“She and I were travelling north to visit her parents when the carriage was attacked by ruffians on horseback. My driver was killed and my wife dragged from the carriage, though I will take the vile words they spat at us to the grave. Of course, I went after her and was clubbed in the shin for my trouble, breaking my leg in the process. Still, I found the strength to scramble after her, and one of them shot me in the shoulder.”

“Fiend!” the duchess exclaims. “Is that how you injured your eye?”

“No,” you admit. “That was a potted plant.”

Several murmurs of sympathy burst from the men closest to you.

“Bloody plants everywhere these days,” one of them mutters.

“There’s no escape,” says another. “They’ve even got them cluttering Brooks’s.”

You ignore them.

“Go on,” the duchess urges.

“I tried…” you say, your voice breaking. Everyone in the vicinity is hanging on your every word. “I tried to reach her, but the pain was too much. Everything went black, and when I woke, my wife lay dead beside me, a terrible note pinned to her chest.”

“What did it say?” the old woman asks, her hand still curled around your arm.

“I couldn’t possibly repeat it in polite company,” you tell her. “Certainly none as polite as yours.”

Bel lets out a little choke behind you.

“Oh, you poor man,” the duchess says. “And you’ve been standing all evening on your poorly leg.”

“I’m used to it, I assure you, your grace.”

“Nonsense.” She glares at the closest wall. “You, girl. Up you get, and let this injured man sit.”

The girl in question flushes bright red, bobbing a curtsey as she stands to make way for you. You offer an apologetic smile, but don’t speak. It is for ladies to make the first move, Uriel had told you in the carriage. It is impolite to introduce oneself. And you must never ever deign to introduce yourself to someone who is of higher rank than you. And that is likely to be everyone at the ball, he had added. Including Molvander himself, whose mother was the third daughter of a baronet.

You have yet to lay eyes on the murderous Molvander, but as promised, Uriel doesn’t leave your side. You breathe a sigh of relief when the nosey dowager duchess, pats your shoulder, offering one last piteous glance before wandering away muttering to herself.

Word is getting around. As Uriel guides you to the room where refreshments are being served, you hear one murmured sentiment of pity after another.

Poor man.

Such a shame.

What a tragedy.

“What was on the note?” Uriel whispers once he’s certain there’s nobody hiding behind the nearby potted plant.

“You mean the note that doesn’t exist?” you ask.

Uriel’s cheeks flush pink. “It was such a good story, I almost forgot.”

“Have you seen Molvander yet?”

“He was loitering by the door to the terrace as we came by,” Uriel says. “Though he was looking our way at the time, so I deemed it imprudent to point him out.”

“He’s already very interested in you,” Bel adds. “He watched you as you came in here. That’s why I held back a little.”

“What about your heiress?” you ask. “Is she here?”

“Not yet. Miss Duchesne loves nothing more than to make an entrance.”

“Speak of the devil,” Bel mutters under his breath, nodding subtly towards the man who just entered the room.

You can’t see the man’s face properly yet since he has his back to you, but Molvander walks with the confidence of a man who never loses. Tonight, he will lose everything.

A twinge of guilt rocks you. What if Uriel and Bel are wrong? What if Molvander is innocent. After all, the evidence is circumstantial, the witnesses potentially unreliable. Anyone could say they’d seen the man selling the family silver, or claim to have bought the murder weapon from him.

You only hope you’ll be able to read the man once you’re introduced. All you can tell so far, is that he is tall, thin, and dark haired.

You gasp when he turns, but look away before he notices you. “I’ve seen him before,” you whisper. “He drove past me in his carriage earlier, near the docks.”

“How curious,” Uriel says. “This was just before you arrived at our rooms?”

“Yes. The man sneered at me.”

“Why would he be in the east end at all?” asks Bel.

“Clearly, he’s up to no good,” you say.

“Shenanigans are afoot,” Uriel agrees.

“I’m going to watch from a distance,” Bel says. “Give me two minutes, then return to the ballroom. I’ll watch him to see if he follows.”

While you wait, you drink the most horrible lemonade ever to have passed your lips. That they have the confidence to even call it lemonade strikes you as audacious. The sharp zing makes your cheeks bunch, and there’s so much sugar still lingering on your tongue and coating your teeth that you’re certain you’ll need to visit a dentist as soon as you get back from your adventure. With all this sugar and the juddering carriages, you wonder how these fancy Victorians still have teeth.

Two minutes later, you and Uriel wander back to the drawing room, Uriel with a sprightly gait, and you with your exaggerated hobble. Sympathetic murmurings follow you wherever you go, and guilt builds in the pit of your stomach. Though most of the guests seem to live for salacious gossip, some of them seem genuinely concerned about your predicament, and the lies feel heavy in your chest.

