sandwich down. “Is that why you did not want me here? Did you think the neighbors might see the dreaded Lord Archer’s coach outside and inform Winston?”
Poppy’s red brows drew together to form a straight line. “If you think I fear my husband then you don’t know me at all.” Her eyes pinned Miranda to the spot, a rather motherly trick that Miranda had loathed throughout childhood.
Miranda looked away. “I am sorry, Pop. I don’t know why… I’m just so… Archer is… he cannot be the murderer. But he is involved.” She pulled the coin from her pocket and held it out. “I need your help.”
Unfortunately, revelations did not spring forth as Miranda had hoped. West Moon Club was not on any official club register listed. It did not surface in old newspaper articles, history of London books, or any of the other literature that Poppy pulled down from her shelves. Nor was there a West Club, or a Club Moon, for that matter. Checking for old stories or accounts of the two victims did not help. The men in question had lived staid lives as far as society knew. Near the end of the day, all they had to show for their efforts were mountains of books and papers teetering precariously over the entire surface of Poppy’s counter.
“Well, I am done in,” Daisy finally exclaimed with a fleeting scowl.
Poppy sat back, her rail-thin shoulders bunched and determined beneath her cotton blouse. “I’ll have to give this some more thought.” She stared in a glazed manner at the books before her.
“I do believe an outside investigation is called for,” Miranda said.
Poppy’s eyes cut back to Miranda like a scythe. “Absolutely not.”
“I’m perfectly capable…”
“You are,” Poppy interjected, “Lady Archer, society’s newest curiosity. You would be instantly recognized.”
“I can disguise myself!”
Poppy looked pointedly at Miranda’s face before raising one red brow. “Try again.”
Miranda could only come up with a baleful glare.
Of which Poppy was immune. “If you are recognized, you would heap scandal and suspicion upon Lord Archer’s already overburdened shoulders.”
“That is true, pet.” Daisy nodded. “It will only add oil to the fire.”
Miranda’s back teeth met with a click. She would not risk Archer’s name to further scandal, no. But she had more confidence in her ability to disguise herself than Poppy and Daisy did.
Poppy smiled and briskly patted her knee. “There. Now that we have that settled, it is time for you to leave. It is nearly supper—or tea time for you lot, I suppose.”
They glanced at the windows. The light outside had faded to dark gray, and the lamplighter had come out, his long pole bouncing on his shoulder as he made his way from streetlamp to streetlamp. He stopped by the window, and a muted halo of light illuminated the panes.
“Blast,” Miranda muttered, tidying her pile of papers into a neater stack. “I’ve got to go before Archer begins to wonder.”
Poppy’s lips twitched. “Worries over you, now does he?”
She continued to sort the pile. “I don’t know if he worries…”
“He ought to. You’re incorrigible.”
“Or course she is,” Daisy said as she smoothed her skirts. “I taught her everything I know.”
“Hopefully not everything. Leave the papers, dears. I’ll sort them out later.”
Poppy duly kissed their cheeks as they parted by the door. “Stay safe.”
Something burned inside of Miranda, irritation, dread. She didn’t know anymore. “He cannot be a murderer.”
“You said that before,” Poppy murmured. “Is it what you believe, or what you hope?”
Chapter Twelve
Having confined all aspects of espionage to skulking behind closed doors or hiding in small spaces, Miranda was uncertain how easy it would be to track Archer as he set out for town the next day. As it turned out, it was quite simple.
A man of uncommon height and breadth of shoulders wearing a black carnival mask while riding astride a gray gelding was not a sight one overlooked. John Coachman—who participated because he had no choice in the matter but wore an exceedingly sullen expression when Miranda told him of her plan—needed only to follow the trail of stunned onlookers like the proverbial breadcrumbs in the forest. Soon they were only four coach lengths behind him. Impatient, she craned her neck, putting her head as far out the window as she dared. Archer’s head remained high and forward, his seat light and trained. He cut through the traffic, seeming oblivious of the commotion he caused. Miranda’s chest tightened, watching him so. He had too keen an eye not to see the rudely gawking halfwits who