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Chapter Four

A Cover

“Each assembly room has a patroness, who determines which young ladies and gentlemen are permitted to attend their Season,” Beatrice told Drake as they made their way down the street.

Their shadows grew long on the walkway as the sun sank lower into the horizon.

The teacups in the cafés they passed had been replaced with crystal cordial glasses, and passersby were now clad in evening dress.

“So in order to get on the list, one would have to impress the patroness of the Rose,” Beatrice went on as Drake expertly guided her out of the way of a spray of mud from a passing carriage.

“Then do that,” he told her matter-of-factly. “Impress the patroness, I mean.”

“I wish it were that simple,” she murmured. “I don’t even know who she is, let alone what might dazzle her. Unless she likes clumsy dancing or frightening artwork, I have few options….”

“You have quick wit and fine eyes,” Drake said, and then added hastily, “and an ability to push your way in anywhere.”

“I don’t know whether to be offended or flattered,” she replied.

“A lady can do both simultaneously, I expect.” Drake steered her through the neighborhood’s pleasure garden maze and came out the other side without ever meeting a dead end.

His knowledge of London was impressive. Though Beatrice had studied maps of Sweetbriar extensively, these maps did not show the shortcuts only locals knew.

But she soon realized that Drake’s path had not led back to Miss Bolton and the Carnation garden party. Instead, Beatrice found herself looking up at an imposing building.

It was the Rose.

Like most buildings in Sweetbriar, the Rose was a Gothic structure, with two gargoyles on either side of the front door. The garden was a tangle of pink flowers, which crept their way onto the iron gate, winding around its heavy bars.

“See,” Beatrice told Drake, indicating the gate. “Impenetrable, unless we are invited in.”

“A person might scale it,” Drake suggested.

“Not without puncturing flesh,” Beatrice replied, pointing to sharp spires lining the top of the gate.

“Is this a fortress or an assembly hall?” Drake muttered.

Are they really that different? Beatrice thought.

She had always imagined London as a huge city where all sorts of people could consort.

Yet so far, she had found it disappointingly cordoned off, so many places off-limits.

She thought of Percival Nash’s observations, the rising panic about the impact of different classes and types of people mingling.

What was the point in leaving her small town just to be confined once more?

She stared in between the gate’s iron bars at the stone building before them.

Even the tall windows of the Rose were closed, their drapes drawn shut, which was a disappointment—Beatrice adored peering into windows.

Clearly, those who weren’t invited inside would not get so much as a peek beyond the exterior.

There were hoofbeats in the distance. Beatrice and Drake turned to see a black carriage careening toward the club. It was obvious that the carriage was headed to the Rose—and judging by its speed, the occupants had no hesitation about their place inside those gates.

The idea came into Beatrice’s mind before she had a moment to second-guess.

She stepped away from Drake and toward the road, just as the carriage shot through a puddle of mud.

The wheels spattered liquid everywhere, and Beatrice was doused from head to toe in the spray.

She let out a scream, which she knew would attract onlookers.

No one could resist a frenzy. Sure enough, several people stopped to stare at the scene Beatrice had orchestrated.

They whispered, shocked at the sight of a young lady in a gown from five seasons ago now completely drenched in mud.

“Beatrice, what are you doing ?” Drake shouted, grabbing her by the shoulders. “Didn’t you see that the carriage was headed straight for the mud? Didn’t you mentally chart its trajectory? You must always mentally chart the trajectory!”

Drake’s mother had perished in a carriage accident, and ever since, he had harbored a fear of the vehicles. Beatrice felt a rush of guilt for causing him such concern.

“I have a plan. Trust me,” she assured him, staring into his green eye. He knit his brows together in confusion but finally dropped his hands from her shoulders. She turned back to the carriage.

Had it been a foolish hunch? Would the occupants simply continue on their way? Her throat tightened in panic—but then, blessedly, the carriage screeched to a halt.

Just as she had hoped.

The door banged open, and a woman descended onto the street. She looked around until she saw Beatrice and crossed to her, hand pressed against her chest.

“My dear,” the woman said, “are you quite all right?”

Though her voice was dreamlike and breathy, the woman’s dark, catlike eyes appraised Beatrice with shrewdness. She had silver hair that was intriguingly held in place with a pearl hat pin. Wisps of hair had escaped, lending the woman a windswept look.

