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“I know how much you like hedges,” he said conversationally. “Shall we attempt the pleasure garden’s maze? We might find a dead end, which would provide the perfect nook in which to discuss crime.”

“My chaperone and I are due at the dress shop,” she said, actually feeling a little disappointed. He had painted an intriguing picture of an afternoon together.

“Very well, Miss Steele,” the man said. “Continue straight, and the shop will be on your left.” He tipped his hat as he took his leave, murmuring, “I hope we meet again.”

“What an attractive man,” Miss Bolton said, rushing forward to take Beatrice’s arm in the man’s stead.

“Is he well endowed? Financially, I mean; it doesn’t take a modiste to see he dresses to the left…

. If we can determine a subtle way to find out his salary, and the sum proves acceptable, he would make a charming husband. ”

“Goodness, Miss Bolton!” Beatrice said, realizing. “I did not even get his name.”

“Well, a lady cannot ask a gentleman his name,” Miss Bolton said, offended by the very notion. “He must offer it himself.”

“I certainly hope I learn it soon, else our wedding shall be awkward,” Beatrice replied dryly. She was not convinced that she needed to rush after a proposal—

Yet she had to admit that she was intrigued by the unnamed man in spite of herself.

His directions proved correct, and they soon located the bustling dress shop.

The shopkeeper had Beatrice stand on a platform in front of a large mirror and took her measurements while Miss Bolton rooted furiously through piles of ribbons and fabric in the shop.

She kept rushing over to hold swatches up to Beatrice’s face and then murmuring, “No, no…that will never do…not nearly enough sparkle ….”

In the mirror’s reflection, Beatrice watched as two fashionable young women entered the store, a bell on the door chiming as they strolled inside.

One of the ladies had dark brown skin and dark eyes framed by long lashes.

Curls peeked out of the edge of a gray silk turban, and she wore a quizzing glass on a chain around her neck.

She lifted the glass up to one of her eyes to examine a ribbon, pursed her lips, and then put the ribbon away.

Evidently it was not satisfactory, Beatrice thought, wondering how a person would even know such things.

From the young lady’s attire—as well as the confident air with which she carried herself—Beatrice could tell that she was a member of high society.

“…which is why I’m certain that Sir Huxley will solve the murder,” the second woman was saying.

This young lady had a swanlike neck, a pale complexion, and white-blond hair piled atop her head in a complicated chignon.

Her gray eyes were large and unblinking, emphasized by dark circles underneath them.

She wore dainty spectacles perched on her nose.

Whereas the first woman was quiet as she inspected ribbons, the second spoke in an unbroken stream of chatter.

At the mention of Sir Huxley, Beatrice’s ears prickled. She continued to watch in the mirror’s reflection as the two women browsed fabric.

“The only thing which perplexes me is that the Rose’s Season is going to continue, in spite of a member’s death,” the bespectacled young woman said enthusiastically.

“Naturally I’m pleased. Pleased about the continuation of the Season, not the death,” she clarified.

“I know you were at last year’s Season, but this shall be my first, so it would have been a great disappointment had it been canceled.

I never thought I would receive an invite to such a prestigious assembly hall! ”

Beatrice felt a rush of interest. These ladies were debutantes at the Rose, like herself—and they were discussing Walter Shrewsbury. She focused in on their conversation, straining so as not to miss a word.

“Stoicism is very fashionable right now, so perhaps the decision to move on in spite of the tragedy makes sense,” the bespectacled woman wenton.

“We need the Season now more than ever,” the first woman replied. “To keep up morale and demonstrate the staunchness of the marriage mart.”

Was that a note of sarcasm that Beatrice detected?

Confident and contemptuous. She liked this woman already.

“Did anything like this happen last Season?” the bespectacled lady pressed.

“Last Season, the London Menace was terrorizing the city, but it seems he is out and a new killer is in,” the woman with the quizzing glass replied.

“Even with such intrigue, I expect this year to be just as dull as the last. None of the gentlemen ever want to discuss these matters; all they talk about is the weather, the size of the last fish they caught, and how much carriage traffic they encountered on their way to the ball.”

“How dull,” the bespectacled woman gasped.

“Indeed. And not a single question shall be thrown your way, to be sure.” The first woman locked eyes with Beatrice through the mirror, clearly drawn by a feeling that someone was watching her. Beatrice flushed.

