Solving Sophronia (The Blue Orchid Society, #1)

by Jennifer Moore

  Detective Graham raised a brow and watched her for another moment before answering. “I was pleasantly surprised by Lord Meredith and his friends. We enjoyed a fine time—conversation and drinks in the cardroom until their mothers shooed us all out to socialize.”

  “That is not what I meant.” She rolled her eyes. “Did you question any of them?”

  His lips twitched. “I mentioned that I enjoyed hunting, and then I listened.”

  “As they discussed the lecture.”

  The detective nodded.

  “Did you learn anything new?”

  He shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. Much to the disappointment of Miss Thornton and Miss Kirby, who were trying to look inconspicuous as they listened behind the door outside the cardroom. Your friends might consider careers in espionage.”

  Sophie frowned, frustrated that her marvelous plan was producing no results.

  “But we are able to cross more suspects off the list. That is something, at least,” he said.

  “I suppose,” she muttered, scowling.

  He squeezed her fingers and leaned close to her ear. “We will find the killer, Sophie. Every step brings us closer to his discovery.”

  Sophie’s cheeks flared again. This time it was not only his closeness but his use of her Christian name that brought on the reaction. Aside from family and a few older gentlemen who still thought of her as a little girl, no man had ever called her by her name. She stumbled again.

  Detective Graham caught her, his arm tightening around her. He stopped again, resting his other hand beneath her elbow to steady her.

  “I am so sorry,” Sophie said, pressing her palms to her heated cheeks. Her voice came out breathless.

  “Come along.” He tucked her hand beneath his elbow and led her from the ballroom. They crossed the entry beneath the globe chandelier and entered the dining room. The room was filled with round tables this evening, where groups of guests sat visiting as they took refreshment. “I do not know why young ladies insist upon skipping meals,” he grumbled.

  Sergeant Lester was at the far side of the room stacking dirty plates on a tray. When he saw them, he motioned with his chin to the side, indicating he wished to speak with them.

  Detective Graham nodded to the sergeant and looked around the room. “There is your grandmother, Sophie.” He spoke in a quiet voice, hiding his English. “Eat something while I meet with the sergeant.”

  Sophie was still heated, which she told herself had nothing to do with the man holding her arm and whispering into her ear. “I’ll come with you,” she said, halfheartedly, not wanting to miss anything and at the same time needing space to regain control of her emotions.

  “I promise to tell you everything,” he said. “And if I do not, rest assured those two young ladies hiding behind the potted plant will.”

  Sophie looked to where he indicated and saw Elizabeth and Dahlia peeking at them between palm fronds. She couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

  When Mimi saw Sophie and Detective Graham approach, she waved for them to join her and her friends. “Oh, Count Branković, there you are.” She allowed the detective to kiss her fingers. When she turned to Sophie, her eyes narrowed in concern. “My dear, you look quite flushed.”

  “My lady need to eat.” The detective spoke in his stilted English for the benefit of the other women sitting with Mimi.

  “Yes, of course.” Lady Chatsworth vacated the seat beside Mimi, motioned for Sophie to sit, and waved for a server to bring tea.

  “Thank you,” Sophie said, wishing she could curl up on a sofa with her head in her grandmother’s lap. She vaguely heard Mimi introducing the detective to her friends before he took his leave, but her thoughts were scattered.

  She took a sip of the tea and gave a grateful smile when Mimi set a tray of teacakes and wafers in front of her.

  “Now, Sophronia, tell me what is the matter,” Mimi said once Sophie had eaten a few wafers. “Perhaps the excitement of the past week has been too much for you.”

  “I don’t know,” Sophie said. “Everything was fine until Det—” She glanced at her grandmother’s friends. “Until the count took my hand for the waltz. When we danced, I felt happy and sad and hot and dizzy . . . My thoughts were all in disarray.” She shook her head as if she could jostle the wayward thoughts back into place.

  “Ah, I see,” Mimi said. She raised a brow, and her lips twitched as she glanced across the room in the direction Detective Graham had gone.

