Chapter 169 - One Hundred-Sixty-Nine: The Inspector

//CLARA//

I wasn’t built for this.

Planning parties was never my thing, but I was stuck in a century where doing it yourself was the only option.

And to add a cherry to this nightmare, the city’s elite viewed me as nothing more than a fragile substitute playing lady of the estate until Casimir married a proper, blue-blooded wife.

Well, news flash. I was already his wife.

I just couldn’t tell anyone.

"Damn," I muttered, flipping aggressively through a stack of papers on the desk. "This old bat really did take her job seriously."

Aunt Cornelia’s abandoned bedroom still smelled vividly of her cloying lavender and musk.

"Are you sure about this?" Gary asked from the doorway.

I glanced back, watching him lean on his crutches. The bandages were gone, replaced by a fading bruise.

He was healing. Slowly... but healing.

"I’m sure." I turned back to a stack of old stationery.

"You look like you’re about to throw up."

"Her perfume is aggressive."

Gary snorted.

"That’s not perfume, Clara. That’s the smell of a woman who’s been marinating in pure spite for forty years."

I almost laughed. Almost.

The chamber looked eerily preserved, which was deeply unsettling considering I had never actually stepped foot in here before. The pale porcelain figurines lining the shelves were creeping me out with their blank eyes.

"What exactly are we looking for?" Gary hobbled further into the room.

"Anything about the ball." I opened the top drawer of her writing desk. "She thrust this entire burden of hosting onto my shoulders hoping it would break me. She wants me to fail publicly."

"Classic villainess behavior," Gary murmured. "Even from her exile in the countryside."

"She’s not dead, unfortunately. Which made it even more terrifying."

Gary limped over to the massive wardrobe and pulled the door open.

"So what happens if we don’t find anything?"

"Then I do it blind and make a fool of myself in front of New York’s elite. Exactly what she wants."

"Or," Gary trailed off, "you could..."

"Don’t," I warned.

"I didn’t say anything yet."

"You were going to say I could run."

Gary closed the wardrobe door with a soft click.

"You could, Clara. I’m serious."

The usual humor was entirely stripped from his face now, leaving him looking exhausted and older than his years.

"I know you love him, but every time I close my eyes, I see what he did. He’s not safe. You have Linotype money now. We could leave and disappear."

"Gary..."

"I’ve got contacts. Well, Elias’s old contacts. People who know how to move bodies, people who know how to hide people. We could go out west. We could—"

"I can’t," I blurted.

"You can’t, or you won’t?"

I couldn’t look him in the eye.

"Clara, come on..."

"I can’t leave him," my voice cracked. "Even if I wanted to. Even if every logical bone in my body tells me I should. I can’t. I’m part of this now."

Gary was quiet for a long moment.

"You’re in too deep," he whispered. Finally, turning back to give me a sad, wry smile. "I know. I see it."

"You’re scared of him, Gary. I understand that. You have every right to be."

"I am," he admitted. "I just don’t understand how you can still look at him after that."

I questioned my morality, thinking how easily I’d wished Bartholomew and Silas to rot in hell. Then I thought about how Casimir held me when the world burned.

"Because I know exactly what he is," I steadied my voice, "and I love him anyway."

Gary sighed, looking away.

After what felt like forever, we found the plans in a cedar trunk. They were immaculate. Aunt Cornelia was terrifyingly organized.

There were pages of guest lists, intricate seating charts, catering options, and florist contracts. Every single detail of the Guggenheim Annual Spring Charity Ball was catalogued in her sharp, spidery handwriting.

"Look at this," I pulled out a folded piece of thick parchment. "She even had a backup plan for the backup plan."

Gary peered over my shoulder. "The woman was insane."

"Obsessive."

"Same difference."

I spread the papers, my eyes scanning the endless rows of names. These were the titans of the era. Names I recognized from modern history textbooks and old society pages. Names that made my chest tighten with anxiety.

I traced a line down the page. "At least three men I recognize from Casimir’s secret account ledger."

