Read Online Gilded: The St. Croix Chronicles by Karina Cooper - Free Book Online
Authors: Karina Cooper
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the Season failed to offer its spectacular array of soirees, lectures and events?
My fingers curled into my palms. “I am listening.”
“Of course you are.” She rose once more, an effort that suggested as large as she was, she was no delicate woman to suffer under her size. I was, to be honest, a little bit in awe of her. I could so easily imagine the imposing woman leading battles. Commanding men.
Demanding respect.
“A murder mystery,” she announced. Conversation ceased entirely. “Our detective will be none other than Miss St. Croix.”
“Charming!” Miss Dorring finally deigned to acknowledge me, her lovely, noble features suddenly so much more approachable as she smiled. “I do so love mysteries.”
“The subject?” demanded a gentleman whose name I had heard twice and still could not recall.
“Unknown.”
“How can a murder victim be unknown?” I demanded.
“Against the rules,” crowed Mr. Englebrooks from behind me, and I rose quickly as his hands came down upon the back of the sofa, framing my shoulders. The sheer speed by which I accomplished the distance left a wide-eyed appreciation upon his features, his thick mustache twitching, but Lady Rutledge didn’t appear to notice.
She shook a finger at me. “Tut, Miss St. Croix, the rules are as follows. Time is of the utmost importance. The detective may only ask five questions. The detective may ask only questions whose answers are corroboration or refutation.”
“Five? What detective would allow herself to be so bound?” I demanded. “That is impossible.”
“Only five,” Miss Dorring repeated, quite seriously. “Yet it’s not impossible.”
“Your own mother succeeded often,” Lady Rutledge added with a smile that still dared me to refuse.
My choices were few, then. Accept and succeed, or refuse and risk the social consequences. I was not my mother, but it seemed important that I prove something of myself with her template. “Very well. Does everyone know what you know about the murder?” I asked.
Her eyes glinted. That spark that suggested she knew so much more than she let on. That bit I recognized. “No.”
“Then you are the sole personage to whom I should direct my questions to?”
“No.”
I was careful. That she said no to everyone else’s level of knowledge, and no to sole personage suggested others had answers. Just not everyone, and possibly not anyone present.
This game could very well extend beyond the bounds of her parlor.
I could not waste my last three questions cycling through names. Not only were there more faces here than I had questions allotted, I suspect such an easy way would disappoint her.
And, truth be told, myself.
This was interesting. This fed the hole left by the gnawing whisper of need curling inside me. Need for answers. Need for something to occupy me.
Need for one more draught of laudanum, to ease my want for gentle sleep.
To my surprise, even with all eyes upon me, I found myself warming to the game. An inexplicable murder. I turned, smiled upon Miss Hensworth who watched with her brow knitted, and then turned again in a swirl of chocolate skirts to ask, “Is the unfortunate soul a tradesman or laborer?”
“Lovely one,” murmured a woman. Not Miss Dorring, who had once more resumed her argument with one of the gentlemen at hand.
“No,” Lady Rutledge said. “Caution, Miss St. Croix, that is very nearly two questions.”
I smiled. “Neither laborer nor tradesman. Interesting.” I almost began to pace a path, the better to think, but caught myself in time. Ladies did not pace.
“Ooh, I’d wager the victim is a lord,” said the same voice, and I looked over my shoulder to find an aged woman in a suitable gray dress watching me. Her eyes were heavily lined, her face set into deep grooves, but she smiled upon my scrutiny and suggested, “All the best mysteries involve lords.”
Unbidden, my thoughts turned to Lord Compton, and my disguised meeting with him on the
My fingers curled into my palms. “I am listening.”
“Of course you are.” She rose once more, an effort that suggested as large as she was, she was no delicate woman to suffer under her size. I was, to be honest, a little bit in awe of her. I could so easily imagine the imposing woman leading battles. Commanding men.
Demanding respect.
“A murder mystery,” she announced. Conversation ceased entirely. “Our detective will be none other than Miss St. Croix.”
“Charming!” Miss Dorring finally deigned to acknowledge me, her lovely, noble features suddenly so much more approachable as she smiled. “I do so love mysteries.”
“The subject?” demanded a gentleman whose name I had heard twice and still could not recall.
“Unknown.”
“How can a murder victim be unknown?” I demanded.
“Against the rules,” crowed Mr. Englebrooks from behind me, and I rose quickly as his hands came down upon the back of the sofa, framing my shoulders. The sheer speed by which I accomplished the distance left a wide-eyed appreciation upon his features, his thick mustache twitching, but Lady Rutledge didn’t appear to notice.
She shook a finger at me. “Tut, Miss St. Croix, the rules are as follows. Time is of the utmost importance. The detective may only ask five questions. The detective may ask only questions whose answers are corroboration or refutation.”
“Five? What detective would allow herself to be so bound?” I demanded. “That is impossible.”
“Only five,” Miss Dorring repeated, quite seriously. “Yet it’s not impossible.”
“Your own mother succeeded often,” Lady Rutledge added with a smile that still dared me to refuse.
My choices were few, then. Accept and succeed, or refuse and risk the social consequences. I was not my mother, but it seemed important that I prove something of myself with her template. “Very well. Does everyone know what you know about the murder?” I asked.
Her eyes glinted. That spark that suggested she knew so much more than she let on. That bit I recognized. “No.”
“Then you are the sole personage to whom I should direct my questions to?”
“No.”
I was careful. That she said no to everyone else’s level of knowledge, and no to sole personage suggested others had answers. Just not everyone, and possibly not anyone present.
This game could very well extend beyond the bounds of her parlor.
I could not waste my last three questions cycling through names. Not only were there more faces here than I had questions allotted, I suspect such an easy way would disappoint her.
And, truth be told, myself.
This was interesting. This fed the hole left by the gnawing whisper of need curling inside me. Need for answers. Need for something to occupy me.
Need for one more draught of laudanum, to ease my want for gentle sleep.
To my surprise, even with all eyes upon me, I found myself warming to the game. An inexplicable murder. I turned, smiled upon Miss Hensworth who watched with her brow knitted, and then turned again in a swirl of chocolate skirts to ask, “Is the unfortunate soul a tradesman or laborer?”
“Lovely one,” murmured a woman. Not Miss Dorring, who had once more resumed her argument with one of the gentlemen at hand.
“No,” Lady Rutledge said. “Caution, Miss St. Croix, that is very nearly two questions.”
I smiled. “Neither laborer nor tradesman. Interesting.” I almost began to pace a path, the better to think, but caught myself in time. Ladies did not pace.
“Ooh, I’d wager the victim is a lord,” said the same voice, and I looked over my shoulder to find an aged woman in a suitable gray dress watching me. Her eyes were heavily lined, her face set into deep grooves, but she smiled upon my scrutiny and suggested, “All the best mysteries involve lords.”
Unbidden, my thoughts turned to Lord Compton, and my disguised meeting with him on the
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