You examine the man for signs that he might be joking, but find none.

“Excuse me,” Bel says, dropping his paper onto the chair and heading to the adjoining room. “I must get ready if I’m to be dragged to a ball.”

“A ball?” you ask.

“Yes.” Uriel claps his hands. “Isn’t that fun?”

“To catch a killer?”

He nods. “And it will be exhilarating, I promise you.”

So much for safety.

“Not to be ungrateful,” you begin, “but I feel like this isn’t quite what Pride had in mind when he asked you to keep me safe.”

“Oh, don’t worry, you’ll be perfectly safe. As long as you stick by me. Wait here a moment.”

He follows his brother to what you assume is a bedroom.

This is a terrible idea, and you know it. It has danger and disaster written all over it, but you’re literally going to a ball with a man called Hazard. How much more blazingly obvious could it be that staying indoors is a much safer option? Still… a Victorian ball. How can you turn such an invitation down?

That’s easy. You just say no.

But that would be rude, wouldn’t it?

Uriel emerges from the bedroom a minute later with a gorgeous ball gown in one hand, and a gentlemen’s dress suit in the other. He weighs them up and down. “Which do you want to wear? Both should fit you.”

You choose the suit, since you’re not sure the dress is your colour. Besides, you don’t want to be preyed upon by ancient earls on their sixth wives. You’ve seen photos of real Victorian gentlemen, and they’re nothing like romance novels make them out to be. By the time Uriel emerges from the bedroom wearing a suit of his own that matches all of the peacock colours of his own furniture, you’re ready.

“Here.” Uriel holds out a pocket watch.

“Thank you.” You’re not sure how you’re supposed to wear it, so you slip it into your pocket when he’s not looking.

Uriel squints at you. “What exactly happened to your eye?”

“Does it still look bad?” you ask, having almost forgotten about it since Uriel’s impromptu fix. “I walked into a plant in the hallway downstairs.”

“Ah, Mrs Merrington and her wayward aspidistra.” Uriel presses his lips together. “A pair of menaces. It’s not too bad now… just a scratch. We won’t even need to make up a lie about it.”

“So, who will I be tonight?”

“You’ll be the Duke of Rosemont’s cousin… Viscount…” Uriel taps his lips. “Beresford.”

“There’s already a Beresford line,” Bel calls from the bedroom. “Choose something else.”

“I’m no good at names,” Uriel admits. “You choose.”

“What about Sheeran?” you suggest. “Edward Sheeran.”

“It suits you,” Bel says. “But steer clear of claims regarding the peerage. There’s a particular dowager duchess invited tonight who can sniff a lie like that at fifty paces. She’ll question you until your ears bleed.”

“Then you’ll be my cousin,” Uriel says. “Though if I’m to claim you publicly, you need to do something about your hair.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

Uriel grimaces, so you fix your hair to his satisfaction. He then presents you with a selection of fake facial hair, which you politely decline to Bel’s delight. You can hear him sniggering from the other room.

Uriel smiles broadly. “You look wonderful. Nobody will suspect a thing.”

“What would they suspect?” you ask.

“Precisely my point. You look so… harmless.”

“So I’ve been told,” you grumble.

“It’s a good thing in this game, believe me.”

“What game?”

“The game of detection… wheedling out deceit and betrayal.” Uriel takes on the mysterious tone of a hack fortune teller, and you wonder why he doesn’t make more effort to blend in if it would help so much in his line of work. “As I said, you and I are going to catch a killer… though hopefully not in the act.”

“What about me?” Bel asks, poking his head round the bedroom door.

“Yes, you too. If you ever actually get dressed,” Uriel grumbles.

“I’m nearly ready, but I could…” Bel grunts. “I could do with a little help getting this jacket on.”

“Peacock,” Uriel mutters, as he joins Bel in the bedroom.

You’ve never been inside a closed carriage as decadent as this one. The seats are upholstered in dark leather, the padded walls with violet silk. The windows are without a speck of dust or grime, which really isn’t the most impossible thing you’ve seen today, but it strikes you as very odd.