  The other ladies smiled as well.

  Sophie’s stomach tightened in apprehension of what the knowing smiles meant. “Perhaps it was a spell of hysteria,” she offered, but the explanation sounded weak, even to her. Could they be insinuating . . . ? No. Sophie refused to believe it.

  “Well, dearest,” Mimi said in a gentle voice. “You are certainly not the first woman to find herself enchanted by a handsome man or to blush in his arms on the dance floor.”

  “No.” Sophie gave a disgusted snort. “I don’t . . . I am not the type . . .” What was wrong with her? Was a waltz with a man who called her by her Christian name all it took to turn her into a lovesick girl?

  The thought brought her up short. Love? This couldn’t be that. She couldn’t be in love with Detective Graham. He was brusque, sometimes to the point of rudeness, and he knew nothing of literature and art. He always wore the same ugly brown hat and ate far too many peppermints.

  “He is all wrong,” Sophie protested.

  “Aren’t they always?” Mrs. Griffin said, shaking her head.

  “We would never suit,” Sophie continued. “It must be something else. My corset may be too tight.”

  The ladies glanced at one another, their smiles making Sophie want to argue all the more. They didn’t know. None of them could explain this away so simply. Besides, she wasn’t like all the silly women who came to balls expecting to be swept off their feet by a handsome suitor. She didn’t believe in romance.

  “Dearest, your grandfather and I could not have been less suited for one another. He was classically conservative, traditional, and stuffy—from an old, established family.” Mimi gave a wry smile, rolling her eyes. “While I . . .” She waved her hand as if no explanation were necessary. “We met at a suffragette protest—well, met is a strong word for yelling at one another on the green at St. James’s Park about the inequality of women.”

  “Oh, I remember it fondly,” Lady Chatsworth said. “You in your white dress and laurel wreath and he, late for his parliament session, in his wig and robes.” She snickered. “You raved about that ‘horrid man’ for months.”

  Sophie smiled, imagining the pair in their youth.

  “Until the two of you were invited to the same house party in Southampton,” Mrs. Griffin chimed in. “All of us endured three long weeks of glares across the dining table and uncomfortable arguments in the parlor until”—she widened her eyes dramatically—“that fateful afternoon.”

  “When the pair of you were caught in the rain and forced to take shelter in the duke’s gazebo.” Lady Chatsworth touched her finger to her cheek and scrunched up her face in a contemplative expression that looked very exaggerated. “What ever happened there, Emmeline? You still haven’t told us.”

  Mimi waggled a finger at her friends and gave a playful scowl. “Never you mind.” She turned back to Sophie. “The point is love doesn’t always take into account political positions or proximity or rank.” She made a circular motion with her finger. “Dearest, most of the people at this ball have wed or will for status or money. But a very few of us”—she nodded to her friends—“will have the great privilege of falling in love, and that, Sophronia, is a gift. It does not come without obstacles, and it is never a guarantee against a broken heart.”

  “But you will never regret it,” Lady Chatsworth said softly.

  Sophie opened her mouth to ar
gue, but she stopped, remembering the look in Detective Graham’s eyes when he’d rescued her from Mr. Baldwin—teasing, warm, familiar . . . Somehow it had both calmed her worries and sent her heart tumbling. Was that love?

  “But . . .” Sophie could think of nothing to say.

  “One cannot control matters of the heart,” Mimi said. “But there are some things we can do to take our minds off the worry.” She winked at Sophie and motioned to one of the servers. “Iced sherbets for all, if you please.”

  Chapter 17

  Jonathan stood with Sergeant Lester inside the kitchen, glancing through the partially open door into the dining room as he listened to the man’s report.

  “. . . said she would have noticed if any of the other staff had gone missing between six and seven—even for a short amount of time. It was the busy time of night.” The sergeant also glanced through the doorway. “Sir, I believe the killer must have been one of the guests.”

  Jonathan nodded. The investigation was certainly moving in that direction. “But who?” he muttered and reached to his chest before once again remembering he didn’t wear his pocket watch. He’d not brought any peppermints either. He fiddled with the braids on his sleeves.

