A Terribly Nasty Business

A Terribly Nasty Business

Chapter One

An Exit

In the northwest corner of London was a neighborhood called Sweetbriar, known for its theater, its pleasure garden, and an unfortunate infestation of flying squirrels. This is where Beatrice Steele had taken up residence with her chaperone, Miss Helen Bolton. Except for the squirrels, it was just the sort of neighborhood in which Beatrice had always dreamed of living—that is, when she wasn’t dreaming about solving murders. But so far, her new life wasn’t quite what she had imagined.

Beatrice had grown up in a small, manners-obsessed town called Swampshire, where she always feared that her reputation would be ruined if her secret true-crime obsession came to light. (Her horrifically bad skills at sketching, embroidery, non-macabre conversation, and most other hobbies suitable for an “accomplished woman” hardly helped the matter.) But when a gentleman dropped dead at a country ball, she finally got the chance to put her detecting skills to the test and caught the killer alongside the haughty but admittedly perceptive Inspector Vivek Drake.

Was it unfortunate that the dead body had been a wealthy man and presumed match for Beatrice’s sister? Yes. Was it even worse that Beatrice had determined the killer to be her own childhood best friend and potential betrothed? Of course. Was it devastating that a lovely ball had been ruined by a corpse? Perhaps, though not for Miss Steele.

Drake showed up on her doorstep shortly after their investigation concluded, asking if she would partner with him to open a detective office in London. The venture was funded by Drake’s newfound half sister (newly found by Beatrice, a fact she would not let Drake forget). Beatrice’s future had fallen into place perfectly—until her mother got involved.

“If you are going to help catch murderers, you must do it the proper way: accompanied by an unmarried, middle-aged woman!” Mrs. Steele insisted.

She would not hear of Beatrice going to London unchaperoned. Without a guardian, Beatrice could fall in with the wrong crowd, gamble her money away, be shamed in the social columns, and be forced to work as an opera singer in order to pay off her debts. Beatrice could not carry a tune to save her life. The scandal would be extreme.

Luckily, the family’s close friend and neighbor Miss Bolton volunteered her services without question. As an aspiring playwright, Miss Bolton had her own dreams to pursue in the city. She and her dog, Bee Bee, were happy to come along. Beatrice was grateful for the company, as well as the comfortable town house Miss Bolton rented for their residence.

What she was not grateful for was Mrs. Steele’s steel-like grip on Miss Bolton. Beatrice quickly learned that “chaperone” was merely another word for “spy,” for Mrs. Steele had not given up on the hope that her eldest daughter would make a fortuitous match. Though Beatrice had hoped to spend her days solving crimes with Inspector Drake, her first few months in London had been a flurry of social activities meant to find a man. And unfortunately this man would be a husband, not a murderer.

That was how Beatrice found herself at a garden party on an overly warm Tuesday in June, taking her fourth turn around the meager gardens of the Carnation Club. She had spent the afternoon elbow to elbow with eligible ladies and gentlemen. She had sampled the lemon ice, played two rounds of croquet, and commented five times on how quickly the grass seemed to grow in this neighborhood. Now she was struggling not to faint, from both heat and boredom.

“They must water the lawn often,” Miss Bolton said for the sixth time. “Speaking of water . . . this punch is terrible.”

She and Beatrice were wedged in between four other chaperones and their charges, all shuffling through the moist garden.

“Does it taste bitter?” Beatrice asked at once, her slippers squelching as she halted in the grass. “Someone could have poisoned it with hemlock, or even laurel water—”

“No one has been poisoned, Beatrice,” Miss Bolton assured her. “And that is a good thing, so don’t look disappointed.”

“I merely thought the lethargy brought on by the toxin could explain why everyone here is acting so dull,” Beatrice sighed.

