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“Yes,” Drake replied.

“The NAGS make sure shrubs are well shaped, buildings are sturdy, and performances are pleasing. We promote decorum and beauty,” Sideburns went on, not hearing him.

“I believe it was Shakespeare who said, ‘Beauty is bought by judgement of the eye,’?” Beatrice said, finally getting a wordin.

“We do not allow Shakespeare in this neighborhood. Too many double entendres,” Sideburns informed her.

“Are you speaking of censorship?” she inquired, trying to sound casual. This NAGS group clearly wanted control over everything, including access to the arts. Could they be the ones attempting to frame Percival Nash for Walter Shrewsbury’s death?

“My husband supports the artistic community here in Sweetbriar,” the silver-haired woman said firmly.

“As long as they are proper,” Sideburns added.

“And contain only single entendres,” the woman said dryly, withdrawing a long cigar from her reticule. She stuck it between her teeth. “Now, has anyone got a light?”

Did she mean to smoke the cigar outside? Beatrice wondered. London women were so daring .

“Ah, my dear,” the tall man chuckled, taking the cigar from her mouth. “She is right, of course, that the culture here is what makes our neighborhood great. My wife has long been a trendsetter,” he told Drake. “An unofficial adviser to the NAGS. We always take her insight into account.”

Confusing, Beatrice thought.

“And you have always been a pillar of the community,” Sideburns told the tall man, taking two steps forward for every one step the others retreated. “Gentlemen and artists alike should thank you for your contributions, and be inspired by your achievements, and copy your wardrobe choices—”

“Thank you for your kind words and your concern, Gregory,” the tall man interrupted.

“I am so glad I could be the first on the scene to assure your safety,” Sideburns—or, rather, Gregory—replied immediately. “I had arrived early to speak with you, actually. Since Walter has passed, I thought there might be room on the hunting trip for me to—”

“I can take things from here,” the tall man interrupted.

“Of course, of course,” Gregory gushed. He shot one last admiring glance at the tall man, and one last glare at Beatrice, before shuffling off toward the iron gates of the Rose.

The tall man and his silver-haired wife exchanged a significant look, and then they both turned back to Beatrice.

“Excuse all of that,” the tall man said. “Now. To the sticky—or rather, muddy—situation at hand. Naturally, we must pay for your wife’s gown. I trust this will be enough?” He withdrew banknotes from his pocket and offered them to Drake, who looked from the banknotes to Beatrice.

She could read his inquiry in his gaze: What do you want me todo?

Follow my lead, she shot back with her eyes.

“This was a one-of-a-kind creation, selected by my chaperone for my very first Season, as I am unmarried and eligible,” Beatrice told the tall man, purposefully speaking loudly, so the small crowd who had gathered would hear. “It cannot be replaced.”

“Oh, dear. One-of-a-kind…very foolish. One should always have a backup. But I hope she can find something comparable with this payment? My wife and I could not bear to cause any problems for your…sweetheart,” the man continued, still only addressing Drake, banknotes still outstretched.

“Let me grease your palm so that you may clean hers.”

“There is no need for wordplay,” Drake said, still not accepting the money. Once more he looked to Beatrice for further direction.

“I would love to purchase something new,” Beatrice said, raising her voice even louder. Could this man not hear her? “If I might wear it to the Rose.”

“Young girls are always dreaming,” the man said to Drake with another chuckle.

He pressed the banknotes into Drake’s palm in a smooth motion, as if he were merely shaking his hand.

As if everything had been decided, without any need for Beatrice’s input.

“My advice: Keep her grounded, so she doesn’t float away on fantasy. ”

He smiled, winked, and turned back to the carriage.

But the silver-haired woman lingered. She continued to watch Beatrice, her head cocked to one side.

She almost seemed…disappointed, Beatrice thought. It was as if she had wanted more of a challenge.

That was it, Beatrice thought excitedly. All was not lost: If it was a fight she wanted, it was a fight she would get.

“Oh, no,” she said, swooning again. She grabbed for Drake, who dutifully held out a hand to support her in spite of his bewilderment. “The carriage has done more than spray me—I am injured!”

“Yes,” the silver-haired woman said, taking a step forward. “I feared that!” Her catlike eyes glimmered. “But if you are injured, you must see a doctor. You would be in no state to attend any balls….” She paused, waiting for a reply.

No, not a reply, Beatrice thought—a rebuttal.

“Sometimes these issues in ladies are not physical,” Beatrice told her. “They are matters of the heart. Perhaps I feel this way because I am heartbroken over my exclusion from the Rose, meaning that a ball would be the very balm for these pangs of disappointment.”

“I am confused,” Drake said, looking from the silver-haired woman to Beatrice. “Do you need to see a doctor, or—”

But Beatrice shot him a look, and he broke off.

