Reckless in Red

by Rachael Miles

  Lena could still remember her final visit home. She’d looked forward to the visit for weeks, having found boarding school repressive, and Mrs. Edstein vindictive and cruel. Lena had believed that in person she could finally accomplish what her begging letters had failed to do: convince her father to bring her home and hire a governess. She’d run to the carriage her father had sent for her, only to find her headmistress already inside. No one had told her Mrs. Edstein would be spending the vacation with them.

  The long ride home had been filled with silence when Edstein slept, and recriminations and threats when she didn’t. But even so, Lena hadn’t anticipated her father’s hearty welcome of her headmistress. Intent to show Edstein his house and lands, he’d handed her down from the carriage, then walked away before Lena reached the stairs. And he’d said nothing when Edstein had instructed the servants to take Lena’s bags to the nursery, or when she had taken for herself Lena’s mother’s room, which Lena had made her own after the funeral. On dark nights when she felt alone, Lena still felt the betrayal deep in her belly.

  Without thinking, Lena tucked her foot around Clive’s ankle. With the help of a bag of broken biscuits provided by the cook, her rescuer was attempting to teach the dog some trick. But at her touch, he paused and winked, his kindness displacing somewhat her old hurts.

  “I think he has it now.” Clive tossed a broken bit of biscuit into the dog’s mouth. As predicted, the big puppy had chewed his way through his makeshift pen by the time they reached Hyde Park. But he was a gentle dog and eager to please.

  “See if he will do the trick without the biscuit. That’s the test.” Judith took the bag out of Clive’s hand.

  “Yes, try it without,” Lena agreed, hoping she hadn’t been lost in bad memories for long.

  “As you wish, my ladies.” Clive gave the command and held out his hand. The pup looked suspiciously from Judith—holding the sack of biscuits—to Clive, but eventually decided to obey the command, putting his paw in Clive’s hand.

  Lady Judith and Lena praised the dog almost in unison, and the pup wagged his tail happily.

  “That’s a great trick, but perhaps you should have taught him how to wait while we descend from the carriage.” Lady Judith handed the pup a bit of biscuit. “I’m afraid that if the footman opens Lena’s door, Boatswain will make a leap for the door and ruin both our dresses.”

  “I had a dog once, and I found that it was simply best to give the dog precedence and let him descend first,” Lena suggested. “That realization saved me repairing many a dress.”

  Clive raised an eyebrow, and Lena realized she had unwittingly given him more information about her past than she’d intended. But he said nothing, merely tossed the pup another biscuit.

  The carriage slowed, pulling under a porte cochere where a brigade of footmen waited.

  “Yours seems like sound advice, Lena,” Lady Judith acknowledged. “As soon as the carriage stops, I will let Boatswain out on my side.”

  “If I may add to my sister’s earlier advice about the Masons, you will find our cousin Ophelia unabashedly good-natured. She is naturally sociable, with a talent for designing easy gatherings filled with laughter.” Clive paused.

  “But?” Lena prodded, studying his face while he searched for the right words.

  Clive looked to his sister, but Lady Judith shook her head, refusing to help him.

  “Ophelia loves science.” He shrugged. “She styles herself a chemist.”

  Lena studied his face, uncertain how to interpret his comment, but she saw no resentment or revulsion. Other than his first annoying comment about women’s capabilities at the Rotunda, Clive had shown himself to be remarkably open to her expertise. Was he generally uncomfortable with knowledgeable women, or merely with Mrs. Mason’s particular expertise? She knew she should let the comment pass by, but, if she were to continue to trust him, she needed to know.

  “If an interest in chemical reactions is a fault, then I bear the blame as well,” she said. “In the buon fresco paintings Lady Wilmot has commissioned, the pigment will bond with the lime, making the images both durable and vivid.”

  “I didn’t mean to suggest it’s a fault to have an interest or a passion. It’s simply that when Ophelia’s gotten a new chemistry book, she can talk of almost nothing else until she’s worked out all the experiments in her laboratory. Last week, her husband bought her several new books.”

  Lena wanted to ask more, wanted to tease out how Clive felt about women who could talk about nothing but their passions, but at that moment, the carriage stopped fully, ending their conversation, as they both watched Lady Judith reach to unlatch the door nearest Boatswain.

