Chapter 1
Chapter
London, England
How was a lady to discreetly conceal a grappling hook on her person, that was the question. And the answer, quite logically, was within the handle of a parasol.
At least, this answer was quite logical to Lady Margaret Kingsley, who estimated she could have the gadget constructed before afternoon tea.
Then again, the gears of Margaret’s mind had always turned in a rather unique manner, processing information in a way her peers and society at large often failed to comprehend.
A point of disconnect that resulted in her life being as extraordinary as it was lonely.
Alas, Margaret was not like other girls in high society.
For one, having celebrated her thirtieth trip around the sun, she was well into spinsterhood and not likely to be mistaken for a girl.
For another, having suffered a grievous injury in her youth, she was afflicted with chronic pain and the dehumanizing term of invalid.
However, what truly set Lady Margaret Kingsley apart—and what made her life significantly less lonesome than it had once been—was her affiliation with the Daughters of Genius Society.
Which was precisely where she was tinkering on this Friday in March.
Tucked away in her workshop at D.O.G.S. headquarters, Margaret gazed through the magnification monocle attached to her goggles as she used a precision screwdriver to make a final modification to the parasol handle. There. That should do quite nicely.
Margaret removed her protective goggles and placed them on her scarred worktable, strewn with tools and parts and various devices still in development.
She leaned back in her chair, taut muscles relaxing a fraction as the lumbar cushion she’d designed offered support.
Examining her latest invention with a critical eye, she deemed it ready for final testing—and none too soon, for the Parasol Grappler was paramount to the success of tomorrow’s rescue mission.
If all went according to plan, Jane’s clandestine assignment within the walls of Bedlam would end at half past noon.
While the asylum nurses led their customary tour of the facility and its inhabitants, Louisa would gain entry among the gawking throng of full purses with empty hearts to create a distraction involving some rather lifelike automaton mice.
The nurses thus diverted by the chaos Louisa incited, Helena would approach the asylum from the rear and access the upper dormitory via the Parasol Grappler while an armed Iva Leene stood watch, thereby retrieving Jane and the na?ve heiress who’d been wrongfully committed by her fortune-hunting husband, Sir Percival Glyde.
Once Margaret’s D.O.G.S. sisters safely returned the young lady to her distraught parents and a judge armed with annulment papers, the case would be closed.
As would another typical week at the Daughters of Genius Society.
Bracing her hands upon the table, Margaret rose to her feet.
She paused a moment, judging her stability, and exhaled a silent prayer of gratitude when her body functioned as intended, bearing her weight.
Such functionality was not guaranteed and therefore was never taken for granted.
Gingerly, she walked across the workshop to the intercom, placing a palm against the azure damask wallpaper.
She pressed the brass button engraved with an H on the intercommunication system installed throughout the townhouse—one technological update of many she’d made to headquarters since joining the society five years ago.
“Helena, please join me in the workshop when you’ve a moment. It’s ready.” Margaret released the button, and soon her best friend’s voice reverberated through the hidden speakers.
“Be there in a trice, Maggie. Just allow me to secure this sample of galerina marginata teliospores.”
Ah, the hazards of conversing with a naturalist. One never knew when they might lapse into Latin.
If Margaret recalled her taxonomy correctly, Helena was absorbed in the study of mycology at present.
No doubt conducting further research for her passion project, a comprehensive handbook on toxic mushrooms. She pressed the H button once more. “Right-oh.”
Margaret did an about-face, keeping a hand near the wall just in case a muscle spasm should catch her off guard.
Before proceeding with her next task, she paused to assess her own mechanics.
Her energy was beginning to wane, but her pain level remained at its customary baseline.
Proving, once again, the merit of the routine she’d constructed after the accident.
While others might find a routine such as hers confining, she’d come to recognize it as a valuable and necessary tool, one that enabled her to engage with the world in ways she wouldn’t be able to otherwise.
