The Spiritglass Charade (Stoker & Holmes 2)

Miss Stoker

In Which Evaline Reveals Her Cognog Side

Although Mina was straining at the bit to visit Miss Willa Ashton and begin our investigation, Miss Adler insisted on returning to the Museum following the incident with the Queen. In fact, she urged us to wait until first thing the next morning to call on Miss Ashton, when we would more likely find her at home.

I had no complaints about this. The princess’s assignment seemed dull and uninteresting compared to my plans for the evening. Dylan’s silvery device was burning a hole in my pocket.

The only person I knew who might be able to put electricity into the mechanism lived in Whitechapel, the most dangerous area of London. The one time I’d been to his hideout, I had seen electric lightbulbs instead of gas lamps. A shadowy, disreputable character, Pix was fond of showing up at the most unexpected places.

Thus, I had preparations to make for a trip to the stews—and the most pressing one turned out to be shaking my beloved sister-in-law from my tail.

“But you haven’t had a new gown in ages,” Florence lectured me over luncheon. I had returned from the royal visit just after one o’clock. My brother Bram had already left for his job managing the famous Lyceum Theatre and their son, Noel, was visiting Florence’s sister in the country. Which left me at the mercy of my sister-in-law. “And there’s a new fabric merchant on Clements-lane who has brought in the latest styles from Vienna.”

“Ages” in Florence terms was merely weeks in reality. “I don’t need anything new. My wardrobe is overflowing with the gowns we got for the Season.”

But my interest was piqued by the mention of clothing from Vienna, which was coming close to surpassing Paris as the fashion center of Europe. It had something to do with its proximity to the small nation of Betrovia, known for its fine fabrics.

“Bram expects us to wear something spectacular for the Opening Night soiree.” Florence’s blue eyes sparkled. “It’s the new play by Mr. Gilbert! The crème de la crème of Society will be there, and you know how much Bram loves to arrive with two beautiful women on his arm.”

And I knew how much Florence loved to shop. She looked so pretty and enthusiastic, it was hard to tell her no. Except when she was trying to play matchmaker between me and an eligible bachelor. Vampire hunters didn’t marry, but since Florence had no idea about my secret life, she didn’t understand why I wasn’t as excited as she was about attending balls and going to the opera in order to be seen by bachelors on the hunt for wives.

“The soiree isn’t for more than a week,” I reminded her. “We have plenty of time to find something.”

“But it’s such a nice day . . . ,” she said, then, as we both glanced toward the windows, she gave a little laugh and flapped her hand. “Well, a little drizzle won’t hurt either of us. And I think you should wear something ice-blue with sapphire underlays for the soiree.”

I had picked up a piece of toast and paused with it halfway to my mouth. “Oh, yes. I really like that idea.”

At the same time, I realized a shopping trip this afternoon could help me in other ways. It could provide me an excuse for not going anywhere this evening—for I would be weary and have a headache by the time we returned. That way I could sneak out. I could milk Florence for any gossip about Miss Ashton and her poor brother. And I truly enjoyed Florence’s company, though she could be overbearing and controlling at times.

Hm. She rather reminded me of Mina Holmes.

I felt guilty about hiding my secret vocation from Florence, and even guiltier about any dishonesty I was forced to use in order to fulfill my responsibilities. I made it a habit to never lie directly to her, but sometimes it was difficult not to. She was a combination of mother and sister to me. It was she who insisted I live with her and Bram when my elderly parents became too old to provide for me. They still lived in Ireland, where I’d been born, and they were now cared for by our other siblings.

“Splendid!” Florence said, and our shopping trip was settled. “Now to review the latest batch of invitations.” Her expression grew a little frosty, due to the occasion a few weeks ago when I’d purposely kept her from attending the most premier ball of the Season. Mina and I had been working on the Scarab case and had to attend. That was the only reason I went, but when Florence discovered I’d gone without her, she was not happy.

Thus, she insisted our housekeeper, Mrs. Gernum, intercept all of the invitations that arrived so we could “review” them together. It was a delicate balancing act for me to keep Florence happy by accepting enough of my own invitations that her social calendar was more varied than if she relied on her own—while declining as many as I could. I hated Society events. I despised the formality of them, the inane conversation, and the silly men who talked about their horses or clubs while trying to look down my bodice. Many of them had horrible breath or dirty gloves.

Although, lately, the events at which a certain Mr. Richard Dancy was present had become slightly more interesting. He actually knew how to carry on a conversation, and occasionally even listened to what I might say.

As the day turned out, after our shopping trip I no longer needed an excuse to stay in that evening. Florence was the one who went to bed early with the megrims, as she called it, after urging me to go to the card party at the Royce-Bailey house.

“Mr. Dancy’s sister is supposed to attend,” she told me, holding a cool cloth to her forehead. “It’s a splendid opportunity for you to get to know her better.”

“Right,” I said, thinking not of whist or bridge, but of what to wear tonight. I knew how to dress when I was going to the theater or to a musicale or a ball . . . but what should I wear to the darkest, dingiest, most dangerous pub in all of London?

The pub in question, Fenmen’s End, was located at the corner of Flower- and Dean-streets in the Spitalfields neighborhood. The most disreputable area of Whitechapel, it was famous as the location of the Jack the Ripper murders.

Any female would be beyond mad to wander the weblike culs-de-sac of the rookery at any time of day, let alone night. It was easy to get lost or trapped in the warren of dead-end streets, covered by low, overhanging roofs and darkened by tightly packed buildings. Thieves, murderers, and smugglers frequented the shadows, carrying out their business and removing anyone who got in their way.

But I was an exception. If Jack the Ripper appeared and showed me his wicked knife, I would be eager to introduce him to my own weaponry. In fact, I would relish the chance to do so. If I couldn’t get to a vampire, a serial murderer was a fitting substitute.