The household staff stands in a formal line inside the large foyer awaiting inspection. Miss Stranje’s heels click smartly against the black-and-white marble flooring as she marches in. An elegant spiral staircase winds up beside us, and a glass dome in the ceiling provides the only light filtering into the foyer. Despite the opulence, a dark stillness weighs heavily on us as we enter, perhaps because most of the furniture is still under covers and the windows are shuttered.
Tess comes in with our two snarling wolf-dogs in tow, and the butler backs against the wall. “What are those?”
She doesn’t stop to explain. “Which way to the gardens?”
He points to the back and signals the first footman to show her the way.
“Our dogs are normally well mannered, Mr. Peterson,” Miss Stranje assures him. “As soon as they accustom themselves to their surroundings, they will be as meek as lambs.”
Lambs. I choke back a laugh.
Mr. Peterson doesn’t look convinced. He adjusts his black coat and solemnly introduces the staff to Miss Stranje. There’s a smugness about Mr. Peterson, as if he thinks himself above serving our headmistress. If Greaves were here, he would grab the insolent man by his ear and call him to task.
Mrs. Creevy, the housekeeper, seems pleasant enough, as do the housemaids and footmen. When Mr. Peterson learns we are adding to his staff our maid, Alice, and our cook, Magda, the man acts as if we have kicked him in the shins. “But, madame, we have a cook—”
“Miss.” Our headmistress takes a brusque gunshot step toward the butler. “It’s Miss Stranje. As to the other matter, I am aware of your cook’s excellent reputation, and she will, of course, have command of the kitchen. Mrs. Elderberry, isn’t it?”
“Yes, miss.” The apron-clad woman next to the housekeeper bobs a curtsy.
Miss Stranje smiles at her. “I’m sure Mrs. Elderberry will appreciate the extra hands in the kitchen when she is preparing supper for our upcoming ball.”
“Aye, miss, that I would.” Mrs. Elderberry stares up at our enormous cook and does her best to smile.
“A ball?” Peterson puffs up indignantly, his nose twitching out of joint. “I was not told there would be a gathering of that sort. I’m not certain it is entirely appropriate given the tragic circumstances of—”
“Mr. Peterson, I rented this house intending to hold a coming-out ball for my young ladies, and that is exactly what we shall have.” Miss Stranje is not gigantic like Magda, but neither is she a short woman. When she stretches up to her full height and brandishes that stern expression of hers, any man’s knees would knock. “Mind you, not just any ball. Ours will be a splendid affair, the highlight of the season. You and your staff are to remove these dreary draperies and dust covers immediately, and begin the task of restoring this house to the land of the living. Do we understand one another?”
Mr. Peterson blinks, and blinks again. The changes in his situation seem to settle on him with a painful thump. His countenance sags and his chin loses some of its supercilious height. “As you wish, miss.”
Miss Stranje sets the servants to work hauling in our luggage, and the housekeeper leads us upstairs to show us to our rooms. “Six fine bedrooms,” she declares as we wind up the staircase. “And that doesn’t count the servants’ quarters. Haversmythe House was once a grand residence. If I may say so, the grandest on our street, until—”
“It is lovely.” Miss Stranje exclaims more exuberantly than normal. “Let’s have a look at those rooms, shall we?”
Servants trudge up the stairs behind us, toting stacks of bandboxes and luggage. Before we are able to settle on who is to sleep where, Mr. Peterson arrives on the third floor landing huffing and puffing. He stops to catch his breath, and prunes up as if someone tracked in dog droppings, and announces, “You have guests, Miss Stranje.”
The corner of our headmistress’s mouth quirks to the side. “Thank you, Mr. Peterson. Who are these mysterious guests?”
“Three gentlemen,” he says, as if this makes his news even more repulsive.
Miss Stranje calmly asks, “Perchance, did these mysterious gentlemen give you their names? Or cards?”
“Yes, miss, they did.” She waits patiently as Peterson squares up two cards in his white gloved fingers, and reads, “One Captain Grey, and Lord Wyatt, a viscount. Another young man, a Mr. Sinclair, offered us no card, miss. No card.” Peterson hands her the aforementioned calling cards and sniffs disapprovingly. “I’ll send them away, shall I? Surely we are not ready to receive guests.”
