“Fine. Then perhaps we shall reschedule. Mrs. Rose, what is your availability this afternoon?”
Mrs. Rose laughed again. “Booked of course—with you! Your father has me on retainer for your entire stay in London. I’ll bewith you every step of the way. Every ball, every dinner, every tea. Fear not, we shall make a debutante of you!”
Elswyth smiled thinly. “That will not be possible. I have obligations elsewhere in the city.”
Mrs. Rose blinked, keeping her smile rigid. “What a shame. Your father did not inform me of your prior engagements. In order to attract a proper match, we will need plenty of time to prepare.”
She sighed and then moved to her tea set and began collecting the pieces. “That’s fine, I suppose. I will simply have to write him and tell him that the other man… what was his name? Cousin Ficus? Yes, perhaps your cousin is the best option, after all.”
Mrs. Rose looked at her, hand paused over a teacup, toying with it idly. Elswyth clenched her teeth. She set her reticule down on the table, careful not to slam it, and then pulled out her chair and sat.
Mrs. Rose beamed, clapping her hands together. “Excellent! Oh, we’re going to have so much fun.”
When Mrs. Rose finally departed, the sun had already set. Scotland Yard would be shut to the public. Elswyth’s window of opportunity had closed. And though she penned a letter to the detective inspector describing her sister’s bouquet, she doubted they’d take it seriously. And besides, when she’d written out her theories, she became less and less confident in them. She felt like a madwoman, seeing menacing faces in the shadows and sinister secrets hidden in ordinary flowers.
Elswyth found her uncle in his study, a stately room dominated by a large writing desk. She still wore the ridiculous gown that Mrs. Rose had dressed her in, crinoline and all, and found that thecage would not fit through the door when she tried to enter the room.
The scraping sound alerted her uncle to her presence. He looked up, stared at her, and removed his spectacles “By God. What has she done to you?”
Elswyth forced the cage of her gown through the door and avoided tripping long enough to get to a chair. Once there, she plopped down, sending the cage soaring upward and burying herself in a pile of chiffon. She flattened it, blew the stray hairs from her face, and said, “Uncle, you’re a lawmaker. What is the penalty for murder these days?”
Her uncle snorted and went back to writing. “If I thought you could get rid of Mrs. Rose by merely killing her, I would have tried. But I’m afraid not even death will keep Mrs. Rose from finding you a match, once she has her eyes set on you.”
“You avoided it, it would seem. What is your secret?”
“Decades of strategic maneuvering. I may be a great hunter, but when it comes to Vivian Rose, I am the prey.”
“Come now, there must be some way to get rid of her.”
“Your father has his demands. I cannot help you.”
“Then you shall join him in hell,” Elswyth said.
Her uncle smiled. “I have no solution for you but brandy. Shall I pour us some?”
“Mrs. Rose says brandy has a masculine association, and a young lady should endeavor to avoid all masculinity, preferring wine and tonics.”
“So. One thumb or two?”
“I feel that two thumbs is justified, in this case,” Elswyth said. Her uncle poured the drinks from a small cart near the window and then handed her the glass. It tasted warm and bitter with hintsof spice, oak, and winter fruits. She let the feeling settle over her, relaxing her head on the wingback chair. Although she wasn’t usually a drinker—she had seen her father consumed by it after her mother died—she supposed that if there was ever a time for brandy, it was after a day spent with Mrs. Rose. And there were many more to come—Mrs. Rose had filled her upcoming schedule with lessons. Even if sheweregranted an audience with the police, she didn’t think she would have the time.
“So, how are your marriage prospects?” Percival asked.
“Dismal. To hear Mrs. Rose say it, I am positively feral. Doubtless because my mother died so young, leaving me to run wild under the reign of my father. She believes my education is a detriment, as education is also a masculine quality. But—like my other unfortunate quality, my scar—I am stuck with it. Unless I find a quick way to forget a lot of obscure things about plants.”
“Perhaps brandy can help you there, too. I find it makes me positively stupid.”
Elswyth leaned forward, resting her elbows on her crinoline. She took another sip, looking out the window at the darkening city. “Surely there must be another way.”
“You can write your father. See if he changes his mind,” Percival said.
Elswyth frowned; thinking of her father filled her with sadness. How had he fared since her departure? Had his warping spread? At this time of evening, he’d be asleep before the fire, tincture of laudanum by his side. She found she missed him dearly. She felt as though a vital piece of her had gone missing, and a mournful gale whipped through the space where it should have been. Home—Father—Persephone. All things she would likely never see again.
She composed herself to speak. “I penned a letter to him themoment I was free of her. But I do not expect a favorable response. Likely he will suggest I return and wed Cousin Ficus.”
“I never liked that man. I always thought he quite smelled like anchovies.”
Elswyth laughed so unexpectedly that she almost spit brandy on the desk. “That is the smell. I’ve never been able to name it so precisely.”
