February 14, 1889 Morning #3
“No.” Mary took a few shuddering breaths, her eyes filling with tears, as she stepped away from them. “No, I couldn’t.” She ran past them, rushing headlong into Mrs. Sherard, who stood in the doorway. Mary pushed past her mother, escaping from the tension in the drawing room.
Mira suddenly felt quite dizzy. Byron stood beside her, shocked. Mrs. Sherard considered them a moment.
“That was unfair to your sister,” she said after a short silence.
“Unfair to her?” Byron said, letting out a laugh. “She has been—”
“I know very well what she has been,” Mrs. Sherard said. “But relationships go two ways,” she paused, her gaze softening as she looked at him. “Byron.”
Byron’s mouth gaped. Mrs. Sherard cleared her throat. “I had better find Mary and take her home before she runs into the Treadways.”
“They’re here?” Byron frowned.
“Unfortunately.” Mrs. Sherard sighed. “I ran into his wife in the hall.”
Mira grimaced. “It’s too late, I’m afraid. Mr. Treadway was leaving just as I entered the drawing room.”
“Heaven help us.” Mrs. Sherard looked towards the ceiling. “I expect the two of you will be staying on to investigate whatever it is you’re getting into now?”
“Yes, Mamma.”
“Well. Carry on, I suppose.” Mrs. Sherard left the room.
Mira sagged into an armchair.
“Are you all right?” Byron said, moving over to her.
“I-I think so. Everything happened so fast . . .”
“I wish I had come sooner. How long had she been yelling at you before I came?”
“Not very long. How did you know to come?”
He gestured to the open transom window above the door. “I heard her as I came down the hall.”
“Oh no.” Mira felt sick all over. “And I said all those terrible things . . . Do you think anyone else heard?”
“I don’t think so. Most people are in the ballroom. And she deserved it after what she’s put you through.”
More tears surfaced. “I still shouldn’t have said anything. But I was so angry.”
He crouched in front of her, taking her hands in his. “I was just as bad, if not worse. I never should have brought up her relationship with Mr. Treadway.”
“You wouldn’t have needed to if I had kept my mouth shut.” Mira shook her head. “I so wanted your family to like me. And now I’ve ruined any chance.” She swallowed back a sob. “I don’t want you to have to choose between me and your family.”
He reached up, cupping her face with his hand. “I won’t have to. We’ll make it work.” He brushed a tear away with his thumb.
“How can you say that? Your sister, your mother—how can they respect me after that display?”
He looked towards where his mother had stood moments before. “Well . . . Castel came around.”
Mira sniffed. “I suppose if he can, then anything is possible.” She laughed a little through the tears.
“We ought to get back to the party before someone thinks the worst of us,” Byron said in jest, smiling and offering her a hand up.
Mira stood, wiping her tears away. “You forget. We’re engaged now. We can be alone in a room together as much as we like.”
“Oh yes! And we no longer have need of a chaperone, do we?”
“Not in this setting. No, I believe we are quite free.”
He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. She forgot her tears as warmth spread from her hand to her heart.
“You know,” he said, “we ought to have gotten engaged a long time ago.”
She ducked her head. “It wouldn’t have been appropriate.”
“And since when do we care about propriety?” He stepped back. “Do you know, this week has been one of the more insufferable experiences of my remembered life?”
“Has it been so bad?”
“I’ve felt as though I’ve been trying to do everything with both hands tied behind my back. We can’t get nearly as much done when we’re always under someone’s eye, dragging our chaperones along to crime scenes. And I’ve had to keep up the ridiculous charade of living up to the Sherard name.”
“I thought you said you didn’t put on a persona with them.”
“I don’t. Or I don’t mean to.” He ran a hand through his hair, pacing as he continued.
“It would have been so much easier if I had been Detective Constantine all this time. There would have been no need for elaborate lies about headaches when speaking with the doctor or trying to find a way to search the dead man’s room without appearing unseemly. It’s been unbearable.”
“Yes, but if there is a member of Circe running in these circles, isn’t it better that he doesn’t know who you are?”
Byron sighed. “I suppose. So we’ll keep up the act. But thank heavens we are at least free from half the shackles while we finish this investigation.”
Mira gasped. “I forgot! I have news! About the documents, I mean. I was coming to look for you when I stumbled on Mary.”
“What a coincidence. I was looking for you after talking with Mr. Risewell. He doesn’t seem to know anything about the political documents. Either he’s lying or he doesn’t know he has them.”
“I don’t think the Risewells have the documents.”
“Then who does?”
“Maureen. I was just in conversation with her, and she told us that her house in London was broken into five times in the past year.”
Byron whistled. “Five times?”
“Yes. Two before her father died, the one where he was shot, and then two after she moved to Bath.”
“Curious. Was anything taken?”
“Not that she knows of. But her father was a journalist who worked with the Foreign Office. Is it possible that the documents were meant to come to him with instructions of him passing them along?”
“And the other burglaries are covering for when they make the real theft,” Byron said. “Do you think you can get an invitation to Henrietta Street?”
“I can certainly try.”
He offered his arm, and they left the drawing room together.
Halfway down the hall, the sounds of discordant piano music hit their ears.
They followed the noise and found Maureen Harris in the music room, at the piano, hammering out the racket.
Mira recognized the pattern as the piece Maureen had tried to play for her and Liza that past Sunday.
Bertie Corbet stood nearby, trying his best to not wince and failing.
They were alone in the room, which was strange since Admiral Hoddle had mentioned chaperoning them.
Maureen stopped abruptly, her speech slightly slurred. “That’s all I have memorized and it’s simply dreadful. I don’t think I’m playing it right.”
Bertie shook his head. “No. You aren’t. I don’t know what it is meant to be, but surely it isn’t meant to sound like that.”
Maureen sniffed. “You’re meant to lie and tell me how much you loved it.”
“You want me to lie to you? That sets a bad precedent.”
“Everyone else lies to me. Why not you?” Before Bertie could answer, Maureen looked past him, finally seeing Mira and Byron in the doorway. She greeted them louder than necessary, a strange expression on her face. “Mira! Mr. Sherard. We were just speaking of you.”
“Were you?” Mira furrowed her brow.
“Well, we were. Before I tried playing my piece again. Did you like it? I think I’ve gotten better.”
“Erm . . .” She looked at Byron and an idea sprang to her mind.
She smoothed her discomfort into a smile.
“I really know nothing about music, but did you know that Mr. Sherard plays the piano quite well?” She took his arm and pulled him closer to Maureen.
“What if we came over tomorrow and you showed him the sheet music? Maybe he could help you figure out how to play it!”
“Oh, would you?” Maureen gushed. “That would be wonderful.”
Byron smiled one of his knowing smiles. “I would be delighted.”