“No, Mr. Peterson, we shall not send them away.” She smiles to herself, happiness flaming into her cheeks. She averts her eyes and studies the cards, even though she knows by heart exactly what’s written on each of those small ivory rectangles. “These gentlemen are our dear friends. You may seat them in the first-floor drawing room, and tell them we will be along shortly.”
Mr. Peterson goes off to do her bidding, looking as if he just swallowed a lemon.
Georgie slips out behind our new butler and follows him as far as the balustrade overlooking the foyer, and I admit, I wander quietly behind her and peek over the railing, too. Servants are still unloading our trunks, the front door stands wide open, spraying sunlight across the marble foyer. There they stand, all three gentlemen, alive and well, still wearing their hats and coats.
As if Lord Wyatt knows Georgie is gazing at him, he glances up. When he sees her, Sebastian whips off his hat and smiles up at her with pure unadulterated adoration. I find it difficult not to sigh with envy.
Mr. Sinclair stands beside Lord Wyatt, and the unruly rogue leaves his hat on and grins broadly at me, waving his hand as if he intends to flag down a cabriolet. I cover my mouth, doing my best not to smile at his odd behavior. But if a small grin accidently slips out it is merely because I cannot resist how charmingly provincial he is. He doesn’t care one whit about what is proper, or improper, nor what anyone else thinks of him. Alexander Sinclair is everything I am not.
“Come along.” Miss Stranje orders us away from the balustrade and guides us up to the third floor. “Lady Jane, you will share that room with Maya and Sera. Georgie, you’ll be with Tess in this bedroom.” She sweeps her gaze over our spacious third floor. “Perfect. We will all be here on the third floor together, exactly as we are at home. No need to make the staff run up and down to the fourth floor.”
“That’s a mercy.” Mrs. Creevy unlocks Georgie’s bedroom door. “Especially considering the fourth floor is—”
“Exquisite, I’m sure.” Miss Stranje aims a warning glance at her, but it is lost on the housekeeper.
“Oh yes, it’s quite fine.” Mrs. Creevy throws open the door to Tess and Georgie’s bedroom. “But what I was about to say is—”
“That it must be a great relief you won’t have to run up and down all these stairs?” Miss Stranje is not the sort to interrupt anyone. In fact, she would scold us if one of us did so, but she is certainly doing her share of it today.
Mrs. Creevy pinches up with confusion and shakes her head. The gray curls poking out from her mobcap spring up and down. “No, miss. You needn’t worry yourself on that score; we’re all quite accustomed to the stairs. What I was about to tell you is the fourth floor is—”
“Off limits.” Miss Stranje says sternly, as if it’s a command to us.
“No, it’s where the murders happened,” Mrs. Creevy blurts. “Gives me chills—”
“We will not discuss the…” With a slow deliberate inhale, Miss Stranje straightens to her scariest posture. “Your former employers.”
Mrs. Creevy rocks back on her heels. “As you wish, miss.”
“Good.” Miss Stranje nods curtly. “Kindly inform your staff, I’ll not have anyone filling my young ladies’ heads with tales of what may or may not have occurred.”
“Right.” Mrs. Creevy ducks out of the room, mumbling under her breath. She strides rapidly down the corridor and unlocks our bedroom, and I hurry beside her in time to catch the ver
y end of her muttered rant. “Tale, my arse. I know what I saw.”
I’ll coax the story out of the servants soon enough, but I enter the spacious blue bedroom, and the entire matter wafts out of my mind like a scrap of paper tumbling across the cobblestones. No time for that now. I’m far more interested in changing out of my traveling clothes and hurrying down to see Mr. Sinclair …
Oh, and the other gentlemen, too.
Of course.
Twelve
VISITORS
I tap my foot impatiently. Sera and Maya are still overseeing their unpacking. My things are unpacked and tucked away in under fifteen minutes. No, where-shall-I-put-this business for me. I have a simple orderly system. Stockings and underthings in their own little boxes. Gowns are hung as they ought to be, according to type and color, as are my ribbons.
