The Atherton Gallery pulsed with a predatory energy, a glittering ecosystem where reputations were currency and secrets were traded like stock. The vellum, now safely tucked into a hidden compartment of my antique writing slope – a piece of my grandmother's furniture I'd claimed with feigned sentimentality – felt like a brand against my conscience. Its explosive contents demanded action, yet every instinct screamed for caution. Davies' unexpected appearance in the attic still unsettled me; was he a silent guardian angel, or a cleverly disguised warden? The risk of exposure was immense. Tonight, my plan was to be a whisper, not a roar.
I'd chosen my weapon carefully: a single, perfect, deep crimson rose, the exact shade my grandmother, Lady Annelise, had cultivated in her private garden – the 'Annelise's Heart' varietal. I'd "found" it, I would claim if asked, pressed in an old poetry book. I wore it pinned to the simple pearl-grey silk of my gown, a stark, almost defiant splash of color. It was a nod to the Rose Guard Fund, a tribute to the rose seal on the vellum, a silent signal only someone with specific knowledge – or a guilty conscience – might recognize.
Olivia, a scintillating emerald serpent, was in her element, flitting between conversations, her laughter tinkling like expensive, fragile glass. Caroline, a regal iceberg, surveyed the room with an air of bored proprietorship. My entrance with them had been a study in carefully orchestrated meekness. Now, I allowed myself to drift, a pale moth amongst glittering butterflies, my gaze occasionally, and with feigned shyness, meeting Olivia's.
The auction began. Paintings I barely registered, sculptures that blurred into abstract shapes. My focus was singular. During a lull, as champagne was refreshed and canapés circulated, I found myself near a knot of influential matrons Caroline was cultivating. Olivia, never one to miss an opportunity to shine, glided over.
"Eleanor, dear, you're looking a little lost," Olivia purred, her voice a silken caress that barely concealed the steel beneath. "Not quite your scene, is it? All this… vibrancy."
"It's… a great deal to absorb," I murmured, my fingers lightly touching the crimson rose at my shoulder. "But fascinating. It makes one think about legacies, doesn't it? What we leave behind. The true intentions versus… well, versus how things are sometimes perceived." I let my gaze drift meaningfully towards a rather ostentatious, modern sculpture that seemed to scream for attention but lacked any discernible depth.
Olivia's smile didn't waver, but her eyes, those chips of Arctic ice, narrowed almost imperceptibly. The crimson rose. My words. Had the bait been taken?
"Legacies can be so… complicated, can't they?" she replied, her voice smooth as cream. "Sometimes, what seems like a clear path is riddled with… forgotten detours. Or thorns." Her gaze flicked pointedly to my rose, then back to my eyes, a silent challenge.
Bingo. The word "thorns," echoing Arthur Grimshaw's final warning on the vellum. It wasn't conclusive, but it was enough. She knew something. Or, at the very least, my subtle provocations were hitting a nerve.
Caroline, sensing a shift in the undercurrents, glided over. "Eleanor, Olivia. Mrs. Atherton is about to speak. We should pay attention." Her intervention was seamless, a silken curtain drawn across a potentially revealing scene.
Throughout the rest of the auction, I felt Olivia's gaze on me more frequently. It was no longer just watchful; it was sharp, probing, laced with a new, unsettling intensity. I made a point of appearing engrossed in the bidding, even making a small, successful bid on a delicate watercolor of a rose garden – "A little reminder of Grandmother's passion," I'd explained to a subtly surprised Caroline. Every move was a countermove, every word a carefully weighed piece in this silent, deadly game.
Later, as the event began to wind down, I sought a moment of respite in a small, blessedly empty anteroom. The weight of the evening, the constant vigilance, was exhausting. I needed to contact Penny Featherworth, to understand the "further keys" the vellum mentioned. But how? My communications were undoubtedly monitored.
A liveried waiter entered, offering a tray of petit fours. As I declined, he leaned in, his voice a low murmur. "Miss Vance? A message for you. From an admirer of Lady Annelise's roses." He discreetly slipped a small, folded note into my hand, his expression utterly blank, before retreating as silently as he'd appeared.
My heart leaped. An admirer of her roses? This had to be from Penny, or someone connected to her. With trembling fingers, I unfolded the note. It was brief, typed on plain paper:
The oldest rose in the conservatory still requires tending. Midnight. P.F.
The conservatory. Midnight. Penny. It was a summons, a clandestine meeting. The risk was enormous. If I was caught… But the vellum's secrets, the Rose Guard Fund, my grandmother's true legacy – they were too important.
Returning to the main hall, I found Olivia in quiet, intense conversation with a man I didn't recognize. He was tall, impeccably dressed, with cold, watchful eyes that seemed to miss nothing. There was an air of subtle menace about him, a stark contrast to the glittering superficiality of the surrounding crowd. As I approached, their conversation ceased abruptly. Olivia turned, her smile a little too bright, a little too brittle.
"Eleanor. We were just discussing the… surprisingly successful bids tonight." Her eyes, however, told a different story. They were narrowed, calculating, and held a glint of something that looked alarmingly like… threat. The man beside her offered a curt, almost dismissive nod in my direction, his gaze lingering on me for a chilling moment before he turned and melted back into the crowd.
Who was he? And what had they been discussing with such intensity? My unease deepened. Olivia wasn't just playing defense; she was actively strategizing, perhaps bringing in new, more dangerous players.
The journey back to the Vance estate was thick with unspoken tension. Caroline was unusually quiet, her earlier social triumph seemingly forgotten. Olivia stared out the window, the city lights reflecting in her cold eyes, a predatory stillness about her. I clutched my evening bag, the note from "P.F." a burning secret within.
Midnight. The conservatory. The oldest rose. My grandmother had a particular affection for a rare, almost black, Baccara rose that grew in a secluded corner of the conservatory, a bloom she'd said possessed a "beautiful darkness." That had to be the meeting place.
As the house settled into its nocturnal silence, I slipped from my room, the A.G. locket and the vellum – now resealed as best I could – secured against my person. The conservatory was a glass palace under the moonlight, filled with the ghostly silhouettes of exotic plants and the heavy, sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine.
In the far corner, beside the ancient Baccara rose bush, a figure stood waiting. It wasn't Penny Featherworth.
It was Davies.
His face, illuminated by the pale moonlight filtering through the glass panes, was unreadable. He held a small, freshly cut crimson rose – an Annelise's Heart – in his hand.
"Miss Eleanor," he said, his voice a low, even tone that sent a shiver down my spine. "I believe you were expecting someone?"
My mind reeled. Was Davies "P.F."? Had Penny sent him? Or was this an elaborate trap, orchestrated by Olivia and Caroline, with Davies as their unwilling, or perhaps all too willing, accomplice? The crimson rose in his hand – was it a symbol of allegiance to my grandmother's true wishes, or a mocking echo of my own subtle challenge at the auction? And if he wasn't P.F., then where was Penny, and had my attempt to contact her been fatally intercepted?