Free Velvet Undercover by Teri Brown

information lying around the apartment, I take the packet into my room with me and set it on the antique nightstand next to my bed. My bedroom is narrow, with a large window behind the bed and a giant red lacquer wardrobe on the opposite wall. Miss Tickford has given me two drawers in the wardrobe. Like the rest of the apartment, the room is sumptuously appointed, with heavy velvet draperies, feather pillows, and an ornate gold-framed mirror that’s practically the size of the wall it’s leaning against.
    Where does La Dame Blanche get its money? I run a finger along the silky-smooth finish of the wardrobe. Who pays to let a beautifully furnished six-room apartment on one of the most prestigious streets in the city sit vacant most of the time?
    As fatigued as I am, I’m too restless to crawl into bed yet. Instead, I quietly open the different drawers andcompartments of the wardrobe, looking for clues to the room’s prior occupant. Most contain normal guest room items—extra blankets and pillows, sachets filled with lavender. I’m just about to close the third drawer when I spot the corner of an envelope peeping out from underneath a pillow. Curious, I pull out the envelope and sit on the edge of the bed. I frown at the word scrawled on the front. Leticia.
    I pull out four photographs. By the look of the clothes, they seem to have been taken about twenty to twenty-five years ago. One is of a young man with dark, slicked-back hair. Another is of the same man in a uniform, but I can’t tell what sort it was. It definitely doesn’t look British or French. Maybe Luxembourgian? Prussian? The next photograph is of a boy in a sailor suit sitting with a young girl wearing a hair bow as big as her head. I turn the photograph over. Lawrence and Leticia. Siblings, no doubt. I peer again at the picture. Yes, there’s a certain similarity in the shape of their faces and in their coloring. The last picture is of a family—a mother and father posed with the same two children that were in the last photograph. Startled, I take another glance at the woman and gasp.
    Miss Tickford.
    Well, not exactly. The woman in the picture is stouter and older and the clothes are too old-fashioned, but the features are so similar that the woman in the photograph could be her mother.
    I look at the other pictures again, my pulse racing. The young man and the little boy in the photographs are clearlythe same person and there’s a strong family resemblance among all of them. I peer closer at the photograph of the little girl.
    It could be no one except Miss Tickford, which means the woman must be Miss Tickford’s mother. But why are the photographs hidden away in a drawer? And why are they here? Could this be Miss Tickford’s home? If so, where is her family?
    I replace the photographs carefully in their envelope and crawl into bed. Instead of studying the papers, I turn off the light and ponder the mystery that is Letty Tickford.
    The next morning, I try to put the pictures I found out of my mind. They aren’t any of my business, but the questions they raise about who Miss Tickford is linger. Is this really her apartment? Where is her brother now?
    I shake my head and focus on Sophia Thérèse. For all intents and purposes, the young woman whose identity I’m going to assume led a quiet life much like mine. She comes from a good family, is active in her community, and, though she’s not overly social, seems to have a small, select group of friends. But how am I supposed to become her? I don’t know her favorite color or food, or even her favorite book. Does she have a young man who is off fighting in the war right now with no idea that his sweetheart is dead? What sort of secrets would she share with her best friend, the way I share mine with Rose?
    â€œRemember that the duchess has only met her youngcousin once, many years ago. She doesn’t know any of Sophia Thérèse’s