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Chapter Five

A Wardrobe

Beatrice awoke to late-morning light as Miss Bolton tossed open her bedroom drapes.

“WE MUST GO SHOPPING!” she cried, her voice too loud for the moments between sleep and waking.

“Tea first,” Beatrice mumbled, blinking the edges of a dream from her mind—something about a man with a cigar, warm hands on her face, and the scent of cinnamon and oranges….

“Tonight is the opening reception at the Rose, and then a slew of balls,” Miss Bolton was saying. “Not to mention the end-of-summer masquerade, which shall be here before we know it…there is no time for tea!”

Normally, Beatrice would have dreaded so many social obligations, but thanks to Walter Shrewsbury’s death, she was actually looking forward to a summer of dances, drinking, and whist. After all, each ball was an opportunity to question members of the Rose Club about the murder.

In her mind’s eye, she could imagine Walter Shrewsbury, face beaten and bruised, a knife plunged into his chest. So much blood.

And she, Beatrice, would be the one—along with Drake, of course—to nab the vicious killer… .

“There is one problem we must address,” Miss Bolton went on.

For a moment Beatrice felt a chill—did Miss Bolton know about the murder?

Was she suspicious? But then Miss Bolton brandished the Rose’s schedule, pointing at a note printed at the top.

It read: Formal Wear Required for All Events.

Gentlemen—one suit shall suffice. Ladies—absolutely no outfit repeating.

“I have formal wear,” Beatrice assured her, relieved that it was merely a question of clothing, but Miss Bolton shook her head.

“Beatrice, you don’t even own one hat of interest, and now your best muslin has been irreparably damaged.

I still don’t understand how that occurred…

. Normally Mary is the one whose wardrobe is in such disrepair.

” She went to Beatrice’s wardrobe and began to rifle through gowns.

She pulled several garments from the wardrobe and threw them in a heap on the bed as she rejected each one.

“No, no, no…none of this will do…. We must get you an entirely new wardrobe. You have balls to attend—and, did I mention, a masquerade ? Your ink-stained, tattered garments might have passed muster at the Carnation, but you are a true socialite now. You need to look like one. Thankfully, I can be of assistance, for if there’s one thing I know, it’s fashion.

” She patted her hat (which appeared to be knitted from cat fur).

“I like my clothes,” Beatrice said, throwing back her covers. She took a brown evening gown from Miss Bolton’s hands. “This is very easy to run in,” she explained.

“You shouldn’t be running away from anyone,” Miss Bolton said, exasperated.

“I’m running toward them,” Beatrice replied. “To catch them. In a romantic sense,” she added hastily.

“I suppose it will do for tonight,” Miss Bolton said, looking at the drab garment with distaste. “But we must shop for new clothing posthaste.”

“Miss Bolton,” Beatrice said quietly, her face feeling warm, “the fact is that I do not have the money for a new wardrobe.”

Beatrice had always rolled her eyes at her mother’s moneymaking marriage schemes, but now that she was on her own in a city, she had a newfound understanding of Mrs. Steele’s financial desires.

London may have been a land of opportunity—but that opportunity came at a price.

Since Percival Nash had given no deposit for Drake and Beatrice’s services, Beatrice remained dependent upon Alice Croaksworth and Miss Bolton to line her pockets. And to pay for said pockets.

She yearned for money of her own, though she would not use it for clothes—the moment Beatrice earned anything from DS Investigations, she was determined to send it straight back to Swampshire for her family’s home repairs.

The frustration was almost enough to make her desire a wealthy husband. But as much as Mrs. Steele pushed this matter, Beatrice had to think: Would he not simply be one more person upon whom she would have to rely for charity?

“I have more than enough to purchase your wardrobe, Beatrice,” Miss Bolton said kindly. Beatrice opened her mouth, but Miss Bolton cut her off. “Don’t protest. It is my pleasure to select the perfect gowns for your Season. Consider it an investment in your future.”

Beatrice let her protestations die on her tongue, feeling both grateful and a bit concerned as to what Miss Bolton’s idea of the “perfect gowns” might entail.

She did not want to look a gift horse in the mouth, but the fact that Miss Bolton owned a lifelike horse hat gave her pause.

Still, it was true that the Rose Club was much more formal than anywhere Beatrice had ever been, and if she wanted to gain the trust of its members for the sake of her investigation, she would have to look the part.

