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.
My eyes narrowed in consideration, and I turned to speak to Miss Stoker, but she was gone. I perused the room from a high vantage point, but saw no sign of my companion’s dark head.
It was to my advantage not to be seen by Inspector Grayling when and if he should enter the festivities, so I lifted my skirts and made my way as expediently as possible down the steps into the shallow, circular ballroom.
I reminded myself of the reason for my presence at this crush of a party. But looking over the number of people crowding the room, spilling onto the terrace and into other interior chambers of the mansion, I despaired that I would find anything related to Sekhmet, an Egyptian scarab, or the meaning of the number nine and stars.
I lifted my chin in determination. I was a Holmes. Observation, deduction, and duty to the Crown were my life. I would brave even a Society event to fulfill my destiny, though I hoped I’d remain beneath the notice of the eligible young men who were in attendance. I had no interest in attempting to converse with any of them.
Or—worse—to realize that none of them had the least bit of interest in conversing with me.
Chin still firmly in the air, I made my way along the perimeter of the room, skirting past topiaries and innumerable roses. I considered the situation as I brushed past an urn containing man-size red branches. The beetle marking on the invitation could be a form of identification or perhaps a call to action, such as to a meeting, which would confirm my suspicion that the nine had to do with some event at nine o’clock. An event that had to do with stars. And one thing had become clear: several young women were connected by Sekhmet’s scarab, which implied some sort of association—or at least a communication system.
If they didn’t know each other, the scarab must identify another member of the group. If they did know each other, then that would make it all the more difficult for me to masquerade as the recipient of a scarab message. The fact that I had the invitation with the beetle symbol on it was definitely a point in favor of attempting the risky proposition.
Something Lady Cosgrove-Pitt had said echoed in my mind. Please make certain you take a stroll through the art gallery while you are here.
An art gallery could include many forms of art and possible topics of conversation. Including that of Egyptology and Egyptian antiquities. Aside from that, looking for the gallery might also help me with the other part of my plan: to find the guest list for this event in Lady Cosgrove-Pitt’s study.
Exhilarated by these possibilities, I turned to the interior of the house. My skirt caught on my tall, skinny copper heel, and I felt the fabric of my crinoline tear beneath it. Even worse, in my haste, I bumped into one of the pots holding a tree-branch arrangement.
The urn wobbled, tipped, and then the whole cluster began to fall. I lurched at the branches and tried to catch them, my skirt still caught on my heel, and somehow managed to rescue the whole pot before it crashed to the floor.
Well, almost all of it.
One of the branches escaped my grip and fell into another set of false trees, throwing them off balance in their own vase. I grabbed them before they tipped over and spent the next few moments breathing heavily, rearranging the blasted things, and hoping no one had noticed my near disaster.
But when I turned away from them, ready to make my escape and to continue on my mission, I found myself face- to-face with Inspector Grayling.
“Are you quite finished, Miss Holmes?”
I wasn’t certain whether to be mortified that he had witnessed my mishap or vexed that he’d stood by and watched me struggle without bothering to offer assistance. My face, which was hot and damp, was probably crimson—a fact which I tried not to think about, but couldn’t dismiss, causing my cheeks to grow even hotter.
Since I had no good response to his query, I responded with one of my own. “What are you doing here?” I lifted my nose and tried not to be annoyed by how tall he was.
“I’m here in an official capacity,” he said, lifting his nose.
“As am I,” was my rejoinder. I was trying to inconspicuously extricate my slender copper heel from where it was still embedded in the lace trim of my underskirt.
“Is everything quite all right, Miss Holmes?” he asked, looking in bemusement at my skirts, which were moving due to my foot’s contortions. I wished earnestly for one of the flying firefly lanterns to crash into his arrogant, too-tall head.
But before I could reply, a sunny voice from behind interrupted us. “Why, Miss Holmes! I see you’ve met our dear Ambrose.”
I turned to see Lady Cosgrove-Pitt bearing down on us. Her pale gray eyes lit with enthusiasm, and she looked from Grayling to me and back again. Perhaps she read our tension, for she said, “Brose, darling, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes’s niece. It would be nice for you to get to know her a bit, since you might cross paths with him in