You lean against the wall, losing yourself for a while in the distraction of watching Uriel dance. He doesn’t linger once the dance is over, bowing to the lady he’d apparently promised to dance with two nights ago before returning to your side.

Before the band strikes up again, the man who introduced you earlier calls out a new name. “Miss Isabelle Duchesne.”

The woman standing at the top of the stairs is beautiful, her golden curls pulled away from her face and trailing over her shoulder. Gemstones sparkle in her hair as she descends the steps wearing a coy smile. Her dusky blue dress is made of fine silk and decorated with fabric roses, and it sways as she walks, glinting in the light of the overhead chandeliers.

Uriel pulls you forward to greet the woman with an indulgent smile and a breathless, “Mademoiselle Duchesne, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“You too, Monsieur Hazard,” the woman says, her accent distinctly French. She flips open her fan. “And who is your friend this evening?”

“This is my cousin, Mr Edward Sheeran,” Uriel says for the benefit of everyone around us.

You offer a bow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Duchesne.”

She’s much smaller than she looked at the top of the stairs, barely reaching Uriel’s shoulder. She offers you her gloved hand to shake, and you oblige her. She greets you with a dazzling smile. “Likewise, Monsieur Sheeran. It is so refreshing to meet a man who will shake a woman’s hand rather than insisting he put his lips upon it.” She glances sideways. “It is so very rude, don’t you agree?”

“I do,” you tell her. “It’s up to a woman to decide what liberties she will allow.”

You’re very big on consent.

She pats your arm with her fan. “I like you.”

You smile. “Then I shall do all I can to make sure it stays that way.”

You’re flirting at a Victorian ball with a gorgeous blonde woman.

Do you hear that?

You are flirting with a gorgeous blonde woman. In a fancy ballroom in the heart of Mayfair. In the year of our… something something Victorian.

A man interrupts from nowhere. “Good evening, Miss Duchesne.”

“Monsieur Molvander,” she says, her smile broad but lacking. She doesn’t offer her hand, and the man looks disappointed. “How are you this evening?”

“Happier now that you’re here. I’d like to claim a dance if you’re agreeable… before the hordes descend.” He laughs loudly.

Mademoiselle Duchesne looks like she wants to peck his eyes out. “Have you met Monsieur Sheeran?”

Molvander’s eyes widen. “Not yet, though I’ve heard about his misfortune of course.” He holds out his hand. “Faultless Molvander.”

You’d forgotten his ridiculous and ill-fitting Christian name, and you battle to keep the smile from your lips. How the man can introduce himself with a straight face strains the bounds of credulity.

“Edward Sheeran.” You shake the offered hand, and as expected he squeezes it too tightly, a glint of warning in his hazel eyes. You won’t stand for it. “Is there a reason you’re trying to break my fingers?”

He pulls his hand away. “I apologise. Sometimes, I don’t know my own strength.”

“It’s quite all right,” you tell him. “Did you know there was a behavioural study about such a thing? Men using their handshakes as a means of aggressively marking territory without letting on to others what they were doing. Can you imagine behaving in such an absurd manner?”

You’re really getting the hang of this Victorian talking now, and take great pleasure in the embarrassed flush on Molvander’s cheeks. You deliberately avoid Uriel’s gaze, certain you couldn’t look at him right now without laughing.

“Quite absurd.” Molvander nods as if he agrees with you. “Where is it you are from?”

Uriel’s voice invades your head, and you repeat everything he says. “Brighton. Have you been?”

“Yes. In fact, I was there during the great storm of ‘94… when the remains of the Chain Pier crashed into the sea.”

“Actually, it was ‘96,” you say. “It almost knocked the new pier down with it.”

From this, you conclude that it must be at least 1898. If the pier had fallen this year or last year, Uriel would have said so.

“You’re quite right,” says Molvander. “I hear your wife was from Grantham… not far from my ancestral home.”

“Alas, no,” you tell him. “I’m afraid people are running away with their tales this evening.”

He nods, his glare intense. “Indeed, they are.”

“In which case, you’ve been misinformed,” you go on. “My first wife was from Nottingham, the second from Paisley. What about you, Mr Molvander? Are you married?”

“I am hoping to find my bride this season,” he says, making no mention of his two dead wives.

You smile. “I wish you luck. I’m looking myself.” You glance briefly at Mademoiselle Duchesne. “Though I think my search may be coming to an end.”

“What a coincidence,” Molvander says. “Mine too.”

Mademoiselle Duchesne fans frantically at her face, and though you’re wearing too many clothes yourself, and the heat is overwhelming, you’re still glad you didn’t choose the ballgown. Dresses in this era come with corsets.