  The dog watched Judith’s every movement, his tail a metronome of his excitement. When the door swung open, the dog—seeing Lady Colin standing on the porch—let out a wailing howl, then sprang from the carriage and ran headlong toward his mistress. Having protected hers and Lady Judith’s dresses, Lena wondered if the reunion was going to spell disaster for Lady Colin’s instead. But as Boatswain reached his mistress’s feet, Lucy gave a hand signal, and the pup slid into a sit, wagging his sturdy tail in time with her petting.

  Clive jumped down, stepping aside for the footmen to place the steps. As Lena descended, Clive held her hand a moment longer than necessary, squeezing it as he let it go. Lena assumed it was a sort of apology for their unfinished conversation, but she wished it might be a promise instead, of what she wasn’t sure.

  On the porch, Mrs. Mason held out her hands in greeting. “Ah, Miss Frost, what a pleasure! Miss Equiano should arrive shortly. I must say that I’m indebted to you, my dear.” Seeing Lady Colin and Lady Judith deep in conversation, Ophelia Mason led Lena into the house with Clive following. “Cousin Clive has missed almost all my family dinners this fall, claiming that his research couldn’t be left.”

  “Says my wife who has spent every afternoon this week staring at the contents of a beaker.” An average-looking man, impeccably dressed, joined them. Ophelia, taking his arm, introduced him as her husband, Sidney.

  “Beaker?” Lena prompted Ophelia to discuss her work, watching Clive carefully for his response to the conversation.

  “My beloved Ophelia is an alchemist, Miss Frost.” Sidney Mason smiled broadly. “Some years ago, she promised that if I would keep her well-equipped with beakers and other chemical apparatuses, she would reward my investment by converting various crude metals into gold or silver. Thus far she has not fulfilled her part of the bargain.”

  Ophelia shook her head in mock dismay. “Sidney is teasing you, Miss Frost. My experiments are purely chemical, not alchemical. I’m currently interested in breaking down common components into their most basic parts and learning their attributes. Thus far, my fellow natural scientists have discovered one hundred elements, and I’m hoping someday to discover one myself.”

  Lena paused, grateful to meet another woman of intelligence and ambition. “That’s an admirable goal.”

  “More than admirable,” Clive said with obvious pride. “If anyone can do it, it’s our Ophelia. I’ve made her promise to name the first element after me.”

  “I promised you the second; Sidney will be first.” Ophelia swatted Clive’s arm. “He bought me two works for my birthday, both in foreign tongues, so my experiments are moving a bit slowly.” She added to Lena, not-so-confidentially, “Sidney has made me promise to have my son’s tutor confirm all my translations before I try any of the experiments.”

  “Let me be clear, Miss Frost,” Sidney intervened. “My wife’s command of German and French is quite strong. But one of the books I bought her describes experiments with volatile compounds, and I wish for her to confirm her translations to ensure that I will have a house and family when I return from Whitehall each evening.”

  “What books has Sidney bought you?” Clive winked at Lena from behind Ophelia’s head, encouraging the conversation Lena had started. The wink as much as his prompting made her belly flip.


  Ophelia beamed. “I can always count on Clive to show an interest in my researches. One—as Sidney described it—is a book on volatile compounds; the other is a pharmacopeia by the Swedish chemist Jacob Berzelius.”

  “I see.” Clive nodded sagely. “If Miss Frost wishes to create any of a dozen poisons, she’ll know to consult you. But make sure first, my dear cousin, that I’m not on the list of recipients.”

  “He has not yet given me reason to poison him.” Lena met Clive’s eyes. He was studying her intently, and his gaze held both a dare and a promise.

  “Give him time,” Judith chimed in from behind the group.

  Lena wondered if conversations in the Mason household were always so unusual, but she found participating quite delightful. “I do have a question for a chemist, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Of course!” Ophelia beamed. “If I cannot answer it, I likely know someone who can. I’m a member of the corresponding society of chemists.”