She had two younger sisters, but apart from them, she had rarely interacted with other young ladies.

[*] The only woman her age in Swampshire, Caroline Wynn, had turned out to be a con artist in disguise.

Needless to say, she and Beatrice had never formed a bosom friendship.

(Though they had shared an enthralling sword fight.)

The appearance of the two young ladies in the dress shop, who shared such an easy confidence, sparked a yearning for companionship that Beatrice had never felt so strongly.

The bell of the front door chimed again, and both Beatrice and the dressmaker turned to see a man with distinct sideburns enter the shop. It was Gregory, Beatrice realized—the portly man who had inserted himself into the carriage incident outside the Rose.

“Ugh, not again,” the dressmaker muttered, speaking Beatrice’s own thought aloud.

“Madam Gest, a moment, please?” Gregory said, beckoning the dressmaker over. She sighed.

“Excuse me,” she told Beatrice, setting aside her measuring materials and crossing over to Gregory. “How may I help you, sir?” she asked in a falsely bright tone.

“I am a member of the Neighborhood Association of Gentlemen Sweetbriarians,” he began.

“I know. We have met many times,” she interrupted, the bright tone already giving way to annoyance. “Is there a problem?”

“You were informed that your fabrics are too bright, your bodices cut too low, and your sleeves too short,” Gregory informed her, his voice loud and, Beatrice thought, uniquely pestiferous. “It savors strongly of dandyism—something we NAGS oppose.”

“This is the fashion of today,” the dressmaker replied, taking a step back.

“And the NAGS want it gone by tomorrow,” Gregory said, taking a step forward.

The lady with the quizzing glass and the bespectacled young woman both paused their perusal of fabrics, watching the interaction.

Did they agree with Gregory? Beatrice wondered.

“The ladies like bright colors. And my silhouettes allow them freer movement,” the dressmaker was saying. “And since they’re the ones wearing the garments, not you—”

“This is not a discussion, madam. ” Gregory sniffed. “You were told to adjust your designs. As I see from the gowns in the window, you are still peddling rejected wares. You will dispose of them, else we will have to take further action.”

“I cannot throw out my work! It is my livelihood!” The dressmaker’s voice turned pleading.

“No one wants to buy that, ” Gregory snapped, gesturing to a particularly bright pink gown that was displayed in the front window.

“I do!”

For a moment Beatrice was confused. Three voices had rung out, one of them hers. She realized that both she and the two other young ladies in the shop had all spoken the same interjection at once.

Gregory looked from the woman with the quizzing glass to the bespectacled woman, his eyes finally landing on Beatrice. He turned back to the dressmaker.

“Amend your gowns, Madam Gest, or you can expect to receive further correspondence from my organization,” he told her.

“And I suggest using greater discernment in your clientele. Outspoken women like that ”—he nodded toward Beatrice—“and members of Huxley’s Hussies,” he said, now indicating the bespectacled woman, who reddened, “will hardly give you an air of respectability.” He licked his fingers and smoothed his sideburns, then flounced away.

Defeated, the dressmaker began to remove the pink gown from the window.

“Package that up, darling,” the woman with the quizzing glass instructed. “I meant what I said; I wish to purchase the garment.”

“The NAGS have deemed it indecorous, miss,” the dressmaker said sadly. “I fear if you wear this, you will be ruined.”

“Then it is worth double,” the woman told her, withdrawing a large stack of banknotes from her reticule and passing them over. “Scandal makes for the best stories, don’t you think?”

If one could afford it, Beatrice thought—and clearly, this lady could. The dressmaker took the notes with gratitude and then began to pack up the garment from the window. Before Beatrice could understand what had occurred, the two young women were approaching her.

“You have good taste,” the first woman said, tipping her head to the side. “I don’t believe I have seen you around Sweetbriar before.”

“I am new to London,” Beatrice told her. “Beatrice Steele,” she added, feeling suddenly nervous.

She wanted to say the right thing to these ladies, and not because of the investigation. For purely personal reasons, she desperately wanted them to like her.

“Lavinia Lee,” the second, bespectacled woman said brightly. “So pleased to make your acquaintance.” She sank into a little curtsy.