Five more minutes pass and they’re still directing maids and putting things away. I have already changed and washed my face, so I excuse myself to go downstairs. I step out into the hall, just as Georgie bursts out of her room and nearly collides with me. I grab her arm and stop her from scampering down the stairs like an unruly child.
“We are not street urchins.” I tuck her to my side. “Nor do we want to appear overeager. This is a golden opportunity to practice descending these stairs with the elegance they deserve.”
“Phfft.” She ruffles air over her lips. “I don’t give a fig for elegance. Besides, I don’t have your patience. I am not now, nor will I ever be elegant. I simply haven’t got it in me.” Georgie reluctantly matches her steps to mine.
“Elegance is simply a state of mind.” I realize I sound like a governess, and she will tease me about it later. “Think of it as a performance anyone can master, like learning the steps of a dance.”
She groans. “That isn’t much encouragement, considering the fact that I don’t dance well, either.”
“If you had any interest—”
“There you have the root of the problem. I don’t. Mightn’t we walk a wee bit faster, Lady Jane? I do have an interest in getting to the drawing room sometime before I reach old age.”
“If you wish to surrender your dignity and dash your feminine mystique to pieces, go ahead, run after him.” I let go of her arm, and Georgie hurries down the stairs ahead of me. I sigh, envying her unabashed affection for Lord Wyatt, and wishing I had her trusting view of the world. On the last flight of stairs, though, I notice Georgie slows down.
When I finally enter the parlor, the gentlemen are hatless and already standing. I’m surprised to find that somehow Miss Stranje preceded us into the room.
“There you are.” Alexander strides forward and takes my hand. I stare at his bare hands grasping mine and nearly miss what he is saying. “I was just telling Miss Stranje about our plans for you to teach me how to dance.”
Our plans?
Georgie chuckles. “Oh yes, Lady Jane is first-rate at teaching other people how they ought to dance.”
She is paying me back for my scold on the stairs. Perturbed, I withdraw my fingers from his grasp. “You must be mistaken, sir. I’m unaware of any such arrangement.”
A muddled expression flits across his features and his brow pinches up. “Didn’t you get my letter?”
“Yes, but I have not yet replied.”
“Oh, well, that’s easily remedied.” His customary sunny disposition breaks forth. “What do you say, Lady Jane? Will you teach me one or two of your English dances, and perhaps that newfangled waltz everyone is talking about? Bear in mind it is a matter of national importance, no less than your sworn duty to king and country. Governments may topple should you refuse to carry out this grim task.”
The wretch has me flustered. I catch my bottom lip in my teeth. I know he’s jesting with these ridiculous assertions about it being my obligations to king and country. And yet, it troubles me that Alexander Sinclair has unwittingly stumbled upon the most effective way to coerce me. At least, I think he stumbled upon it. Surely, he can’t have already figured out that I am helpless to say no in the face of a duty or responsibility.
At my failure to agree, he appeals to Miss Stranje. “You’ll tell her to do it, won’t you? She must teach me to dance, mustn’t she?”
Miss Stranje watches me closely. “If she agrees, Mr. Sinclair, I have no objection. My only concern is that you ought not take time away from your more urgent and important tasks. How is your ship coming along?”
“Quite well.” Mr. Sinclair straightens with pride. “Captain Grey secured a dry dock for her in the Woolwich Naval Yards. We should have the Mary Isabella back together in a few days.”
Georgie tips up on her toes eagerly. “We would be happy to help with the reconstruction.”
“Splendid idea.” Mr. Sinclair whirls back to me. “We would be glad of your assistance, too, Lady Jane.”
“Ahem.” Lord Wyatt clears his throat. “The naval yards are no place for—” At a warning glance from Captain Grey, he changes tactics. “Thing is, I’m concerned about how the sailors and shipwrights will react to young ladies working in the dockyards.” He notes Georgie’s frown and swallows hard. “You must understand, your presence there would be highly distracting to the men, not to mention the damage it might do to your reputations.”
“Lord Wyatt is correct,” Miss Stranje says to Georgie with surprising sympathy. “This is London, Miss Fitzwilliam. It is one thing for you to be hammering metal and up to your elbows in grease and grime when we are at home in our secluded country estate. It is quite another to perform such tasks at the naval yards in full view of the dockworkers and sailors. Members of the beau monde are bound to hear of it.”
