On the day she was to visit Scotland Yard, Elswyth wore sensible clothes: a black wool gown, walking boots, and a black jacket. She wore her hair in a loose braid, as she usually did, and unadorned—flowers, she thought, even those meant to signify mourning, might make her seem less serious in her intentions. That day she would bring her interpretation of Persephone’s bouquet to the police, certain there was some connection to her sister’s disappearance.
Once she had dressed, she packed her notes on the bouquet in her reticule and then left her quarters for breakfast. But when she arrived in the dining room, an unfamiliar woman sat at thetable with Percival. She was small—a head shorter than Elswyth—and of an indeterminate age, although likely at least fifty. She was dressed in a shell-pink bouclé skirt and jacket set with golden buttons. Her hair was stylishly short, dyed honey brown, and accented with a matching fascinator pinned to the side of her head. Bright pink feathers adorned the hat, as though a flamingo had made a nest of it. The woman laughed as she ate with Percival, talking excitedly.
Her uncle frowned as Elswyth entered, taking his napkin from his lap to stand and greet her. “Ahem. Elswyth,” he said, gesturing to the woman, “this is—”
Before he could finish speaking, the woman stood and walked toward Elswyth. “This is her? This is her. Oh my… Yes, what lovely hair. The possibilities!”
She approached Elswyth and grabbed her shoulders, smiling brightly. The woman landed a quick kiss on Elswyth’s right cheek, then moved to the left—and stopped, leaving Elswyth’s scarred cheek untouched.
“Yes, well—lovely, just lovely, and so tall—but not too tall, that’s good. Thin as a whip. Porcelain skin—well, mostly porcelain—and the green eyes. Well,eye,but still. My, we have quite theuniquebeauty on our hands, Percival!” The woman laughed nervously.
Elswyth looked to her Uncle Percival, who shrugged as though helpless. The woman began circling her, picking at the folds of her walking gown. Elswyth raised a hand to stop her. “I apologize,” she said coldly. “I must have missed your name.”
The woman circled to the front again, smiling. “Certainly your father told you about me, dear.”
“I’m afraid he did not.”
She put a hand to her chest as though offended. “My, what a faux pas. Here I am, without a proper introduction.” She laughed—a surprised, brittle sound. Then she fished around in her reticule, producing a slim business card. Elswyth read the swirling letters, printed to look like calligraphy. It read:Madame Vivian Rose: Private Etiquette Tutor.
Elswyth flipped the card over and then looked back at the woman. “A tutor.”
The woman laughed again, looking over her shoulder to Percival. “And more!”
Percival inclined his head. “Mrs. Rose is a very knowledgeable person in terms of society. She used to be quite the famous prima donna, when I was a younger man. She is here to help you find a husband.”
Mrs. Rose looked appropriately bashful. “Oh, Lord Devereux, my singing days are far behind me. Unless, of course… you want a private show?” She batted her eyes at him, smiling.
Percival swallowed, clearing his throat. “Well—ahem. No, no… We must focus on Elswyth.”
Mrs. Rose pursed her lips. “Perhaps another time. But don’t think I’ve forgotten aboutyou, Lord Devereux. In all my years of matchmaking, you’re the only client I was never able to find a match for. Your father was quite cross with me.”
Mrs. Rose looked to Elswyth conspiratorially. “Very picky, your uncle. But I have a whole slate of women lined up just in case he decides to marry. You know, it’s not too late for an heir, even at your age.”
Percival’s face went beet red. “Erm—well, I like to think I’m married to my work…”
“A matchmaker, then,” Elswyth said. “Is that not a little old-fashioned?”
“A matchmaker! Oh no, I am much more than that. And very discreet. Please, please do come sit. I will explain everything.”
She gestured to the table, where a tea set waited.
“I am so sorry. Today is actually a rather bad time. I have an appointment in the city,” Elswyth said.
Mrs. Rose laughed. “An appointment! My, she’s a natural. Tell me, upon which lady are you calling?”
“Not a lady. I am going to visit the Metropolitan Police.”
Mrs. Rose’s smile vanished. Then she stepped forward, concerned. “Poor girl… that is no place for a young lady.” She turned back to Uncle Percival, who looked surprised—Elswyth had not told him that she intended to visit Scotland Yard. “And to think, we almost let her out of the house unsupervised! The city is such a dangerous place. Surely, you must realize that. With, well…”
Elswyth stared at the woman and dug her nails into her palm. “That is precisely why I am going to see the police,” she said.
“No, certainly not. Your uncle will take care of all that business. Now, you must sit. We have so much to go over—”
“Uncle,” Elswyth said, “please tell me this is some kind of jest?”
Her uncle sighed. “It is requisite upon your staying here, per your father. I’m afraid it’s out of my hands, dear.”
Elswyth rubbed the bridge of her nose. She’d wanted to get there as soon as the office opened at nine o’clock. She didn’t have time for some inane lesson about tea.