“Monsieur Sheeran, Monsieur Hazard, would you mind escorting me to the terrace? I find myself in dire need of cooling down. There is so much hot air in here.” She turns to Molvander as she takes your arm. “Excuse me, Monsieur. I will see you for our dance.”

“I look forward to it,” Molvander says, but you’re already steering the woman he’s set his sights on away from him.

You guide Miss Duchesne to the terrace, Uriel following behind you. Two gentlemen puff on their pipes by the back door, deep in conversation. The terrace is otherwise empty save for a lone man at the balustrade.

“I saw you coming,” he says, and you realise then that it’s Bel. “Good evening, Mademoiselle Duchesne.”

“You can drop it now,” she says, her accent suddenly English. “There’s nobody here but us. Are you all right there, Mr Sheeran?”

You nod. “All good here.”

She lets out a tinkling laugh. “It’s exciting, isn’t it? Getting mixed up in their games?”

“It is,” you agree.

“He followed you back into the ballroom as I suspected, watching you the entire time even as he kept his distance,” says Bel. “He wasn’t happy to see our friend here offering you such a beguiling smile. He looked like he’d caught a whiff of horse manure.”

“You should have heard my favourite cousin Edward cut the man down when he tried to squeeze his hand too hard,” Uriel praises, clapping you on the shoulder.

You laugh. “I’m glad I’m your favourite cousin after so short an acquaintance.”

Everyone laughs at that.

Bel says, “I was watching from the doorway when you turned away from him to come out here. The man is incensed.”

“I shall dance with someone else before claiming my dance with Molvander,” says Mademoiselle Duchesne after Uriel fills her in on the story you created. “Perhaps you might oblige me, Mr Balthazar.”

“I’m sure you’ll take no offence when I tell you I’d rather spend the night at Newgate,” says Bel.

Mademoiselle Duchesne laughs despite what you’re sure is a slight in such times. “How will my wounded pride ever recover?”

“He has two left feet,” Uriel tells her.

“I don’t deny it,” says Bel. “But at least I can beat a four-year-old at chess.”

Uriel’s cheeks glow softly in the moonlight. “It is true, Edward. I cannot beat a child at any game.”

“If I wouldn’t make a total fool of myself in front of that man, I would dance with you, Mademoiselle Duchesne.”

“Please call me Isabelle,” she says.

“Is that proper?”

“If I say it is, then it is,” she says.

“I will then. Thank you.”

“It’s true that dancing with you would annoy him more than anything,” she says. “But perhaps Mr Hazard will have almost as great an effect.”

Uriel presses his palm to his heart. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“I think I shall return on Edward’s arm with a rosy glow to my cheeks,” Isabelle says, pinching her cheeks. “It is all right if I call you Edward?”

“You can call me whatever you please,” you tell her, and she laughs behind her fan as Uriel follows you back to the dancefloor.

“After my dance with Molvander, perhaps you should excuse yourself… let him follow you, and accidentally make a slip.”

“What sort of slip?” you ask.

“The kind that will make a mockery of the stories you’ve been telling tonight,” she says. “If you slip, he will. He’ll want you to know he’s onto you.”

The wait is excruciating, and nerves settle heavily in your stomach beside all the sugar. Isabelle and Uriel look wonderful dancing together, and all eyes turn to them as they spin around the dancefloor. When the dance is over, she offers her hand, this time allowing Uriel to raise it to his lips. Molvander glowers from the other side of the dancefloor, moving in on Isabelle the second Uriel turns away.

Uriel joins you beside a statue of a muse with a candelabra sprouting from her head. “Rosemont is on his way, and my conduit assures me we’ll be able to communicate even if we’re apart. Do you think you can extract a confession?”

“You think he’ll confess?”

“I think he’ll want you to know he’s a better bet for this conquest than you are,” Uriel says. “And if you can provoke him in the right way… who knows what he’ll give up?”

“What if he gets violent?” you ask, worry gnawing at your gut.

“I’ll be right outside, I promise.”

Uriel nudges you as the dance comes to an end. “I’ll direct you the whole time. Just listen for my instructions. Go past the refreshment room and out of the double doors at the end of the ballroom. You’ll find yourself in a wide hallway. Turn left, and you want the third door on the right. A restroom. It’s well marked. My brother has already cleared it.”

“You’re speaking to him in your head?”

“More like he’s speaking to me,” Uriel says. “He’s giving me quite the headache.”

When Uriel huffs indignantly, you ask, “What did he say?”

“He said, and I quote, now you know how I feel,” Uriel says. “The absolute gall.” Then, “Yes, yes. He’s going. Good luck, Edward.”

“Thanks.” You run your hand over your belly to settle your nerves and head towards the doors at the end of the ballroom, wondering if Molvander is following you.

Episode 11: Wherein Molvander Proves Not to Be Faultless