  “I walk past a cemetery where the stench—particularly at night—is so awful that the gravediggers say they must be drunk to withstand it. Last month they discovered one of their own, unconscious, in one of the deep grave pits, and the man who offered to retrieve him fell unconscious as well. By the time the others could retrieve them, both men were dead. What makes the air in a cemetery so dangerous?”

  “That’s quite easy to answer, though a bit complicated,” Ophelia answered. “It’s related to a highly volatile gas that Alessandro Volta discovered in a marsh at Lake Maggiore. He even developed a tool in 1776 to show its combustibility—a pistola di volta.”

  “A pistol?” Lena asked.

  “A glass pistol. One chamber held the gas, the other a projectile. To expel the bullet, Volta ignited the gas with a charge of static electricity.” Ophelia grew thoughtful, then turned to her husband. “Sidney, darling, if a glass blower made us a pistola di Volta, I could demonstrate ignition as part of our son’s education.”

  Sidney Mason groaned. “Perhaps I should reinforce the walls of her laboratory—or move it farther from the house.”

  “It’s already at the very bottom of the garden, darling,” Ophelia reminded.

  “Then I need to purchase the land adjacent to the garden,” Sidney joked. “To pay for it, I’ll create a new scented soap, something a bit grassy called ‘Ophelia’s meadow.’”

  “Or something that smells of sulfur and called ‘Ophelia’s experiments gone awry.’” Clive played along.

  Ophelia rolled her eyes. “As to your question, Miss Frost. As bodies decay, they produce Volta’s marsh gas. In city cemeteries, the bodies are so densely packed that the gasses build up below the surface.” Ophelia’s tone turned serious. “If cemetery ground looks like it’s bubbling, you must be very careful.”

  “Bubbling?” Lena questioned.

  “Gurgling, spongy, marshy—any of those is a sign to avoid that area.”

  “Why?” Clive asked, clearly interested as well.

  “That’s a sign that the gases have built up to dangerous levels and might very well explode! Curates often drill a hole in coffins to release the gas slowly. If they don’t . . .”

  “I know the answer to this: the coffins explode!” Clive placed a hand under Lena’s elbow, and she relaxed into the warmth of his touch.

  “Clive, given your avocation, you must treat this seriously,” Ophelia insisted. “If you experience any of the symptoms of marsh gas poisoning—an aching head, a taste of metal, nausea, or trembling—you must find good air very quickly if you wish to survive.”

  “What distinguishes between good and bad air?” Lena was fascinated, and a bit concerned. More than once in her studio, she’d felt exactly as Ophelia had described.

  “In chemical terms, it’s very simple. Marsh gas is almost pure hydrogen, just one part carbon to four parts hydrogen, while the compound we need for healthful respiration is—as Joseph Priestley discovered in 1775—one part oxygen to two parts hydrogen.”

  “So, that’s why the men in the graveyard died? They breathed in too much hydrogen, and not enough oxygen?”

  “Exactly what role oxygen plays in human respiration is still under debate. But the exploding part—everyone agrees on that.” Ophelia smiled.

  “While Miss Frost appears to have enjoyed her chemistry lesson, Phee, I believe you promised to feed her,” Clive intervened gently.

  “Of course! Until dinner is served, you’ll find hearty refreshments in the salon. Clive will introduce you to the other guests—all family in one way or the other.” The bells of another carriage rang, signaling the arrival of more guests, and Ophelia took their leave.

  Lady Colin, her big dog following at her heel, and Lady Judith arrived at Lena’s elbow as if on cue.

  “We are quite a scientific family.” Lady Judith directed Lena toward the salon. “Both Ophelia and Clive study the natural world by way of experimentation—Ophelia with a microscope, Clive with a scalpel.”

  “Studies? I thought he was already a physician.” Lena looked over her shoulder at Clive, who followed behind attentively. He merely shrugged.

  “He is,” Lucy clarified. “Our Clive is an anatomist. He traces the workings of the muscles and organs as William Harvey traced the circulation of the blood.”

  Clive interrupted, “I am interested in research, but Lucy is our nurse, treating our wounds with skills honed at Waterloo.”

  “You were at the battle?” Lena examined the woman more carefully, her attachment to Boatswain coming into a different focus. In France, she’d known many battle-worn former soldiers who relied on the comforting presence of a dog.

