Chapter 3

Phillipa Hartley, Everwell’s head mistress and unofficial head of The Everwell Society, was in the library examining the book that had been at the focus of the Scandalous Spinster’s latest efforts.

“I can honestly say this might be the most unexpected ending to any job we’ve ever done,” she said, shrugging her shoulders as the others stood gathered around her. “And given the last two ended in marriages, that is saying something.”

It was mid-afternoon, and Maddy was still boondoggled by the entire thing. More to the point, she wasn’t entirely sure what was the most remarkable bit of it all—that the job had wrapped up so neatly, or that Maddy’s knees had managed to weaken at the thought of man with eyes like a summer sky and a smile that outshone the sun.

Weaken, that is, until a throwaway comment from his objectively beautiful mouth landed like a burr in her ear.

Poor old spinster.

Quite miraculously, her knees and every other part of her that had found itself in some state of discombobulation recovered. If she was being charitable, Beau da Silva was technically correct on all accounts. She wasn’t rich. At thirty-seven she was certainly not young. And she was most definitely not married. Besides, she’d been called far worse in her youth.

You must agree the girl is quite homely, Patrick. She needs a good dowry if we’re to get her married.

I got her, boys. I snagged the prized cow?—

“It was more than unexpected,” Elouise said, her enthusiasm interrupting Maddy’s maudlin thoughts. “He was absolutely enthralled with you, Maddy. I think he would have bought you the lot of them if you’d batted your lashes at him.”

The very idea of any man being enthralled with her almost made Maddy want to laugh.

“I do not bat my lashes,” she said, tamping down this rather absurd feeling that had been chasing her since the moment he’d spoken to her. Besides, they hadn’t heard his true feelings as she had. “He probably just wanted to goad his aunt. We all know what she and her kind think of us.”

“Seems a rather expensive joke, don’t you think?” Elouise crossed her arms and shook her head. “I saw the way he was looking at you. Rimple would side with me.”

Maddy didn’t believe in overt displays of affection, but if she did, she would have hugged Elouise. Since Maddy arrived at Everwell a decade ago, Elouise Charming—now Mrs. Ashe—seemed intent on pointing out every single one of Maddy’s supposed charms. She did it so regularly, Maddy was in danger of actually believing her.

“Whatever his motives, what’s important is that Mrs. Cornish gets her treasure back,” Phillipa interjected in that no-nonsense way of hers. “I’ll have Reg deliver it tomorrow. Maddy can have an entire evening with it before it goes back.”

Phillipa was about to walk away when she stopped and gave Maddy a playful look. “And I’m afraid it will have to go back.”

Maddy opened her mouth to protest but thought the better of it. After all, in amongst her small but rather impressive collection in the Everwell library were books. Some she’d borrowed on a very, very long-term loan while she was working on one job or another with her fellow Scandalous Spinsters and Wayward Women. Of course, none of their owners had any idea she’d borrowed them.

“Maddy!”

Rimple Jones appeared in the doorway, holding today’s paper in her hands, her deep brown eyes wide.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her body immediately going on alert.

Without another word, Rimple rushed to Maddy and the others, turning the paper around so they all could read the headline. Thick black lettering proclaimed the murder of a New Brunswick captain of industry.

“And?” Maddy asked.

“Look!” Rimple pointed at the picture. There, staring back at them was none other than the man from the bookstore today. Beau da Silva. He was far more serious in this picture, obvious taken to be hung in the hallowed halls of whatever boardroom his family ruled.

And he was wanted for the murder of his father, Frank da Silva.

“Perhaps I spoke too soon,” Phillipa said, taking the paper from Rimple’s hands, unfolding it so she could read the entire story, which took up much of the front page.

“He’s wanted, but that doesn’t make him guilty,” Elouise said. “Still, the good ladies of the New Women’s League must be in a tizzy to be so intimately connected to an accused murderer.”

Maddy tried to look over Phillipa’s shoulder, but it was impossible to see the details.

“Phillipa,” Rimple said again, an unmistakable discomfort in her voice, her brow dipping into a deep vee as she pulled the paper back toward her.