“That is due to the heat, and the fact that most people possess passionless personalities,” Miss Bolton said. She took another sip of her punch and then pursed her lips nervously. “Though . . . if it were poison—”

“Then you should administer brandy to counteract the effects,” Beatrice said immediately. “I could fetch you some, just in case—”

“Not necessary!” Miss Bolton removed the lid of her hat, revealing several small bottles stored inside. She selected a vial of brandy, dumped it into her punch glass, and then replaced the hat lid. “Your mother insists that nothing shall stop us from participating in this Season, so I came prepared.”

There were three assembly rooms in Beatrice’s London neighborhood: the Rose, the Tulip, and the Carnation. Each had a summer Season that young ladies and gentlemen could attend. One had to be invited, of course; this was how private clubs provided protection against ne’er-do-wells. When courting, smart gentlemen and ladies always used protection.

Patronesses—married women with an eye for matchmaking—hand-selected the lists of attendees for each Season. This ensured that a young lady could meet just the right sort of man: handsome, genteel, and filthy rich. And likely seeking a wife who preferred playing the pianoforte to pursuing justice.

Beatrice had somehow landed invites to the Tulip and Carnation, but the mysterious, elite Rose Club had not extended such a summons.

“Your mother’s instructions were simple,” Miss Bolton reiterated. “Participate in the Season, marry a wealthy man, and uphold your family’s reputation and subsequent fortune by following a strict code of conduct for the rest of your life.”

“Yes, simple,” Beatrice said dryly. “But there are so many people here that I can hardly breathe, let alone distinguish myself from the other young ladies in order to find a match.”

In Swampshire, Beatrice had felt overscrutinized, her every move watched in a small town in which everyone knew everyone. But now it was as if someone had created a hundred Beatrices and Miss Boltons and dropped them into a garden together, which came with its own challenges. Namely, personal space.

“The Carnation’s guest list is unwieldy,” Miss Bolton agreed as they pushed their way in between two young ladies and their chaperones. “It would be wonderful if you could get an invite to the Rose—”

“They only accept the wealthiest, most elite members of society into their ranks,” a chaperone next to Miss Bolton offered helpfully. “The only time all the classes mingle is at Sweetbriar’s end-of-summer masquerade.”

“Excuse me, this is a private conversation,” Miss Bolton said, turning toward the woman. They were nearly cheek to cheek. She then turned back to Beatrice. “What nerve—assuming that we aren’t the wealthiest, most elite members of society.”

“Well, we aren’t,” Beatrice said.

“Yes, but she doesn’t know that,” Miss Bolton whispered.

“I thought that we would leave these social games back in Swampshire.” Beatrice sighed. “Must we participate in the Season? Don’t you ever wish we could just . . . let it all go?”

“I made your mother a promise that I would chaperone you, and I mean to keep that promise,” Miss Bolton replied firmly. “The last time I shirked my duties, you nearly died. I won’t make that mistake again.”

Technically, Miss Bolton was correct in this comment. She had been assigned to chaperone Beatrice on her first case with Inspector Drake. But after Drake questioned Miss Bolton’s reliability, she fled, leaving them alone. When Beatrice and Drake were subsequently attacked by the killer, Miss Bolton blamed herself, for she believed abandoning her post had left them vulnerable. After such a close call, she rededicated herself to said post (and to her hats, which ultimately saved the day, since her chapeau’s parachute feature had rescued them all from certain death).

But in spite of Miss Bolton’s determination, Beatrice knew exactly how to give her dear friend the slip.

“Did you hear that Mr. Percival Nash is somewhere at this party?” she asked casually, and Miss Bolton dropped her arm. Her eyes widened with excitement—and distraction—just as Beatrice had known they would.

“Percival Nash? The star of Figaro III: Here We Figaro Again?” Miss Bolton gasped. “I just know he would be perfect as the leading man in my play. He is charismatic, handsome, has incredible breath support . . . and I don’t believe the rumors that his hair is fake. If only I could get him to read my script Altus—it is a celebration of altos, sung all in Latin. Altos never get a chance to shine, you know—”

“Someone said he was by the fountain. You go look, and I shall fetch us more punch,” Beatrice told her.