You sit opposite Bel and Uriel, your back to the horses, your belly tightening with nervous energy. You wedge your hands between your knees just to stop them shaking.

“You look nervous,” Uriel observes.

This makes you laugh. “You’re expecting me to help catch a killer when I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

“We’ll point out our mark when we get there,” Uriel says. “His name is Faultless Molvander.”

“His parents were decidedly premature in that regard,” Bel remarks.

Uriel nods. “What a name to live up to. He’s currently attempting to woo his third heiress.”

“What happened to the first two?”

“They’re dead,” Bel says, looking at you as if you’re a fool.

“I figured that much out, but how? And why do you think he did it?”

“He owes a lot of money to some particularly unsavoury characters,” says Bel. “One in particular is well known for writing everything down in a book of wagers, and he usually draws his victims in by blackmail. Unfortunately, we’ve been unable to verify it for ourselves, but we happen to know the entry for Molvander details the murders of his wives. It includes both the receipt for the poison that killed the first wife, and evidence from the man who bought the knife he used to kill the second.”

“The bloody bastard stabbed himself with it,” Uriel adds. “He pretended his wife was murdered during a burglary, but he was seen selling her family heirlooms. Heirlooms he claimed were stolen.”

“If it’s so obvious what he’s done, why is he still walking around a free man?” you ask.

“Most pertinently, his father has someone at the constabulary in his pocket, though we're not certain who it is yet.” Bel’s head wobbles with the motion of the carriage. “And an innocent man is locked up for the second murder. We were hired by his wife a month ago to bring the real murderer to justice.”

“So, how do you plan to catch him?”

“I was hoping you’d ask that,” Uriel says, his smile dazzling. “We have planted an heiress.”

“And she knows what she’s getting into?”

“Darling, Molvander may think he’s the cat in this game of his, but I assure you when it comes to Miss Duchesne, Molvander is the mouse.”

Your cheeks grow hot at Uriel’s reckless endearment. He couldn’t possibly get away with talking to people like that… not in this day and age.

He continues unperturbed. “She’s been working her magic for weeks, allowing him to woo her. She's expecting a marriage proposal any day now.”

“He’s in dire need of funds,” Bel explains. “More desperate than ever.”

“We’re of the opinion he’ll be confronted by his blackmailer tonight,” says Uriel.

“What do you need me for?” you ask.

“Unfortunately, Molvander is familiar with our work,” Uriel says.

“He avoids us wherever possible,” Bel adds.

“We’d like you to get close… to circulate a few rumours… to set your sights on our heiress as well.”

“It’s a good job I didn’t go for the dress, then,” you say.

“We would’ve made you an even more tempting heiress,” Uriel says. “Now tell me, can you dance?”

Dance? Like… fancy ballroom dancing and… quadrilles? Do they still do those?

Uriel frowns. “I gather from that terrified look on your face that you cannot?”

“I cannot,” you confirm.

“Find the largest potted plant in the room and hide behind it,” Bel advises. "Just try not to impale your other eye."

“You know very well that Lord Bertram will claim that spot before anyone else has the opportunity,” says Uriel. “When Lady Bertram is hosting, the poor man is so harassed by the time the event arrives, he spends most of the evening pretending to be his own butler.”

You laugh. “Is Lord Bertram a large man? Maybe I can use him for cover?”

“Alas, no. Though quite rotund, he is a short man with a peculiarly tiny head.”

Uriel seems to be the relentlessly chatty sort, but even Bel is warming to you now, so you ask, “What’s today’s date?”

Uriel’s jaw clamps shut for the first time since you met him.

“When is irrelevant,” says Bel.

You sigh. “That’s what the Duke of Rosemont said earlier… later.”

“Reluctant though I am to admit it, even Rosemont is right upon occasion,” Bel says, looking away out of the carriage window.