“What is it?” Maddy asked, alerted by the sudden change in Rimple’s normally indomitable sunshine. Stepping around Phillipa and Elouise, she stood behind her friend in an effort to see what was causing Rimple’s reaction.

Troubling Rumours Swirl Around Eccentric Society

Without a thought, Maddy clutched the newspaper in her hands, pulling it toward her and skimming the story. Something tightened in her gut, a thousand irrational fears coming to the surface.

Is something nefarious happening behind the otherwise pristine walls of that Georgian jewel? Rumours continue to surface from some of the most reputable corners of Halifax’s parlours that the misguided aims of Miss Emma Everwell, daughter of the late Lord Everwell, have been hijacked to service an illegal ring of thieves. Not even the marriage of Miss Gemma Kurt to Colonel Jeremy Webber (retired) has ceased to quell the suspicions. Indeed, a source close to the Colonel recently revealed to this reporter?—

“Maddy.”

The sound of Phillipa’s voice cut through Maddy’s panic. Maddy looked up, not bothering to hide her displeasure at the interruption.

“Let me see,” Phillipa said in that calm way of hers, all the while giving Maddy a look that suggested she would brook no opposition. Maddy let go, and Phillipa turned to the last page. Elouise, Rimple and Maddy then crowded around the head mistress, trying to read the short piece over her shoulder.

“Phillipa, this is bad,” Elouise said, biting on her bottom lip.

Maddy held her breath. Normally when someone pronounced a dire judgment of a situation, Phillipa would play devil’s advocate. No doubt it was because she had observed the situation before her, and viewed it in the context of the hundreds of pieces of information she had gleaned over the years and had been busy concocting not just one, but have a dozen contingencies for how to react.

This time, however, Phillipa only made a murmur of ascent before lowering the paper. As she did so, the figure of Dominic Ashe filled the library doorway.

“Ah!” he said, his gaze immediately falling to Elouise, not bothering to disguise his delight at seeing her. “Just the ladies I need to see.”

“Dominic,” Elouise said, “Just the man I need to see.”

She moved across the room and took his hand, his expression moving from greeting to one of concern.

“What’s happened?” he asked. Elouise filled him in on the story in the social column.

“Do you have any idea who’s spreading the rumours?” he asked.

“We have a good idea,” Phillipa said. “A disgruntled former employee of Jeremy’s. However, where she heard them is a mystery.”

“Not entirely,” Rimple added. “That social club—the New Women’s League. She heard it at a meeting.”

“Is that the group started by Emily Coughlin and her ilk?” Dominic said. “Maybe it’s just another roundabout way to you get you to move.”

“Possibly,” Phillipa said. “But this is getting a little concerning. Thanks to Jeremy’s connections, we’ve managed to get several of our girls hired into some of the more reputable places in the city, including Government House.”

Dominic sat down on the settee and read over piece in question. “I could take a look into it.”

“I don’t know if you could get anywhere near the NWL,” Elouise said. “You’re too close to Everwell.”

“I don’t think there is such a thing,” he said, giving Elouise a warm smile. “I just spent the past hour with Veronica Turnbull, and she didn’t seem to mind.”

“You’re investigating the da Silva case for her?” Phillipa said, her brow furrowed.

“I am,” he said, then cocked his head. “And I think we have an opportunity here.”

Phillipa crossed her arms and started pacing in that way she did when she was thinking. He hadn’t said a word, yet, she already seems to understand what Dominic was proposing.

“And before you say no,” he said, raising his hands as he read her silent dissent, “consider it a chance to fix this. You know better than anyone that favours are a particularly useful sort of currency.”

“The NWL do us a favour?” Maddy interrupted, rolling her eyes. “Why would they even want to?”

He picked up the paper and pointed to the picture of Beau da Silva.

“He’s my newest client,” Dominic said. “I don’t think the ink was dry before I got a call from Veronica Turnbull herself.”

“Did he do it?” Maddy asked.

Dominic shared everything he knew, including a few pieces that were not in the papers.

