Page 2 of A Murder in Mayfair
With that, he sauntered toward the door. Moving fluidly through the cramped space, he navigated overturned stools and unconscious patrons as if he belonged here—because he did. The door creaked as he pushed it open, letting in a draft of cool night air that made the lamps flicker. A moment later, he was gone, swallowed by the darkness and the maze of alleys beyond.
The gentleman remained seated a moment longer. The coins were gone, twenty pounds already spent. The next time he and O’Donnell met, the job would be done—or at least, it had better be. He tried not to think about what would happen if O’Donnell failed, or if he tried to extract further payment through blackmail or violence. A shudder crawled up his spine. The ideathat this filthy murderer knew where he lived—knew even the pattern of his doorstep—was unsettling in the extreme.
He came to his feet and made his way out. The pact was sealed. Twenty pounds had changed hands, and a man’s fate was marked.
In 1889 London, deals were struck not only in counting houses and boardrooms, but also in grimy taverns with tankards of foul ale. He pushed open the door and stepped into the darkness. As the fog swallowed him, the city itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the inevitable violence that would soon follow.
Chapter
One
ROSEHAVEN HOUSE
SUFFRAGE FOR WOMEN
“The right to vote!” Lady Whitworth exclaimed. “That’s what we should demand from Parliament. Don’t you agree, Lady Rosalynd?”
It wasn’t the first time Lady Whitworth had urged me to adopt her point of view. But as the president of the Society for the Advancement of Women, I could not take sides before a vote was taken. So I chose the politic option. “An important issue most certainly, but there’s another just as vital.”
Miss Moore was not slow to take my hint. “What good would it do to demand the right to vote if we can’t manage our own finances?”
“Well, obviously, once we obtain women’s suffrage, we can advocate for the other matter,” Lady Whitworth retorted, firm in her conviction.
After an hour of debating the subject of our petition to the House of Lords, we were no closer to a decision. While one faction had strongly argued we should demand women’s suffrage, the other clamored for a woman’s financialindependence. You’d think, by now, I’d grown used to the loud disagreements. But this month’s meeting had turned particularly fractious. So much so, we were at risk of not reaching a decision at all. And that I couldn’t allow.
With more force than was necessary, I brought down the gavel on the round table that served as a podium. “We’ve been arguing both sides long enough, ladies. It’s time to settle the issue once and for all.”
“Hear, hear!” several of those present agreed.
Ignoring the throbbing ache between my brows, I said, “Lady Whitworth, if you would present your case.”
“The right to vote is the most important. Once it’s given to married women who’ve achieved the age of reason?—”
“Reason? Ha!” the dowager Countess of Sheffield cried out. “Some women never manage that, no matter their age.”
“Now, Hetty, we can’t petition for our right to command our own destiny if we think other ladies are too stupid to vote,” her sister, Lady Cosgrove, said.
The dowager stared down her nose at her sibling. “That’s the argument the gentlemen will make, Fanny. That we have nothing but air between our ears. Why, just this past Thursday, I overheard a group of gentlemen discussing that very topic at Lady Berkeley’s ball.”
“What gentlemen?” Lady Whitworth demanded. Her fiery gaze threatened retribution to those who’d dared to espouse such a view.
“What does it matter?” The dowager responded. “They all share the same views. They think we’re idiots.”
I banged down the gavel again. “We’re straying off topic, ladies.” Again. I pointed to the younger woman who’d brought up the finances issue. “Miss Moore, please plead your case.”
“Thank you, Lady Rosalynd.” She came to her feet and turned to face those assembled. “We need to be able to direct our ownfunds. Having a man manage our money is a recipe for disaster. They have been known to mismanage our assets, and worse, abscond with them.” No surprise why she was concerned. She’d inherited a fortune from her railroad tycoon father. “Why, I have to apply to my business manager if I wish to purchase so much as a hatpin.” Having had her say, she returned to her seat.
“But why can’t we petition for both the right to vote and the right to manage our own finances?” one of our newest members asked.
“Because men’s minds are too simple to focus on more than one thing at a time, dear,” the dowager declared.
Giggles and the occasional snort made their way around their room.
“We’ve dithered long enough,” Lady Whitworth’s voice boomed out. “I call for a vote.”
Finally! No one wanted this matter settled more than me. But first, I needed to explain the guidelines under which a choice would be made. “Now, ladies, the vote will decide how we move forward with our petition. Option one is women’s suffrage. Option two is the right to manage our own finances. You can only vote for one. Is that understood?”
Heads decorated with bird’s nests, floral arrangements, and one rather odd fruit basket wavered in the air.