  A pair of gentlemen approached the table where Sophie sat. Jonathan knew the two men; he’d been introduced earlier by Lord Meredith in the cardroom.

  Lord Everleigh, Jonathan thought, was the sort of man who folded his stockings and cut his food into neat, uniform bites. His hair and mustache were beyond tidy and trimmed in the sort of way that hinted at obsessive, and his clothing appeared to have been starched by someone who didn’t want him to bend in any way. As Lord Everleigh’s gaze traveled around the room, he looked perpetually unsatisfied with what he saw.

  Lord Chatsworth, on the other hand, wore his hair purposely mussed, his curls falling over his forehead. His clothes were fine and fit him well, but they were not immaculately pressed, and he had an amused air about him. From what Jonathan had gathered in their short meeting, Lord Chatsworth had quite the reputation as a ladies’ man.

  Lord Chatsworth kissed one of the older women on the cheek. His grandmother, Jonathan guessed, remembering the woman’s name. He said something to each of the other ladies, making them giggle or blush, then sat down beside Sophie.

  Jonathan stiffened.

  “Who’s that, then?” Sergeant Lester muttered. “Seems like a gal-sneaker, if you ask me.”

  Jonathan glanced at the sergeant, smirking at his use of the cant, then looked back at the table.

  The other gentleman sat as well, and the pair started up a conversation.

  Lord Chatsworth rested his hand on the arm of Sophie’s chair as they spoke.

  The sight made Jonathan’s mouth taste bitter, and his chest went hot.

  “I don’t like that at all,” Sergeant Lester said. “What’s he playing at, flirting with Lady Sophronia?”

  “It is none of our concern, Sergeant,” Jonathan said.

  Sergeant Lester grunted. “I just don’t think it’s proper, that’s all, him taking such liberties.”

  “One might wonder at your interest in the lady’s welfare.” He had meant the words to come out as a jest but couldn’t keep the sharpness from his voice.

  “Just looking out for a friend, that’s all.” He folded his arms and squinted at Jonathan. “As are you, judging by your glower. If you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “I do mind your saying so.” Jonathan turned his back on the scene in the dining room, not appreciating the sergeant’s insinuation, especially as it touched so close to the thoughts Jonathan had fought against all night. “This is not the society pages, Sergeant. The young lady’s associations are none of our concern. We are not part of Soph—Lady Sophronia’s world, and we would do well to remember it.” Jonathan’s voice came out sharply, and he’d almost called her Sophie. When had he started thinking of her in that familiar way? He went back over their interactions this evening. Had he spoken the name aloud to her? He believed he had. How had he dared to presume such intimacy? “We are poor policemen, and she is a lady. Just because she is polite doesn’t mean she considers us to be her equals.” He was saying the words more in reprimand to himself than to the sergeant, he knew, but this familiarity had gone too far. For both of them.

  “Well, sir, I believe you’re wrong. I don’t think that sort of thing bothers Lady Sophronia.”

  “It bothers me,” he muttered, pushing the door open and walking back into the room. As he did he nearly knocked over another server, who was bringing a tray of drinks.

  “May I help you, my lord?” the man asked.

  “I look for vodka,” Jonathan said, using the excuse he and Miss Thornton had come up with should he be discovered somewhere he was not supposed to be.

  “Yes, of course. I will bring your drink directly, if you’d care to be seated.” He stepped out of Jonathan’s way and gave a small bow.

  “Dank you.”

  As Jonathan crossed the room and saw Sophie—Lady Sophronia—laughing with the gentlemen, he felt his chest grow even hotter. Sergeant Lester’s affection for the young lady must be rubbing off on him. And the man’s protectiveness. But Jonathan knew the feelings were all wrong, and fighting against them just made them grow into heat and bile in his throat.

  He didn’t know what had happened between himself and Lady Sophronia on the dance floor tonight. And he didn’t fool himself for a moment that her reactions had been a result of overheating or hunger. He clenched his fists, frustrated.