“Someone is clearly eager to find him,” Phillipa said. “It’s not every day a reward like this is offered before the case even goes to trial.”

“Exactly,” he said. “We have to get him out of the city. That reward is too much of a carrot for even the casual fortune hunter. I’m going to Saint John as soon as he’s in a safe place.”

“So what do you want from us?” Maddy asked before she could help herself.

“I need someone to keep an eye on him. Someone who knows how to handle themself.”

Dominic’s eyes met Maddy’s and her heart jumped into her throat. Why on earth would she want to help Beau da Silva?

She opened her mouth to protest, but Phillipa spoke up first.

“Absolutely not,” she said, giving her head a quick shake. “It’s too much of a risk.”

Maddy stifled a sigh of relief. Thank goodness Phillipa had some good sense.

“Everwell would be doing The Turnbulls a tremendous favour,” he continued, clearly not yet willing to give up his case. “The man’s pockets are pretty deep. You’ll get a nice donation for your services, which I would add, would be one hundred percent legal. No sneaking around, no slipping keys into stranger’s pockets, no cracking safes—or skulls.”

“Men like Beau da Silva are not the people we are trying to help,” Phillipa said. “Nor Veronica Turnbull for that matter. They can snap their fingers and get whomever they need. And they can’t know about Maddy’s particular training.”

“They don’t need to know about the martial arts or the boxing,” Dominic said. “All they have to think is that Maddy is going as his housekeeper and cook.”

“I hate cooking,” Maddy said.

Dominic turned and flashed her a smile, which may have worked wonders on Elouise, but Maddy, thankfully, was immune.

“It’s an old stone cottage in the middle of nowhere,” he said, “with no one to bother you.”

“He’ll bother me.”

Dominic sighed, folded up the paper, and placed it down on Maddy’s desk.

“If it’s not going to work, that’s fine,” he said. “I’ll see if Reg Knickle can do it. Or maybe Jeremy can spare Harold Babock.”

Maddy sat down at her desk, as if to signal her decision was final, when her gaze came to rest on the social column.

Troubling Rumours…

Her stomach clenched at the thought that Everwell might be in danger. Danger from an enemy she couldn’t fight. She could hear Phillipa, Eloise and Dominic talking behind her, brainstorming on who could help him with this case. And while there were a million reasons to stay right where she was sitting, there was four reasons why she had to stand up.

“I will do this on one condition,” Maddy said, pulling herself to her feet and looking to Phillipa. “Mrs. Turnbull agrees to find the source of those rumours and silence them.”

“Maddy, are you certain?” Phillipa asked.

“No,” she said. “Phillipa, you’ll have to talk to her. But if you can get her to agree, then yes. I’ll do it.”

Maddy spent a restless night regretting her decision. There seemed no book that could distract her, and not even pouring her frustration out on her sparring bag seemed to help. She spent half the night hoping there would be some urgent message from Dominic, advising them that Mrs. Turnbull had no wish for help, but instead, Elouise had come to the door the next morning with a note for Phillipa that Dominic and Mrs. Turnbull would be by for tea to discuss the terms. Phillipa seemed pleased by this turn of events, but it had put Maddy into such a spin she’d burned the morning porridge. Phillipa graciously started another pot and ordered Maddy out of the kitchen and into her garden.

Maddy stood in the midst of her little rose labyrinth. Some of the blooms were past their prime, but the air was still beautifully perfumed by the mass of white tender blooms of her Madame Hardy roses that had been gifted to her by Tilda and Lady Em when she’d first arrived at Everwell. They’d been joined by other varieties, including the Complicatas, with their yellow centres and happy pink petals, and dramatic deep hues of the Charles de Mills. Her garden grew and flourished, but Everwell was changing, and that unsettled her more than she cared to admit. While Elouise and Gemma were still intimately involved with The Everwell Society—both the public facing society and the matters handled by the Scandalous Spinsters, they no longer lived under Everwell’s roof. They still took many of their evening meals at Everwell as they always had, and those meals were more boisterous with the added numbers of husbands and extended households that had come to gather, particularly on Sundays. Indeed, Lady Em and Tilda, Everwell’s matriarchs, had mused of the necessity of an addition to the dining room to house them all.

