Tomorrow's Crimes ll Moriarty the Patriot

A Diamond Under Pressure

The sun shone brilliantly overhead, casting a warm golden glow across the sprawling Ruthven estate. Adelaide stood near a flowering cherry tree, mentally cataloging every detail like the investigative journalist she'd been—or would be, depending on how you looked at it. Time travel really screwed with verb tenses.

Primary observation: The garden party was exactly the kind of high-society circle jerk she would have written a scathing exposé about in her previous life. Ladies in expensive silk dresses competed to see who could deliver the most backhanded compliments while gentlemen puffed on obscenely expensive pipes, probably discussing whatever war they planned to profit from next. A string quartet played Mozart with mechanical precision—because heaven forbid they play anything with an actual pulse.

The lush gardens were meticulously manicured within an inch of their lives, every bloom positioned for maximum aesthetic impact. Roses climbed elegant trellises, their perfume mingling with the sweet scent of jasmine and lavender. Note to self: Even the flowers here are constrained and controlled. Metaphor for something? File that away for later.

Adelaide scanned the crowd, her gaze drawn inevitably to Mary, who stood with Margaret and Elizabeth near the rose garden. They were engaged in what appeared to be intense conversation with other ladies of their circle. Their eyes met across the lawn, and Adelaide felt that familiar twist of dread in her stomach. Christ, she really needed to find a better way to handle this situation.

"My, Adelaide, you're the very picture of grace today!" Lady Rutherford's voice sliced through Adelaide's anxious thoughts. The dowager, adorned in enough purple silk to clothe a small village, clasped Adelaide's arm with fingers heavy with jewelry. "I've been keeping count, my dear. Fourteen gentlemen have been watching you with particular interest, and that's just in the last hour!"

Leaning in closer, her breath wafted the distinct aroma of expensive sherry. "But I suppose these are merely gentlemen to add to your list of suitors. You must be thrilled, dear—barely a week since your debut!"

Great. Just great. Another data point for her ongoing investigation: "How Many Men Can One Woman Allegedly Charm Without Actually Trying?" The answer, apparently, was reaching ridiculous proportions.

"You're too kind, Lady Rutherford," Adelaide responded, deploying another one of her practiced demure smile. Her eyes automatically tracked to Mary again. 

"Though I must say," Lady Rutherford continued, lowering her voice to that particular frequency reserved for choice gossip, "Lord Pemberton seems quite determined to win your favor. I've heard he's been engaging your family in discussions about your engagement already. Most irregular, but then again, you are this season's diamond."

Adelaide suppressed an eye roll. Right. This season's "diamond." God, the Queen needed better metaphors. She was starting to feel less like a precious gem and more like a prize cow at auction.

"Lady Adelaide!" a young woman materialized at her elbow, practically vibrating with excitement. "Is it true that one Lord sent you poetry? Handwritten poetry?"

"I heard it was Lord Russell who sent the verses," another chimed in, fanning herself furiously. "Though Lady Essex swears she saw Lord Matthias' carriage outside your house at dawn yesterday."

"At dawn?" a third lady gasped, eyes wide. "How scandalous!"

"And what about the Prime Minister's son?" someone added. "They say he's considering breaking off his engagement to Lady Agatha because of you!"

Jesus Christ, Adelaide thought, maintaining her placid exterior through sheer force of will. If she'd written a story with this many alleged suitors, her editor would have thrown it back in her face for being unrealistic. She needed to fact-check some of these rumors. Source reliability: questionable at best. She didn't even know half of the names they listed.