It was an investment in her future—though not the one Miss Bolton and Mrs. Steele imagined for her.

“Thank you,” Beatrice said finally. “I don’t know what I would do without you, Miss Bolton.”

“You would survive. But you would have a very dull wardrobe,” Miss Bolton replied. She withdrew a teacup from her cat-fur hat and handed it to Beatrice. Somehow, it was full of piping-hot tea, plus one whisker. “Drink up and get dressed. We must get to the shops immediately.”

When Beatrice and Miss Bolton emerged from their town house, it was already hot, the sun blazing down on crowds taking their morning turns.

Carriage and walking trails encircled the Sweet Majestic, which was located in the center of the neighborhood.

Most residents of Sweetbriar took a stroll or ride first thing in the morning, to see and be seen.

Already, well-dressed women and their chaperones made the rounds, completing laps of the walkway, hopeful expressions on their faces each time a handsome gentleman tipped his hat.

Beatrice noted that she and Miss Bolton were the only women wearing hats; the ladies of London carried parasols to shield against the sun.

A second reason for the fashion choice was clear soon enough: A few flying squirrels burst from a tree, and they bounced off a nearby lady’s parasol. Beatrice and Miss Bolton were terribly vulnerable. They cowered as they walked, trying to avoid any sky rodents.

“I have never been greeted by so many people,” Miss Bolton told Beatrice after four gentlemen in a row tipped their hats to the pair of them in spite of their unfashionable appearances.

“Word must have gotten around that you were invited to the Rose Club. I cannot wait to rub it in everyone’s faces—subtly, of course, as befits a top-tier chaperone…

.” She looked around. “Now, the dress shop is somewhere this way, but I have forgotten how to get there….”

A voice spoke up. “Perhaps you could use a knowledgeable escort?” Beatrice and Miss Bolton turned to see a man approach them, his grin showing off deep dimples. “I am also excellent at fending off the squirrels.”

It was the blond man from outside the Carnation, Beatrice realized. He had no cigar today, just a walking cane and top hat, and he politely tipped his brim at them.

“Why, yes, that would be wonderful,” Miss Bolton said excitedly.

She pushed Beatrice toward the man. “You must get used to this, now that you are one of the Rose’s blooms,” she whispered.

“That is what they call their debutantes. All of the wealthy gentlemen will be interested to know more about you. But never fear, I shall always be just behind you, ensuring that they do nothing untoward.”

Beatrice was more concerned that she would do something untoward, such as kick this man in the shins.

She did not trust a lurker, and certainly not one who seemed unnecessarily cloaked in mystery, but she could not be rude and risk social ruin.

So she begrudgingly took the man’s arm and allowed him to guide her once more around the Sweetbriar walkway, Miss Bolton shuffling quickly behind them in order to keep up on her short legs.

Whereas Inspector Drake was very tall and towered over Beatrice, the blond gentleman was closer to her height. They fit together easily, walking arm in arm, and she could not help noticing his musky cologne. He even smelled expensive.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” the man said pleasantly.

“I find it a bit hot,” Beatrice replied.

“Heat can cause agitation,” he allowed.

“And agitation can drive people to do unspeakable things,” Beatrice said, trying not to sound too enthralled by this prospect.

“Then the heat may be good for business, at least,” the man said.

Beatrice turned to look at him so quickly that she nearly strained her neck.

“You must forgive me, but I was curious after our encounter outside the Carnation, and henceforth conducted a bit of research,” he said with a grin. “Why didn’t you mention you were in the world of investigating?”

Beatrice felt her face flush. “Well…it’s not something I advertise,” she sputtered. “How did you—”

“I am very well-connected,” the man assured her, and Beatrice could not tell if he was being wry or serious. Before she could ask, he continued, “Perhaps you might tell me what cases you are working on, at the moment? I find your profession very interesting.”

“Most people find it full of morbid creeps,” Beatrice said, shocked at the man’s forward nature—and forward thinking.

Though socialites in London were obviously intrigued by crime—any paper featuring Sir Huxley flew off newsstands, after all—a lady detective was still a novelty. Women in the city could be fans of the mustachioed, dashing Huxley, not try to become him.

“I am not most people,” the man said with a wink. This time, Beatrice found the gesture… charming ?

She must get ahold of herself.

He led her around a corner, where the walking path aligned with the entrance to the pleasure garden’s hedge maze.