But the evenings were quieter. Elouise’s regular spot on the settee was now empty. And Gemma no longer practiced as often with Maddy in their training area in the carriage house.

Something had shifted, and it unsettled Maddy in a way she couldn’t quite hold on to.

And so, as she sat here on a pleasant July afternoon, about to embark on a quiet afternoon of doing something that she on any other day would have been perfectly content to do, Maddy found herself wrestling with this thing, this mood, that was hard to pin down. It had crept under her skin and stretched every last nerve of her being. Something unsettled. She felt it in her bones.

She moved through the verge, the leaves gleaming in different shades of green, some shiny, others not, her heart springing in anticipation as she approached the heart of it. There was something magical about roses. Their petals were such silky soft, delicate little things, so beautifully scented that, for just a moment, Madeline Murray could pretend that she was pretty just by being surrounded by their perfume. They didn’t care if she was too tall, too fat, too grumpy, or too much of whatever it was that made the world see her the way they did. They made her feel beautiful just by being near them. And for that, she would tend to these flowers to her dying day.

There were delicate white ones, bold red ones, and a host of pinks in between. The bright pink Duc de Cambridge were a particular favourite, though it was hard to choose. But she loved them, prickles and all.

Moving toward the centre was her latest achievement—the spectacular and demanding Reine des Violettes. It was one of the few climbers in her collection, a lush, brilliant pink quartered bloom surrounded by bright green leaves. She’d managed to train it over an old section of fence, next to which she nestled a beautiful wooden bench. It provided the perfect canopy and escape to read on a warm summer day.

“There you are, my darling,” she said, her heart filling up with anticipation. It was silly, and only upon pain of death would she share how much these roses meant to her. How essential they were. She approached them with the same enthusiasm and reverence she’d imagined she might approach a lover—and imagination was all she had. Which was fine. Maddy had long ago given up the idea that any man would want her for more than the dowry her father had bestowed on her, and she’d rarely seen a man that either inspired any particular excitement, nor gave her any indication that she would give them any.

Until yesterday. And then, that was someone toying with her for his own purposes.

Maddy’s gaze swept over the bush, covered in lively pink blooms, framed by bright green leaves. Her heart leapt into her chest as she examined several leaves on one of the closest stems. Marring the shiny smooth surface of the leaves were a host of sickly black spots.

She swallowed back her disappointment. One couldn’t garden if they weren’t prepared to go toe to toe with a host of things impossible to control—weather, pests, and diseases. Every season brought forward expectation and heartbreak. The last time Maddy dealt with blackspot, it had infected one entire corner of her labyrinth, and there was still a bare spot from where the blight had completely destroyed one of her tender new varieties.

She stalked off to the small garden shed, her mood shifting from mere discontent to some else—something between the sharp, jagged edges of panic and rage. She pushed up the latch on the shed and stepped in, grabbed her freshly sharpened pruning scissors, then spun around to leave. In her haste, she knocked over a small stack of tiny clay pots, one smashing to pieces at her feet.

Fuck.

She bent over and picked up the shards, her mother’s voice in her head, chastising Maddy for her foul language. Ladies do not use such foul language, Madeline. It’s base, beastly behaviour.

A good thing, then, that few would have considered Madeline Murray a lady. And a very good thing that her fellow teachers at the Everwell School never expected her to be. Maddy didn’t believe in a god, but if she did, she would thank the relevant deity for the day Phillipa Hartley brought her to Everwell. They hadn’t asked too many questions, nor judged her for her dubious past. And for that, and so many other things, she would protect them and Everwell and everything it stood for with her life, if necessary. And that included her beloved roses.

She set the clay shards on a nearby shelf and took a moment to calm herself. Panic caused mistakes.

