And if someone found Vivian herself sneaking around… the commissioner had offered her a week. But that wouldn’t be worth much if she got herself into trouble in Buchanan’s own house again. It’d be back to jail for sure, and no chance of Leo bailing her out this time.
But that week was already slipping away.
She tossed the note into the rubbish bin and got ready for bed, her movements sharp and agitated as she kicked off her shoes and shrugged her coat from her shoulders.
By the time she had crammed another rag under the window’s loose sash and was shivering under her quilt, knees pulled up nearly to her chin and arms wrapped around herself, Vivian had made up her mind.
She’d just have to keep her head down and pray they didn’t get caught. Because if Bea was willing to take the risk, Vivian wouldn’t say no.
She’d take whatever chance she could to find out more.
THIRTEEN
Five Days Left
Quiet and quick,” Bea said, glancing around as she gestured Vivian through the door.
The afternoon wind was still for once, and the air almost felt like spring—a promise or a taunt. The sharp, biting cold would return, but for the moment, there was no draft to give the open door away. As Vivian dashed from her hiding place behind the stone garage—it had probably once held a carriage, but now housed a gleaming black Rolls—and ducked into the Buchanans’ Fifth Avenue mansion, she wanted to believe that was a sign. But she was too practical for that. It was good luck, and it probably wouldn’t last.
That didn’t stop her from following Bea up the back stairs, both of them nearly silent on feet that were used to the fast pace of a quickstep or the light breath of a waltz. The tradesmen’s entrance, where she had come in before, opened into the main downstairs corridor, near the kitchen. This one had clearly once been meant to sequester the smell of horses and their handlers from the rest of the house. The passage fromit was long, and it went straight to the narrowest set of stairs Vivian had ever seen.
“How’d you manage to get hired so quickly?” Vivian whispered as they crept up. “You don’t know any more about being a maid than I do.”
The quiet sound Bea made might have been a snort of laughter if it had been louder. “Seems like their applicants disappeared once girls put two and two together and realized someone here had just been murdered. And then another maid up and quit yesterday. Mrs. Buchanan was desperate. Now stop talking. Coast should be clear, but I’m not taking more chances than I need to.”
Vivian held her breath as they went around each corner, but their good luck stayed with them—or maybe it was just that Bea had, in her usual practical way, planned everything with fierce caution. They didn’t see anyone else, and soon they were upstairs.
Bea peered out into the hall, then beckoned for Vivian to follow. The hall itself—carved and gilded and tiled in crisp squares of black and white marble—was open on one side, overlooking the grand entryway below. Vivian hesitated, not wanting to risk being seen. But she followed Bea, and soon they were around the corner and out of sight.
The room Bea led her to was cramped with furniture and knickknacks, many things still in boxes or crammed into crates. Against one wall, half a dozen large paintings were stacked carelessly one against the other. In another corner, leather-bound books were piled in a tower that looked like it was about to topple over at any second. Glancing around, Vivian pushed them toward the wall, nervous that someone might come to investigate the sound if they fell over.
“A storage room?” she asked, confused. Half of her wanted to tell Bea she’d changed her mind, that she wanted to leave. But she couldn’t do that. She was just as likely to get spotted leaving as she was to be caught eavesdropping. Better to learn something first, if there was anything to learn, than risk getting caught for nothing. “Why—”
“No one’s bothering with unpacking today, given everything that’s happened,” Bea whispered, glancing around. “There’s a staircase behind that door. I figure you can—”
“Oh dear.”
The quiet, faintly amused voice made them both jump, and Vivian grabbed Bea’s arm as she spun toward the door.
The woman waiting there smiled at them. “Call it a hunch, but something tells me you girls aren’t supposed to be here.” She made atsking sound with her tongue. “Now, what shall we do about that?”
FOURTEEN
Vivian stared at the woman, who had closed the door behind her, as stunned as if the floor had disappeared beneath her feet. “Mrs. Wilson,” she said, her voice little more than a croak. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Hattie Wilsontsked again, resettling the fur stole that she wore draped around her shoulders. She was dressed for mourning, Vivian noticed, in black lace and silk, with pearls draped around her neck and hanging from her ears. It was a dress Vivian recognized. She had watched the seamstress who sewed it after Mrs. Wilson’s husband had died. Her hat was perched stylishly on one side of her head, and the netted veil that draped across its brim hid half her face, making it nearly impossible to read her expression.
China-doll pretty, wearing her long hair pinned demurely back and with just enough cosmetics on to make her look as winsome as possible without opening her up to an accusation of being fast, Hattie Wilson wasn’t much older than Vivian. But she had enoughpoise and confidence to make Vivian feel like a child around her. It was the sort of polish that came from years of living in wealth and comfort, confident that whatever you wished to happen, could and likely would.
And in Hattie Wilson’s case, it came from being at the head of the small but thriving criminal empire she had taken over after her husband’s death.
“I thought you had better manners than that,” Hattie continued, turning just enough to glance at Bea. “At least one of you knows when to keep your mouth shut. Though it’s a pity, really. You sing so beautifully when you open it.”
Bea took a step back. “How…”
“I’ve seen you perform, Bluebird,” Hattie said with a smile, beautiful and cold as a diamond. Whatever she was thinking, she hid it well. But at least she hadn’t turned them in. Not yet. “Which is why you caught my eye when I was coming upstairs. Honor Huxley’s star chanteuse, sneaking around here of all places, today of all days?” Hattie drifted, unhurried or maybe just tormenting them, toward one side of the room, pulling the top book from the stack and rolling her eyes at it. “The Odyssey? Really? How predictable. And I bet he never opened it once after he bought it.” She glanced toward Bea and Vivian again as she tossed the book carelessly back down. “To answer your question, I was invited, Miss Kelly. Can you say the same?” When neither of them answered, she smiled again. “I thought not.”
“Invited?” Vivian asked before she thought better of the question.
