressed a smile at this as she continued to leaf through her mail. Drake, simultaneously, went through his own stack.

“Anything interesting?” she asked, absentmindedly opening yet another note, from a bouquet of pink camellias.

She flushed as she saw the message written there.

I am sorry I underestimated you. You are everything, Beatrice Steele. Give me another chance?