“The club’s list has already been created,” the silver-haired woman said smoothly. “How could we justify such a late addition?”

“It is never too late for charity,” Beatrice told her. “Everyone would admire your goodwill, recommending a young lady who would be cured through an invitation. You would be saving my life.”

“What is your name?” the woman said, peering down her long nose at Beatrice. It was as if they had passed the first level in a test. Now Beatrice had to complete the next.

“Beatrice Steele, ma’am.”

“Who are the Steeles? Where do they come from?”

“Swampshire.” Beatrice took a fan from her reticule and waved it around, tried to look delicate. This proved difficult, as the ensuing breeze merely splattered the mud on her visage.

“I have never heard of it,” the woman said.

“It is small but very proper,” Beatrice assured her.

“Your age?”

“A lady never tells,” Beatrice replied. This seemed to be the correct answer, as the woman went on with her rapid-fire questioning.

“And your father? What is his profession?”

“I beg your pardon,” Beatrice said, feigning offense. “My father is a gentleman. He does not have a job .” Unless you counted constructing elaborate fake death scenes in the parlor, and this had hardly proved profitable.

“So.” The woman tilted her head to the side, studying Beatrice with her dark, astute eyes.

“Beatrice Steele of Swampshire would like to be presented as one of the Rose’s debutantes.

She wishes to find a husband among our ranks of eligible gentlemen.

But to this I must ask one final question: Why is a proper lady like yourself out in the street with this man you admit is not your husband—unchaperoned?

” Her sharp eyes fell on Drake, who stiffened.

“I do not know him,” Beatrice said immediately. “I was out for a walk—with my chaperone, naturally—but we became separated. This kind stranger was trying to help me when your carriage came along and nearly killed us both.”

“Charity supersedes decorum,” Drake added, and Beatrice shot him an approving look.

“What a story,” the woman murmured. For a moment she was quiet, mulling it all over, and then a smile crept across her lips. “I deem that it shall have a happy ending. You must join us for the Season. Miss Beatrice Steele…you just made my list.”

Her list? Beatrice’s pulse began to pound as she realized: This woman was not just any socialite.

She was the patroness of the Rose herself.

“Along with your rescuer, of course,” the woman continued, indicating Drake.

“I have carefully curated my list, keeping an even number of ladies and gentlemen, and it would not do to ruin such plans. He must be your escort, when you are presented.” She adjusted her gloves, now businesslike.

“I shall send over a full schedule of the Season’s events to your place of residence, Miss Steele.

The first event was postponed to tomorrow evening, so you are joining just in time.

I look forward to seeing you two there—with a chaperone, this time,” she added, her dark eyes sparkling.

She turned back to her jet-black carriage. The tall man stepped out to usher her inside, and she whispered something to him. He looked at Drake, and then, as if seeing her for the first time, he turned his gaze to Beatrice.

He smiled, but though the man had that boyish grin, a certain charm, and a friendly demeanor, Beatrice could see that his smile did not reach his eyes.

She did not like him. She had no real reason—unless one counted that he had ignored her during their entire encounter.

“What was that ?” Drake demanded once the couple and their jet-black carriage had taken off and disappeared through the iron gates of the Rose. The crowd that had gathered began to dissipate, no longer interested now that the conflict had abated.

“That was a brilliant plot to investigate the death of Walter Shrewsbury!” Beatrice whisper-yelled, still thrilled with herself. “We now have full access to the Rose.”

“As…debutantes,” Drake said, the word sour upon his lips.

“Who knows, Inspector,” Beatrice said, taking his arm once more, feeling as if she were floating on air, “you might catch a killer and a sweetheart.”

“I don’t want a sweetheart, I want you . I mean,” Drake said, now flustered, “I want to investigate with you.”

“And I want the same,” Beatrice assured him, her face growing hot. Would this weather ever relent?

“Then I suppose we have a plan,” Drake said, squaring his shoulders as if steeling himself for the horrors of the ensuing investigation (or, more likely, the horrors of the Season).

“We will clear Percival Nash’s name and catch the real killer,” Beatrice assured him. “Then DS Investigations will become the toast of the town, and we shall never have to scrounge for cases again.”

“I would warn against such optimism,” Drake sighed, “but I know better. I was right when I said you would find your way in anywhere. Whoever tries to stop you seems to find themselves defeated—and swiftly.”

“It is not a game, Inspector Drake,” Beatrice assured him, “though if it were, I would be winning.”

“Which is why I am grateful to be on your side,” he replied.

They walked back in the direction of the Carnation, both unable to stop grins from spreading across their faces. It was swelteringly hot, and they were covered in mud, but in that moment, neither Beatrice nor Drake would have had it any other way.

Their investigation had begun.