Free The Diabolical Miss Hyde by Viola Carr

gaped annoyingly, the edge of her corset exposed, and a big stain had soaked into the skirt. She sniffed. It smelled like urine. Charming. But the pub was deserted. So far, so good.
    She spied a dusty purple coat in a heap on the floor and slipped it on. It reached to her knees, and she wrapped it tight. It smelled strangely of flowers. For a moment, a glassy world of elusive memory swamped her, shapes and colors and textures tantalizingly out of reach . . .
    She knotted her blond hair into a pinless chignon—was that her hat, trodden into the floor?—tugged her coat lapels up around her ears, and pushed the door open.
    Cold air flared her headache afresh. Out on the street—where was this? Seven Dials? yes, there was the corner of Broad Street—pale dawn slanted through the narrow gaps between pubs and rotten tenements. Probably six o’clock, no later.
    Vomit puddled on the threshold, and she sidestepped it carefully, lifting her skirts. Her ankles wobbled in Lizzie’s too-high heels. Sleeping children made dark blobs in doorways, and blurry costermongers pushed woolly-edged carts on their way to buy fish or fruit at Covent Garden, or meat scraps at Smithfield Market.
    She blinked, patting her belt for spectacles . . . Ah. No. She’d have to do without. But she knew her way home. She’d sneak back in before Molly came for her. A wash, a change of clothes, then a quick trip to Mr. Finch’s on the way to work . . .
    Hoarse shouts rang from the stinking side alley. A crowd babbled, adults and children jostling to see.
    â€œKeep it back, there!” “Don’t step on ’im!” “The man’s murdit, I tell ya!”
    Cold water flooded her guts. Compelled, she fought through.
    A dead man sprawled in the dirt of the pub’s backyard. Blood stained his trousers, crusted the ground, splashed the walls. She craned her neck, and her heart skipped a pace.
    He wore a familiar torn green frock coat, with a moth-eaten patch on the shoulder.
    She didn’t need to see the dead man’s skinny rat-whiskered face to know it was Billy Beane.
    Billy the Bastard, murdered. In the very pub where Lizzie had spent the night.
    Oh, my. Lizzie was furious when Billy was acquitted. Eliza had felt it, the poisoned tide of rage rising in her blood. Heavens, Eliza had been angry too. But surely not . . .
    Determined, she pushed closer. She had to see the body, determine the cause of death . . . but above the heads of the crowd, a pair of dazzling blue eyes stopped her short.
    Alarmed, she ducked, hiding her face. Out of uniform in an old dark coat, unshaven, his curling hair tucked under a cap. But even sans spectacles, she’d know those arc-light eyes and that arrogant chin anywhere.
    Captain Lafayette.
    Her spine prickled cold. The Royal, in Seven Dials? Surely not. They couldn’t arrest everyone. No, Lafayette had some other purpose.
    Something involving a dead child-rapist, and the person or persons unknown who’d killed him. And Eliza didn’t fancy answering Lafayette’s questions. Not wrapped in Lizzie’s scandalous red satin, a borrowed coat, and the stink of gin.
    Not when she didn’t know the answers.
    Her palms itched, frustration crawling like bedbugs under her skin, but she gritted her teeth and slunk away.
    The bell tinkled as Eliza, with Hippocrates in tow, pushed open the glass-paned door of Finch’s Pharmacy on New Bond Street, just a few blocks from the stately homes in Grosvenor Square. The twin bay windows twinkled in the sun, polished to perfection.
    The familiar, spicy scent of rare plants and chemicals greeted her. Rows upon rows of apothecary’s drawers towered to the ceiling, each labeled in Latin. Bunches of fragrant herbs and drying leaves hung above the glossy counter. A wheeled stepladder on rails was shoved into the corner, where the obligatory portraits of Newton, Boyle, and Halley hung, the