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Chapter Three
“This will never work.” Eleanor paced past Chastity toward the empty fireplace of the drawing room, the gold lace trim on her sensible gown ruffling at each step, then back again to the window. Afternoon sunlight dappled through the lingering raindrops on the window. All her sisters had gathered to address the problem that was these awful rumors about Eleanor which had not ceased all week.
Oh yes, and now she suspected they had the murder of a young man to solve.
Chastity had a plan to find the murderer. A potentially outrageous one. But it could work.
Eleanor gnawed on the end of a thumb, tugging on a dark, springy curl that had sprung loose from its usual simple chignon. Eleanor had been afforded all the luxuries of a duke’s daughter since her mother died and Chastity’s own mother insisted she be brought over to England but she never completely embraced the lifestyle as Chastity and Cassie did—perhaps because she was never fully accepted by Society. As much as they all loved her, there would always be those who would see her as an outsider.
But all of that had been survivable. Until today.
Chastity glanced about the room and shuffled forward on her chair, hands laced together. Her sisters needed to know she was deadly serious about her plan.
Cassie, who should have been enjoying the glow of being a newlywed, had delayed her honeymoon to be with Eleanor. Somehow her sister had grown before her very eyes from her youngest and wildest sister to a strong, courageous, and determined young woman.
Chastity had to be the one to fix this though. Not Cassie, not Demeter, and most certainly not Eleanor. Cassie should be enjoying time with Luke, and Chastity was the only widow. She had freedoms her younger sisters did not.
Besides, as the oldest, it was her responsibility to fix this.
Unless one counted Aunt Sarah, of course, who currently sat at the writing desk, doodling a drawing of Simon the cat, whom she had adopted upon discovering he had a likeness to her late husband—also named Simon.
Everyone pretended the cat really was Simon as Aunt Sarah insisted his spirit had come to her in her time of need, and Chastity had to admit, the creature often behaved like Uncle Simon did, moving with the same gentle ease and napping on the armchair by the fire in the blue room.
Though all cats behaved like that, did they not?
She shook her head. Her point was, this was down to her. Aunt Sarah could be useful in a fix but to say her mind was often somewhere else was putting it mildly.
“Someone else should do this,” Demeter said, twisting a glass bracelet around her wrist again and again.
If one looked closely, one would spot flowers inside—a habit her sister adopted when after she had become sick as a child and lost her hearing temporarily. Her speech had yet to be formed so she used the language of flowers to communicate her feelings. Chastity suspected it brought comfort to her shy sister but wasn’t certain her reliance on flowers was a particularly healthy habit. Today, they told her Demeter was worried.
As were they all.
“There is no one else,” pointed out Chastity, gesturing around the room at her three sisters and aunt.
Eleanor perched on the edge of the windowsill and stared out at the gardens while Cassie and Demeter sat together on the sofa of the drawing room. The room had been their mother’s favorite and where the Duchess’s Investigative Society started. There had been many members outside of the family over the years but as some had wed or moved away, it had come down to just their family and Chastity had slowly brought her sisters into it.
She pinched the bridge of her nose. Much to her late-mother’s chagrin no doubt. She wasn’t even meant to invite her unwed sisters to help but it had seemed harmless to let them help. Typically, it was small, delicate, female matters that only the touch of a woman could manage. Few men knew of their existence or if they did, did not believe them to be anything other than a silly group of women pretending to do something useful, but they had helped real people, including finding a missing brother before Cassie’s wedding.
“Perhaps this will all pass,” Eleanor suggested.
“It has not yet.” Cassie’s chin turned into a determined point. “I’ve a right mind to hunt down whoever is spreading such malicious gossip. To paint you as a...a...”
“Harlot!” Aunt Sarah piped up. “Hussy…floozy…jezebel…strumpet…”
Cassie’s face paled. “I was not going to put it like that!”
Chastity noted the tension in Eleanor’s shoulders and she suspected her sister to be holding back tears while she kept her face to the window. “I think that will do, Aunt Sarah.” She held up a hand.
“I have more.” Aunt Sarah grinned. “I have even been called some of them in the past.” She sighed. “I do not doubt this to be terrible for dear Eleanor but they are only words.”
“They are words and drawings,” Eleanor said tightly, her back still to them. “Ugly, horrible drawings that shall last forever. If Cassie has children, they will be able to look upon them one day.” Her shoulders trembled and her voice cracked.
“Anyway,” Cassie continued, “to paint her like that is one thing—even if it is a vile thing indeed and could ruin a reputation—but to suggest you had a hand in his death is preposterous.”
“It could ruin you all,” Eleanor muttered.
Cassie shook her head vigorously. “We hardly care about that!”
