Page 21 of Schemes & Scandals

“Could not have stolen the letters,” he says. “They were there when I opened the box the evening of the twentieth, and she had been gone since that morning.”

She. A woman who spent the night. A lover who is not Lady Inglis. That would be a promising lead, except that the timing doesn’t work.

“Might I see the box and where it is kept?” I ask.

“Certainly.”

As Simpson said, the box is on his dresser, in plain sight. I inwardly sigh at that. It’s a pretty box, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and it screams “I contain valuables!” It’s about six inches by four inches, meaning it could easily be stolen whole and broken open for the contents.

The lock makes me sigh again. It’s the sort Victorians are terribly fond of. A puzzle lock. Yet the puzzle is so simple that I get it after a few minutes, to Simpson’s astonishment. It seems clever enough, but if you’ve played with puzzle locks, you’d recognize this one.

I like Simpson. He seems like a lovely man. But he really needs to work on his plan for safeguarding private letters. In his defense, he strikes me as the trusting sort, a fellow who’d make the mistake of presuming that if a box clearly contains something private, his staff and guests would respect that.

Anyone who had access to this room could have stolen the letters. And anyone with access to the house had access to the room.

“May I take the box?” I ask. “For closer inspection?”

Gray frowns my way. Then he understands. I want to dust it for fingerprints. I’m not sure that will do any good, but it’s worth a shot. Simpson agrees, and I ask a few more questions. Then we take our leave.

Gray and I head down the street, a light snow falling around us.

“The valet and the brother,” I say. “Those are my primary suspects. We have the valet’s information, but the brother is trickier. I get the sense that, as cooperative as Lord Simpson wants to be, he’d rather we didn’t question his brother.”

“Because the man is an insufferable prig,” Gray says. He makes a face. “That was rude of me.”

“But true?”

“Arthur Simpson is the sort of younger son one expects to join the clergy. He is insufferably sanctimonious and makes it clear that he finds his brother’s lifestyle decadently sinful. However, there’s a reason Arthur never joined the clergy—he has a dear love of decadence himself. His simply doesn’t extend to whatheconsiders sinful.”

“Taking lovers.”

“Yes, though at the risk of seeming a terrible person, I might suggest that jealousy rather than piety fuels his outrage.”

“Ah, he’s not half as charming as his brother.”

“Not atenthas charming. I can understand why Lord Simpson wouldn’t want Arthur knowing about the missing letters, but I agree he’s an excellent suspect. Even better than a fired valet. I also think I know a way we might encounter Arthur, quite by accident, of course.”

I smile. “Perfect.”

ChapterTen

It turns out that “perfect” is not quite the word I should have used. The place where we can find the younger Simpson brother? His club, which I may not enter because I am a woman.

I don’t think I realized exactly how many Victorian venues were off-limits to middle- and upper-class ladies. There are men’s clubs, which I would have guessed. Also, brothels and gambling halls and fight clubs. Gymnasiums, too, so that men might exercise in peace. And pubs, so they might drink in peace. That mostly applies to upper-class pubs, but in that sphere, the restriction carries over to all dining establishments where liquor might be served. Men must be free to drink and conduct business without women around.

I can be shocked by the number of places a woman like Isla can’t go, but within my own lifetime, there have been countless modern venues where women were barred, either outright or by practice. Places where men went to relax and drink and socialize and talk business.

Gray will need to conduct this interview alone. I’m fine with that. Okay, “fine” might be an exaggeration, but I accept it... as long as he grants me permission to try sneaking in and eavesdropping. I really do need to ask permission for that. Gray might not require the women in his household to seek it, but patriarchies work both ways. If I’m caught, he’ll be the one punished for not properly “controlling” me.

He agrees to me sneaking in and provides some tips for where I might be able to enter. In return, I promise that if it seems risky, I’ll back out.

I get inside the club easily enough. It’s not as if they guard the entrance against women. Itisguarded, but with an elderly man whose real job is making sure no male riffraff sneak through. Members and their guests only.

I slip in through a side door, where I only catch the curious glance of someone’s coach driver resting in a tiny room that seems to be for that purpose. With men staying in the club for hours—and no easy way to resummon their driver—that little room is a necessity. Or, I guess, not a necessity so much as a perk. Otherwise, they’d be expected to hang out in the stable.

The driver only tips his hat to me, presuming I’m staff coming in for a shift. Womenareallowed in places like this. Just not as members or guests.

From there, it gets trickier because if I meet an actual staff member, they’ll know I don’t belong. It takes me twenty minutes to get near the main rooms—I have to keep backtracking and ducking to avoid notice. Eventually, I find what I’m looking for, and can I just say that for an upscale gentlemen’s club, it’s sorely disappointing. It looks like a fancy airport lounge. A few big rooms with chairs and fireplaces... and that’s about it. The chairs are arranged in pods for conversation, and there’s a low murmur of that, but at least half the men are alone, reading newspapers or books with a cup of tea at their elbow.

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