Her face drains of color. “No. I can’t say I do.”
“And yet you purchased a copy from the Golden Dawn bookseller’s at Christmastime.”
“Have you been spying on me, Miss Doyle?”
“Why not? You spy on me.”
“I look after you, Miss Doyle,” she says, correcting me, and I hate her for this lie most of all.
“I know you knew Wilhelmina Wyatt,” I say.
Miss McCleethy rips off her gloves and drops them onto a table. “Shall I tell you what I know of Wilhelmina Wyatt? She was a disgrace to the Order and to the memory of Eugenia Spence. She was a liar. A thief. A filthy addict. I tried to help her, and then”—she taps the book with her finger—“she wrote these lies to expose us—all for money. Anything for money. Did you know that she tried to blackmail us with the book so that we might abandon our plan to raise funds for the restoration of the East Wing?”
“Why would she do that?”
“Because she was spiteful and without a shred of honor. And her book, Miss Doyle, is no more than twaddle. No, it’s more dangerous than that, for it contains perfidies, corruptions of truth written by a traitor and peddled to the highest bidder.”
She closes the book with a loud crack and, snatching it from my grasp, marches straight for the kitchen. I run after her, catching up just as she opens the oven door.
“What are you doing?” I say, aghast.
“Giving it a proper burial.”
“Wait—”
Before I can stop her, Miss McCleethy throws A History of Secret Societies into the oven and shuts the door. For a second, I’m tempted to tell her what I know—that I have seen Eugenia Spence, and that this book may save her—but Eugenia told me I should be careful, and for all I know, McCleethy is the one who cannot be trusted. I can only stand by whilst our best hope burns.
“That cost us four shillings,” I croak.
“Let that be a lesson to you to spend your money more wisely in the future.” Miss McCleethy sighs. “Really, Miss Doyle, you do try my patience.”
I might tell her that is a common sentiment where I am concerned but it seems ill-advised. Something new pricks at me.
“You said ‘was,’” I say, thinking.
“What?”
“You said Wilhemina was an addict and a liar, a traitor. Do you think she might be dead?” I say, testing.
Miss McCleethy’s face pales. “I don’t know whether she lives or not, but I cannot imagine, given her state, that she’s still alive. Such a life takes a toll,” she says, seeming flustered. “In the future, if you wish to know about the Order, you need only ask me.”
“So that you can tell me what you want me to hear?” I say, challenging her.
“Miss Doyle, you only hear what you want to believe, whether it’s true or not. That has nothing whatsoever to do with me.” She rubs the sides of her head. “Now, go and join the others. You are dismissed.”
I storm out of the kitchen, cursing Miss McCleethy under my breath. The girls pour in from the lawn. They’re flushed and smell a bit ripe, but they’re giddy with the excitement that running about in games of spirited rivalry brings. We rarely are allowed to give free rein to our competitive natures, though they live in us just as strongly as they do in men. Cecily turns her chin up at the sight of me. She and her clan give me withering looks, which, I suppose, they think the height of insult. I put my hand to my heart mockingly and gasp, and, freshly offended, they march off whispering about me anew.
Upon seeing me, Felicity crouches like a master swordsman, cutting swoops into the air with her fencing foil. “Villain! You shall answer to the King for your treachery!”
Delicately, I push the long, thin blade aside. “Might I have a word, d’Artagnan?”
She bows low. “Lead the way, Cardinal Richelieu.”
We steal into the small sitting room downstairs. It’s where Pippa famously spurned her intended, Mr. Bumble, before being claimed by the realms forever. The loss of Pippa is one more I feel acutely today.
“What the devil did you do to Cecily?” Felicity plops into a chair and dangles her legs over the arm in a most unladylike way. “She’s telling everyone who’ll listen that you should be hanged at dawn.”
“If it would keep me from hearing her voice ever again, I’d happily submit to the noose. But that isn’t what I need to tell you. I had another look through Wilhelmina Wyatt’s book. We missed something the first go-round. The drawings. I think they’re clues.”