“But—”
“I don’t like these restrictions any more than you do, my dear. But you must heed my advice on this. If we were not embarked upon such a sensitive and crucial undertaking, I would not mind testing the limits of social strictures. As things are, we cannot take that chance. It rests on us to uncover and stop Lady Daneska’s deadly scheme. Which means it is essential we guard your reputations.” She glances over her shoulder at Tess, Sera, and Maya, who slip quietly into the room. “All of your reputations. Otherwise, we risk losing entry into the very gatherings we must be allowed to attend.”
That, then, is that.
Georgie’s face, ever readable, collapses into a frustrated funk.
Miss Stranje turns a rare approving smile on Captain Grey. “It’s a marvel you were able to secure a berth for the Mary Isabella in the naval yards on such short notice. Well done!”
The Captain is handsomely tanned from his hours in the sun. Even so, I detect a slight pinkness blooming on his cheeks as he acknowledges her compliment. “I cannot accept all the credit. The naval yards are excessively busy, and the credit must go to Lord Castlereagh. As Secretary of Foreign Affairs he has excellent connections with the Admiralty; otherwise we would still be waiting.”
Mr. Sinclair scuffs at the thick Turkish carpet. “Since ladies are not allowed, I suppose we’ll have to muddle along without you. Somehow.” He promptly brightens. “If reconstruction goes as well as it has so far, we plan the unveiling and demonstration to be on Thursday.” He angles his next comment at Miss Stranje. “Surely, on so momentous an occasion, ladies will be welcome in the naval yard? It’s bound to be all right because his majesty, the Prince Regent, and several of his foreign guests plan to attend—”
Sera blurts the thought that snaps into all of our minds. “Lady Daneska will be there.”
“I suppose so,” Alexander continues undeterred by the fact that our murderous enemy will attend his unveiling, even though she may plan to end his life. “Lord and Lady Castlereagh will be there as well—”
“Begging your pardon, miss.” Mr. Peterson shuffles in the doorway and stammers, “You have more guests. Lady de Lieven, Lady Cas—”
“Yes, yes, my good man.” A short plump matron swishes in, dismissing him with a flick of her wrist. “She knows who we are.”
Three women glide int
o the drawing room. I recognize them immediately. Indeed, all of London’s high society knows these women.
The butler extends his leg and bows low as the three ladies parade past him. Leading this procession is Lady Castlereagh, herself. Grayish bronze curls stick out around the edges of her pearl-encrusted plum-satin turban, and bounce gaily with each of her exuberant steps. She has on the most ornate silk pelisse I have ever seen. It’s covered in lavish embroidery, has gold frog closures and a standing collar, and she girdled this elaborate ensemble with a diamond-studded sash.
“Who…? Are they, the…?” Georgie’s whisper trails off in a gasp.
“Yes,” I answer quickly and discreetly. “The Patronesses.”
Georgie mouths a silent “Oh,” and nervously inches closer to me.
For good reason.
These are the arbiters of London’s high society. Young ladies making their debut must petition for an audience with one of these reigning queens of the beau monde in order to obtain vouchers for Almack’s Assembly Rooms, an exclusive meeting place for the haut ton. It is the gathering place for the pinnacle of highly fashionable people. No one is admitted through the hallowed doors of Almack’s without a voucher card, and those coveted cards must be signed, sealed, and issued by one of the seven illustrious Patronesses of Almack’s.
Keepers of the social gate.
Guardians of the aristocracy’s matrimonial mart.
Final judge and jury as to who is up to the mark, and who is not.
A debutante hoping for an advantageous marriage might wait weeks, or even months, for an audience with one of these formidable ladies. Or she may not be granted an audience at all. Yet, here we are, on our very first afternoon in London, and to my utter astonishment, three Patronesses are converging in our drawing room.
“Did I hear my name mentioned?” Lady Castlereagh strides toward us, smiling with an impish glint. “Should my ears be burning?”
The gentlemen bow. Tess, Sera, and Maya drop into polite curtsies. I nudge Georgie and we follow suit. Miss Stranje hurries forward holding out both hands. “Lady Castlereagh!” she cries with girlish delight.
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