  What had he done wrong? Had he upset her? He thought all young ladies liked to dance, but perhaps he was mistaken. Sophie was not exactly a typical young lady. But for a moment, as he held her, he’d thought . . . His ears burned, and a mixture of bitterness and shame churned in his gut—he had presumed too much.

  She was Lady Sophronia, daughter of a peer of the realm, and he an orphan from the rookery. A fancy costume and an evening among high Society didn’t change the bare facts. They were working a case together, nothing more. Their relationship was mutually beneficial for each of their careers, and once the case was solved, it would end.

  He neared the table and slowed, listening to the conversation.

  “. . . still in the dining room when the lecture began—quite a few of us. Lost track of time, I suppose,” Lord Chatsworth was saying. “We were quite disappointed to miss the tale of the lion attack, and once the lecture ended, we remained behind to see the picture.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Sophie said. “It was, from what I hear, the most exciting part of the evening.” She turned to Lord Everleigh. “Did you attend the lecture as well?”

  Lord Everleigh sniffed, flicking a crumb from the tablecloth. “I did. Though, I hardly see how my attendance is relevant to your article.”

  “It is the society column,” Sophie said. Her voice sounded tight, as if she were covering irritation at the man’s rudeness. “Readers are interested in who does what.” She turned back to Lord Chatsworth. “Who stayed behind with you after the lecture?”

  Lord Everleigh glanced up, and seeing Jonathan, he stood. “Count Branković, do join us.”

  Jonathan gave a sharp nod. As he walked to an empty seat, he paused behind Sophie’s chair. “Pardon, but my lady is feel better?”

  “Much better. Thank you, my lord,” Sophie said. She glanced up at him, but her gaze did not meet his.

  “Count Branković, you are acquainted with these gentlemen, I believe?” Lady Mather asked.

  “Da. I meet them in cardroom.”

  “Lord Chatsworth is my grandson.” Lady Chatsworth gave a proud smile.

  Jonathan nodded again. He sat on the other side of Lord Everleigh, leaving only one empty seat at the table, between himself and Mrs. Griffin. He motioned between Lord Chatsworth and Sophie with a wave. “I have interrupted. Please, continue to speaking.�
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  “I hear you are a great hunter, my lord,” Lord Chatsworth said to Jonathan. “And do tell us what game there is to be had in Serbia.”

  “I love hant, yes,” Jonathan said. “Bear, wolf, deer . . .” He thanked the server who set his glass on the table.

  “If you are still in Britain this August, my father hosts the hunting club on his estate in Scotland. You would be very welcome to join, sir, though you would find our grouse and fox to be tame prey compared to a bear.”

  “Dank you.” Jonathan raised the glass. “I would like very much.”

  Lord Everleigh waved to a man in the doorway, motioning for him to join them. The newcomer’s face was wide with a square jaw and stoic expression. His hair and mustache were fair, almost white, and he walked with surprisingly straight posture toward the table to join them.

  Lord Everleigh greeted him, introducing him as Hans Hofman, a business associate from Germany.

  Hans spoke with a thick German accent. He bowed stiffly when introduced to the ladies. And gave a familiar nod to Lord Chatsworth.

  “Please, meet Count Nikola Braković, from Serbia,” Lord Everleigh said.

  Mr. Hofman bowed. “Vy daleko ot doma.”

  Jonathan blinked, and his heart stuttered. The man spoke Serbian or Russian . . . or was it another language? One the count could reasonably not understand?

  Blast. How do I respond? From the corner of his eye, Jonathan saw Sophie and her grandmother jolt. Hoping to disguise his shock at the unexpected circumstance as well as give himself time to think, he stood, then lifted his glass in a toast, giving a wide grin and breaking into loud laughter. He clapped Hans Hofman on the shoulder. “Ah, is good hear familiar tongue. But if you don’t mind, I prefer practice Engleesh.”

  The German tipped his head to the side and opened his mouth as if he’d say something else, but he was interrupted by the arrival of Miss Miller.