She seemed about the same age as Miss Bolton, who would have envied the mysterious lady’s chic wardrobe: Her plum-colored overcoat had silver trim that matched her hair, and jewels sparkled in her ears and around her neck. Wealthy, clearly. Elite.

And if there was one thing Beatrice knew about the elite, it was that they valued appearances. A drive-by mud spray would be a terrible look for this woman. Now she owed Beatrice penance.

“She is stunned into silence, poor thing,” the woman purred. She waved a handkerchief in front of Beatrice’s eyes as if trying to wake her from a dream. “Excuse me? Miss? I said, are you all right ?”

Beatrice blinked and then affected the grand voice that Percival Nash had used earlier in the office. “I was almost suffocated by this mud,” she announced, and then pretended to swoon.

Thankfully, Mrs. Steele had forced her to practice this move many times, in the event that Beatrice needed to place herself in distress so as to attract a handsome gentleman.

As it turned out, the faint feint could also be used in an investigation.

Drake caught her, clearly perplexed by such technique.

“I’m a delicate young lady who has just arrived in this city,” Beatrice went on. “I cannot think how terrible it would have been had I died here in this puddle before finding the perfect gentleman with whom to share my life.”

Drake gently righted Beatrice, still looking confused, but the woman’s lips curled into a knowing smile.

“Well, well, well,” she murmured. “How intriguing. A lady who knows what she wants…and has a plan to get it.”

A man stepped out of the carriage.

Though the woman was tall, the man with her was even taller, with broad shoulders and a strapping form. He wore an affable expression that tempered his imposing physique.

“My love,” he said, “we are going to be late.” He did not seem to notice Beatrice, his eyes passing over her. The snub was clear, and effective: At once, Beatrice felt invisible.

“We have a situation,” the woman told him, gesturing at Beatrice, her motion lifting the snub.

The man finally glanced at her as if seeing the “situation” for the first time, though Beatrice could not think how he had missed it. A crowd had gathered, and Beatrice stood in the center, covered in mud-drenched tassels. She was a sight.

“Oh, my,” the man said with a chuckle. His eyes crinkled at the edges, giving his face a boyish look that further contrasted his serious salt-and-pepper hair and towering height. “I know young ladies like to gossip, but this is a whole new level in getting the dirt.”

Before Beatrice could reply, another man—this one portly, with long, bushy sideburns—pushed his way through the crowd.

“Horace! Are you unscathed?” He began to check the tall man as if searching for injuries. “We have already lost Walter; we cannot lose you!”

He must be speaking of Walter Shrewsbury, Beatrice thought, her curiosity prickling at these words. Were these two men friends of the murder victim? Did they know something that could prove helpful in the investigation?

“I am fine,” the tall man assured Sideburns. Though he still wore a pleasant expression on his face, Beatrice noted that he took a step back, as if unconsciously distancing himself.

Sideburns did not seem to notice. He took a step forward. “I saw everything,” he told the tall man. “It was all her fault!” he added in a wheedling, nasal voice as he pointed at Beatrice.

“I’ll thank you to watch your tone,” Drake said, stepping between Sideburns and Beatrice.

“I shall take care of this, Horace,” Sideburns said, ignoring Drake as he turned back to the tall man.

“You have more important things to do than argue with street urchins. Namely, the agenda for our next NAGS meeting. Perhaps we might add a discussion about women’s proximity to carriages and its potential regulation? ”

“Nags? What is that? Or…those?” Inspector Drake inquired, watching the man with clear dislike.

“The Neighborhood Association of Gentlemen Sweetbriarians, obviously,” Sideburns replied, evidently shocked that Drake did not already know of them. “Don’t you read our neighborhood bulletins?”

“No,” Drake said.

“We have been entrusted with maintaining the aesthetics, morals, and quality of life of our neighborhood,” Sideburns explained.

“Entrusted by whom?” Drake asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Ourselves.” Sideburns squared his shoulders.

“This man right here is Mr. Horace Vane, one of the esteemed founders of NAGS,” he said, gesturing reverently to the tall man, who was now glancing at a pocket watch.

“Mr. Vane and his friends Cecil Nightingale and Walter Shrewsbury—may Walter rest in peace—saved our neighborhood by starting the association. Can you even imagine what this place would be like without gentlemen like them—and myself, of course—imposing important rules and regulations?”