The other side of panic was anger—emotion Maddy had struggled with for far too long. Harnessed, it could be useful, and on occasion, when battling a particularly difficult opponent, Maddy dipped into its dark power to help her fight through fatigue or pain. But it could inflict unintended harm. As she walked back toward her diseased rose bush, pruners in one hand, and an empty wooden bucket in the other, she worked to rid herself of the unruly swirl of emotion that would spiral. Instead, she focused on what she could manage. Yes, black spot was bad. Yes, she might lose her entire rosebush. But could she attack the problem and do her best to protect it?

Also yes.

June had been particularly damp, which no doubt contributed to the arrival of the fungus, but after weeks of wet weather, the sky overhead was a brilliant blue, with only a wisp of cloud in the sky. When she was younger, Maddy’s mother used to scold her for not wearing a bonnet, letting her fair skin redden and freckle. It was one of many things her mother scolded her for.

Maddy pushed off that unwanted memory, revived as she approached her beloved garden, now lush with peonies, hollyhocks and lavender. Soon the echinacea would be blooming. The landscape was alive, the low buzz of bees searching for pollen, and butterflies dining on milkweed. Milkweed wasn’t generally favoured in more fashionable gardens, where only seeds from Europe were prized. The local species, considered lesser in many eyes, were ripped out of the earth they’d been home to and protected for thousands of years.

Past the large maple tree, movement caught her eye. She paused, wondering if it was merely a bird moving through the brush when the scent of something earthy, masculine, mingled with the heady aromas of the roses, thick in the summer air and carried by the gentlest of salty breezes coming from the Northwest Arm below.

Every muscle went on alert. Maddy rarely kept a weapon on her while she was at Everwell. Throwing knives and short sabres were her preferred tools when life and limb were on the line, but her small pruning scissors and a bucket would do in a pinch. She’d gone into situations with far less. Besides, she had her wits, and she had her body. It wasn’t lithe, like Gemma’s. But it was strong, and she would use it to protect herself and anyone—or anything—she loved.

She loved Everwell. And she loved these roses.

The unnatural rustle of leaves further sharpened her senses. She turned her head toward the noise, angling her body slightly in order to assess the threat. Through the verge, punctuated by pops of colour, she could clearly see the form of a man. Though much of his outline was obscured, her body—unreliable traitor—recognized him as the man from the bookshop.

Beau da Silva. Potential murderer of a rich industrialist, and more importantly, slinger of insults about her age and marital status.

From his gait, Maddy guessed he wasn’t trying to hide his presence. Rather, he seemed preoccupied with the flowers themselves, pausing here and there, taking in their scent, and generally admiring them. That should have taken some of her disdain away from what he was doing until he wrapped his hand around a blossom and?—

He wasn’t just looking at her roses. He was reaching out and… touching them? Indignation crept up her spine, prickling hot even in the growing heat of a summer day as he pawed at her prized Duc de Cambridge. Did he even know what he was doing? Helping himself to her passion, her sweat, and occasionally, when she worked out here without her thick leather gloves—her blood. He wasn’t just inviting himself to something he had absolutely no business handling, but a diseased plant, which might easily help spread the fungus across more of the plant if he helped himself to them as easily as he did this one.

She opened her mouth, but before she could find the voice to call out and demand this interloper stop, he’d done the deed.

He’d taken one of her roses.

Her blood pounding, Maddy dropped her pruners and the bucket, rushed through the labyrinth, and came upon him just as he’d pocketed whatever blade he’d used to steal the rose. She came upon him from behind, whipping him around so she could see his face. His bright blue eyes widened in surprise and he looked about to break out into what no doubt would have been a beautiful smile. If she’d waited, he might even try and say something charming.

But Maddy didn’t particularly care about his charm or his lovely eyes or his beautiful smile. He’d invited himself into this place and stolen one of her roses. Even worse, he risked the health of her entire plant. And there was a price to be exacted for that.

A second later, her body working from memory, the thief was on his back, Maddy pinning his shoulders with her hands. She looked down at him, ignoring this unwanted sensation, this heat, coming through the soft linen of his summer jacket. He squinted and let go a small cough, before looking up at her with undisguised mischief.

“Lovely to see you again.”