For a couple of minutes, you sit in silence. The sounds intrude from outside—the clopping of horse hooves, the bump of wheels on cobbles, and the hubbub of people still milling about on the darkened streets. Your body bounces and shakes with every revolution of the wheels, every rocking motion of the carriage.

“I have an idea,” you tell them, your thoughts spinning into a story of your own, a story that will prompt Molvander into action. “One that will take yours further. Plus, it will have the convenient side-effect of explaining why I can’t dance. But I’ll need to borrow your fancy cane.”

Uriel grins. “It’s yours.”

He and his brother lean forward to hear your idea.

“What if Molvander isn’t the only one with skeletons of dead wives in his closet? What if Edward Sheeran is also looking for an heiress?” Sorry, Ed. “Perhaps his third?”

Bel smiles. “There’s nothing like the promise of rivalry to get a man like Molvander’s blood boiling.”

“But how did you get your limp?” Uriel asks.

“During the attack on my carriage, of course,” you say. “The one that killed my poor wife.”

“Nothing gets the tongues of these women wagging faster than pity,” Uriel says. “Bravo!”

Bel nods. “It’s a fine idea.”

You lower your head with a grin, proud of yourself for coming up with such a good idea. “What if someone asks me a question I can’t answer?”

You’ll be able to answer anything, Uriel says inside your head.

It makes you jump. “How are you doing that?”

“I have a clairvoyant friend standing by,” he tells you. “They’ll act as a conduit between us, keeping communication open.”

“Will I meet them?”

“Unfortunately, not. It’s not safe for them… but they’ll be nearby.”

“Fair enough,” you say, wishing you had superpowers like that. “Are they nearby now?”

“Yes,” he says without embellishment.

“Anything else I should know?”

“Only that it will likely be an unbearable crush,” he says.

Uriel had not been joking.

You try not to gape as you take in the scene. “There must be a thousand people in here.”

Such a scene would not be legal in the twenty-first century. Even without the sheer volume of highly flammable fabric draped around every woman in attendance, the ballroom of the Duke of Carlisle would be a fire hazard.

Dazzling chandeliers hang from the ceiling, and matching candelabras sprout from statues set in alcoves. Arched windows, close to fifteen feet high run along the length of the ballroom on the left-hand side, the doors of the central window open to the terrace. A band is playing, and guests are already dancing. Just as Bel said, there are plenty of large potted plants to hide behind, and you think you’ve spotted Lord Bertram already, dressed in green.

Uriel leans into you with a smirk when he realises who you’re looking at. “I told the man he’d blend in better if he wore green. And what do you know?”

You hobble nervously down the stairs when your fake name is called out along with Uriel and Bel’s names. You can feel everybody’s eyes on you as you descend into the crowd of curious strangers. You spend the next thirty minutes being passed from one pack of women to another.

“Oh, Christ,” Uriel mutters. “Felicity Matcham is coming this way. She’s a harridan. Be careful.”

“So, you’re the one they’re all wittering on about, are you?” the woman asks, her tone imperious as she squints at you through a pair of pince-nez attached to a brooch by a gold chain. “I can’t say I see what the fuss is about.”

“Good evening, your grace,” Uriel says, bowing politely.

“Ah, Mr Hazard. With you, is he?”

“Indeed. Duchess Markham, may I present my cousin, Mr Edward Sheeran.”

“Good evening, your grace,” you say.

“Well, I admit I expected more than to have you parrot your cousin, Mr Sheeran.”

You can’t help but glance up at the word parrot, since the dowager duchess appears to be wearing most of one on her head, a profusion of gaudy feathers sprouting from a hair comb. “It would be presumptuous of me to assume I have anything to say that would interest you.”

The old woman’s lips twitch. “Oh, you’re a humorous one like your cousin, are you? Well, don’t run away with the idea that you’re here for a good time. Tell me about your tragic wife.”

***

For more ridiculous Victorian names, mostly taken from the area I live in, check out the bonus content for this episode on my website, here.

Password: HAZARD