Reflexively, her gaze darted to the wheeled chair parked near the door.
Another vital tool she’d come to appreciate more with the passing years.
As a girl of twelve, she’d viewed the chair as a fetter.
Now, she regarded it as a gift, for it gave back to her a measure of independence she’d once feared irretrievable.
Great gadgets, Maggie! Cease ruminating and return to your work.
Before ados could be in any way furthered, Margaret fetched the Parasol Grappler in need of testing.
She slipped her free hand into a pocket of the canvas apron that shielded her cornflower-blue tea gown from oil splatters and withdrew her worktable’s remote controller.
She pressed a button, and the desk crawled across the room on its wooden legs before settling in a corner, freeing up more space.
Lady Helena Belgrave barreled through the door, responding to her summons with a brisk stride. A thick brown plait, strewn with twigs and leaves, draped over one puffed sleeve of her cycling suit. “Guess what happened on my way to headquarters this morning, Maggie.”
“Might I guess after we conclude the test?”
An arched brow in combination with a wry smirk from Helena accentuated the ridiculousness of that suggestion. Hanging the parasol handle from the crook of her elbow, Margaret sighed in acquiescence. “You discovered a new species of flora?”
“Nothing so delightful, I’m afraid.”
Odd. Helena always found it delightful to be among the “endlessly fascinating wonders of nature,” which was why she’d made it a habit to cut through Hyde Park on her way to headquarters.
What could have put a damper on her morning commute .
. . or rather, whom? “Oh dear, which of the society matrons caught you unawares?”
“Lady Bricabrack.” At the name’s utterance, Helena shuddered, causing the foliage on her person to rustle as though disturbed by a chilling breeze.
“There I was, innocent as a lamb, minding my own merry business, when that woman—oh, but her audacity is galling! Not only did she interrupt my collection of lichen specimens—which is a rather delicate process, mind—but she did so for the sole purpose of informing me that ‘even a purebred hound can make of its master a laughingstock if not properly trained and kept on a firm lead.’”
The hinges of Margaret’s jaw slackened. “She didn’t!”
“Oh, she most certainly did. At a volume intelligible to all within earshot. I was forced to abandon my foraging just to escape the infuriating flutter of tittering whispers that alighted throughout the park in Lady Bricabrack’s wake.”
Margaret pursed her lips, and after securing Helena’s hand, drew her into an embrace. If only hugs could shield and mend as well as they soothed. For, unfortunately, hugs were the sole balm she could offer her sisters who, like she, were well acquainted with the pangs of ridicule.
In the estimation of London’s upper crust, the Daughters of Genius Society was naught but a joke.
A club where bluestockings sipped copious amounts of tea, indulged in academic conversations, and read more books than was considered decent.
Little did the peerage realize the intellectual coterie was a lace-trimmed fan concealing an elite team of lady inspectors.
Recruited for their astute intelligence and aristocratic lineage, the D.O.G.S.
inspectors were tasked with investigating crimes committed by those in the upper echelons of high society—or rather, four of the inspectors were tasked with investigating.
Margaret abstained from fieldwork. Keeping to the known parameters of her workshop, she sought consolation from her tools and contentment employing them in the invention of useful gadgets for her fellow inspectors.
It was, after all, the most logical use of her time. The most prudent.
After giving Helena one last squeeze, Margaret held her friend at arm’s length.
“Come, let’s discover what marvelous feats purebred hounds can accomplish when unleashed.
” She twirled the Parasol Grappler betwixt them, waggling her eyebrows, and then tossed it to Helena, who caught the device deftly.
A chuckle vented the remainder of Helena’s irritation.
“You’re quite right, as usual. Time mustn’t be wasted on the opinions of meddlesome matrons when there’s a maiden in need of liberation.
” Her gaze lowered to the genteel-looking parasol with its canopy of silk moiré.
“How is this bit of finery to aid me in scaling yond tower?”
“Quite expeditiously, I hope.”