  “In the hospitals, there and before. My father was an officer.” Lucy, apparently caring little for her dress, picked up the giant puppy and nuzzled him. “It was kind of you to indulge our Ophelia; outside our community, she doesn’t often find the pleasure of a willing audience.”

  “No, the pleasure was mine. It was the most fascinating conversation I’ve had in some time. We began so mildly with scented soaps and ended explosively with bubbling corpses!”

  Clive shook his head. “You are an odd woman, Miss Frost.”

  Lena smiled broadly, surprisingly happy to be with him and his family. “That’s one of the finest compliments I’ve had in some time.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Lady Judith and Lady Colin introduced Lena to the other guests, leaving Clive to trail behind somewhat uselessly. But he still remained near her, not wanting, even in a place as safe as the Masons’ Kensington home, to risk an accident, or an attack. He was pleased that Lena had taken to Ophelia’s conversation on chemistry so well. Perhaps she might be equally willing to hear his thoughts on medicine. He had certainly found her brief comments on painting and its chemical reactions fascinating. And then there were her eyes, deep as the sea. . . .

  The group was typical of Ophelia’s gatherings. She’d invited any family who might be close by, which tonight seemed to number nearly two dozen; a handful of dear old friends from the neighborhood; one or two of Sidney’s oldest customers; and his grandfather, who sat in state at the head of the table, enjoying the gathering, particularly the company of Lady Judith, who shared his passion for scents.

  “You’ve arrived just in time for the first game.” Lucy grinned.

  “Game?” Lena had little experience with games.

  “I should have warned you.” Clive leaned forward. “Ophelia loves games, and she fancies herself proficient at making them up, though they are usually embarrassing.”

  “Embarrassing?” Lena studied Clive’s face.

  “Yes. She makes us reveal something or tell a truth that we would prefer to keep hidden.” Clive shrugged. “But it’s all in good fun.”

  “There seems to be a great deal you should have warned me about,” Lena, suddenly wary, whispered.

  Lucy continued, explaining, “Tonight’s game is called suspicion or superstition, I can’t remember which. But she’s spent hours creating it.”

&nbs
p; “Are we to tell ghost stories around the fire?” Lena asked.

  Lady Judith opened her mouth to say something, then reconsidered.

  Clive, however, filled in. “Not ghosts, though Ophelia claims to have seen one once.”

  “How does she reconcile that with her reliance on logic and reason?” Lena asked, and Clive simply shrugged.

  At that moment, Ophelia clapped her hands to attract the attention of the group. “Choosing a game is always difficult for a family dinner. Living in community as we do, we know well each others’ quirks and tricks, truths and evasions. We even know which in our company is most likely to cheat at cards.” The group laughed.

  Ophelia continued. “As a result, tonight after dinner, we will all be actors in a sort of play, or if you prefer, a game of logic.” A footman began to distribute sealed envelopes to the company. “When you open your envelope, you will find information on the character you will play in our game. It includes your occupation, suspicions, and beliefs, as well as several details that you must reveal if asked.”

  “What’s our purpose?” Lady Judith prodded.

  “Ah, yes, our purpose: to discover who has committed a crime. Unless you are our criminal, you must answer truthfully any questions that are put to you. But all of you have secrets, and part of the game is deciding which secrets are criminal!” Ophelia beamed. “Since Miss Frost and Miss Equiano are at a disadvantage, I’ve provided advice to help them navigate our community.”

  “Which means what, Phee?” Clive called out.

  “We all have revealing little quirks, and Ophelia has made a list of them,” Sidney Mason explained.

  Each of the company opened their envelopes, some grimacing, others laughing out loud. The conversation began immediately.

  Which of us aren’t criminals in some way or other? Lena asked herself. Though she was reticent to play, she recognized that the game—by allowing her to ask impertinent questions—might help her to determine if Horatio’s message was meant to include Lady Wilmot and her circle. Lena opened her envelope. According to the game, she was a rich heiress who had taken on a disguise to test if the man she loved was true or a fortune hunter. Her character was suspicious of those who wished to be her friends, always questioning their motives, and she resented being told what to do. Perfect: some of that would require no acting at all.