Gary crouched, wincing sharply as his weight settled uncomfortably on his injured knee.

"So this entire ball is basically just a glamorous meeting for the syndicate’s social club."

"Worse." I pointed to a cluster of names near the center. "Now I have to figure out who sits next to whom without accidentally placing two blood rivals at the same table and causing a literal massacre over the soup course."

"She kept track of everything," Gary noted. "She organized the seating based entirely on their societal status. Look at the markings."

The tiny, coded symbols next to the names perfectly matched the hierarchy inside Casimir’s ledger.

"It’s as if she knew."

"Maybe she did know," Gary shrugged. "Knowing exactly who was dangerous meant she could always stay on the right side of them."

"You mean she’s been a part of this whole thing from the very start?"

"Theoretically."

I stared at the web of names, feeling the threads tighten around me. This city was an illusion of high culture built over an ocean of blood.

"Clara, look," Gary suddenly whispered, pointing a finger toward the floor near the edge of the trunk. "Right there."

The floorboards near the wall were covered in a thick layer of undisturbed dust. Except for one spot. There, clearly pressed into the grime, was the distinct mark of a footprint.

It wasn’t ours.

"Those edges look fresh."

My blood ran instantly cold.

"Someone has been in this room."

The realization hit me.

I looked at the papers spread around me, then back at the footprint. The memory of the masked man came rushing back.

"This must be how the intruder sneaked into the house." I scrambled quickly to my feet and helped Gary balance on his crutches. "The servant stairs open up right outside this wing. We need to tell Casimir. Right now."

We were trekking back down the grand corridor toward the main wing when Gary suddenly ground to a halt.

"Maybe you should go on ahead," he stammered. "I... I think I opened my stitches."

I paused, turning to frown flatly at him. His hand wasn’t anywhere near his leg bandages, and his face was turning a very telling shade of pale. I didn’t need to be a psychic to know his stitches were completely fine.

"Gary—"

"Please don’t make me go in there."

I rolled my eyes.

"Fine. Try not to bleed on the expensive carpets."

"Thanks for the overwhelming concern."

"I’ll send a maid with fresh bandages just in case," I called over my shoulder, already picking up my pace.

By the time I reached Casimir’s study, my fingers had barely brushed the cool brass handle when the door swung inward, catching me completely off guard.

"Oh, I’m sorry, miss—"

I stepped back hastily. My eyes locked onto the man stepping through the doorway.

He wore a tailored charcoal coat. His features were sharp, handsome in a way that felt deliberate, with analytical blue eyes that were entirely too sharp.

I looked past his shoulder. Casimir was standing by his desk, his arms tightly crossed over his chest, his brow furrowed into a deep, furious line of contempt. Clearly loathing every single second of the man’s presence.

The stranger cleared his throat, offering me a smile that was polished and entirely unreadable.

"My apologies, miss," he inclined his head with effortless grace. "My name is Detective Inspector Leo Harding. And you... you must be Miss Eleanor Thorne."

I blinked, a cold spike of alarm piercing through my chest. "How do you know my name, Inspector?"

His smile widened just a fraction.

"Your name has already made its way through the drawing rooms and parlors of New York, Miss Thorne. The Guggenheim ward with an angelic face always captures the city’s imagination."

I had no idea what to say. Why was an inspector sniffing around the estate?

Casimir was literally glaring daggers behind him. If looks could kill, Inspector Harding would have been reduced to a pile of ash by now.

"Well..." I managed to force out. "It was... a pleasure to meet you, Inspector."

Mr. Harding turned back to Casimir, settling his silk top hat onto his head.

"My thanks, Mr. Guggenheim, for your... enlightening cooperation regarding the city’s recent disturbances."

His sharp blue eyes met mine, lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

"Until our paths cross again, Miss Thorne. I have a very distinct feeling that they will."

Then he walked past me.

"What was that about?"

Casimir stared at the empty doorway.

"The long, self-righteous arm of the law, sniffing around places it had no business being."