“I think it might be prudent,” said Miss Holmes, “for your invitation to be marked up as well. One must be prepared for any eventuality.”
“One must,” I said, keeping my sarcasm to a minimum, “but I’m sorry to say that I don’t happen to have in my possession any specialty indigo ink from Mr. Inkwell’s—” I stopped when I saw the look on her face. “Right. Of course.”
She produced a writing instrument that was, presumably, already loaded with the special indigo ink. I handed over my invitation without another word, and to my relief, she didn’t make any further comment or show any sign of smugness.
The carriage jolted forward again, then stopped. Miss Holmes used the little fan-like wings of her dragonfly pin to dry the ink and then handed me my invitation. We lapsed into silence until our door was opened and a white-gloved coachman helped each of us down. The sun had set and any natural illumination was only a glimpse of moon from behind wispy gray clouds and a faulty swath of stars arcing over the dark sky.
The mansion, which was one of the few in the city that boasted large, gated grounds, loomed above us. A flight of steps led up to a well-lit entrance on a side of the building rather than the door facing the drive. A smooth mechanical ramp ascended so ladies in their cumbersome skirts and high-heeled shoes wouldn’t wear themselves out from the climb. Some fashionable skirts were so narrow, with their high bustle over the rear, that the wearer could only take small, mincing steps. At least Mina had had the wherewithal to don a gown with petticoats that allowed for some movement, despite their weight and layers.
Medievaler that I am, I disdained the ramp in favor of the stairs and found myself waiting for Miss Holmes as she rode up the mechanized trolley.
A series of panels and doors had been removed from the building, leaving an entire wall of the foyer open to the night air, with no boundary between terrace and interior. The dull roar of people talking and laughing mingled with the music from a small orchestra, spilling into the outdoors. Even from where I stood, I could see glittering gold streamers and bunting, and hundreds of bloodred roses in vases, clustered on trellises and attached to potted trees. Someone had cut many large leafless branches, painted them dark red, and arranged them like trees. A number of self-propelled, copper-winged lanterns flitted about like hand-size fireflies.
“It’s beautiful,” Miss Holmes murmured. “Like a gilded English rose garden.”
I couldn’t disagree, but how often did they have to replace the gears in those silly flying lights anyway? “They’ll want to announce us,” I said. She grimaced, but stepped up with me to hand our calling cards to the butler.
“She pronounces her name Evah-line, not Evah-leen,” Miss Holmes informed the butler as she pointed to my card. I rolled my eyes. I didn’t care.
“Miss Evaline Stoker and Miss Mina Holmes,” the butler intoned.
The place was an absolute crush, with people hardly able to move about the room. Lord and Lady Cosgrove-Pitt stood just inside the entrance to greet each guest, and we dutifully approached.
Lord Cosgrove-Pitt, who was older and grayer than his pretty dark-haired wife, was stately and a bit portly. He took my hand and bowed, but it was my companion who attracted his attention. “Sir Mycroft’s daughter?” he boomed over the noise. “Mr. Holmes’s niece? How can it be that we’ve never met? Bella, surely you’ve invited Miss Holmes to our parties, haven’t you? Important young lady, you know.”
“Why, Miss Holmes,” said his wife, taking my companion’s hand in her gloved ones. “I am so pleased to meet you, and I apologize for never having done so in the past. Mr. Holmes’s niece, you say?”
My companion’s nose had gone dull red, but she curtseyed and thanked Lord Cosgrove-Pitt for his kindness, then responded to his wife. “Yes, indeed, Lady Cosgrove-Pitt. Sherlock Holmes is my uncle.”
“He is quite a clever man.” She looked up at her husband. “He assisted me with a little problem some years ago—you do remember, don’t you, dear?”
“Something to do with the upstairs maid filching the silver?” He rubbed his chin.
Lady Isabella patted his arm. “It was the downstairs maid, and Mr. Holmes proved she was innocent, as it turned out, of breaking one of the glass cases in the gallery.” She turned back to us. “I do hope you enjoy yourselves tonight. Please make certain you take a stroll through the art gallery while you are here.”
As we thanked her, turning to make our way into the throngs of people, I felt a sudden awareness sing down my spine. Someone was watching me.
I glanced around the party. Since we were still standing on the terrace, which connected the outside with the ballroom, we were several steps above the main floor. Through the dancing and visiting below, I could see quite well.
A huge cluster of potted topiaries festooned with rich red roses mingled with some of the painted trees. My attention focused there on a trio of manservants, standing at the ready with trays and white towels over their arms. Even as they watched the partygoers, they talked and laughed together. They wore gold jackets with a rose on each lapel.
As I stared at them, one in particular caught my eye. There was something familiar about him.
That tingle up my spine grew cold.
He reminded me an awful lot of Pix.
Miss Holmes
Of Firefly Lanterns, Copper Heels, and Convenient Waltzes
I felt Miss Stoker go rigid next to me. I turned to follow her gaze, but even my sharp observation skills revealed nothing that seemed out of place.
“Impossible,” she muttered, staring down into the crowded room. “Not a bloody chance.”
I’d been around my uncle and his friend Dr. Watson enough not to mind curse words, but I was taken aback that Miss Stoker employed them as handily as the men did. Just as I was about to ask her for an explanation, an unfamiliar roar from outside caught my ears. I turned to see a sleek steamcycle shoot up the steps and onto the far edge of the terrace. Bent over the handlebars, the rider wore goggles, a tight aviator cap with earflaps, and a long coat that whipped out behind him. He manipulated the cycle neatly into a spot far beyond the partygoers.
The vehicle, which looked utterly dangerous—and possibly illegal—gleamed like the sun with its copper and bronze machinery and sported a bit of brass detail around the bottom. A bell-shaped metal skirt hid whatever mechanism kept the cycle gliding along more than a foot above the ground, and there was a trio of copper pipes at the rear from which the steam could escape. The rider turned off the engine and the vehicle gave a soft hiss, then sank to the stone terrace as if lowering itself on invisible legs.
Like dismounting from a horse, the steamcycle’s rider climbed off and raised his goggles, giving an abrupt wave to the grooms who’d noticed his arrival. If their gawking was any indication, those young men would be easily convinced to give up their livelihood of managing horses in favor of this tempting new mode of transportation.
But it wasn’t until the rider yanked off his hat by an earflap and revealed a head of ginger-colored hair that I recognized him.
Inspector Grayling.
What on earth would he be doing at an event like this? A simple Scotland Yard investigator? At a Society party? Surely he wasn’t here as a guest. Which meant he must be here in some official capacity. That conclusion caused me to relax only slightly. Could he be investigating something related to Miss Hodgeworth’s horrible death—just as we were?
I was not about to let him interfere with my investigation.
Grayling hadn’t yet noticed me. As I watched, he pulled off his long duster and slung it carelessly over the back of the cycle, giving some direction to the nearest groom. He was dressed in evening wear and not the more informal garb of his occupation.