Chapter Text
New York City, November - 1919
Lady Nancy Drew Hudson was certain that if she had to attend another ball this season, there would be a murder. Either because one of the other debutantes finally came to blows over some slight of etiquette, or in competition for some lesser lord’s favor, or because Nancy finally lost her patience too close to a pressing iron.
Her six week stay so far at the home of her childhood friend, Lady Bess Tourani Marvin, had been soaked in feminine intrigue like a wick dipped in kerosene. All it would take was one tiny spark from any direction, and this townhouse full of young women on the verge would explode into a sweeping and destructive conflagration.
Twice so far this morning, Nancy had overheard their new friend Georgiana Li-Yun Fan muttering in Mandarin about how badly she’d like to wring Laura Tandy’s pretentious neck. Violence was in the air.
Normally, this would be just how Nancy liked it. There was nothing quite so diverting as an intrigue that carried with it the looming threat of a life or death consequence. However, in this case, she’d promised her father—ostensibly at the deathbed request of her late beloved mother—to behave as a lady when in the midst of polite society. At least, until she’d secured a promising match and was therefore free to bend the rules again, once the rest of society stopped stating.
Come to think of it, solving a murder could be just the thing to liven up the season. Winter in New York City was nothing like Maine, and she was already missing the long days reading horrid novels in front of the fire and peaceful nights spent tracking the stars through her mother’s old telescope.
Things were never as simple as she’d like them to be anymore, not for the illegitimate daughter of a debauched heir and an aspiring actress, born in secret and raised abroad by a kindly barrister and his schoolteacher wife. Now that she’d been forced out of hiding by her grandmother and prodigal birth father, Nancy had no choice but to come out into society and claim the birthright she’d never asked for but was apparently entitled to—or else. Or else…what?
Nobody ever seemed to explicitly say what happened to a girl of 20 with no firm offers of marriage in high society, but the tone they used was ominous enough to chill bone. Terrible things, by the sound of it.
Nancy sighed into her teacup as she contemplated her exhaustion at the prospect of another two months of endless balls, picnics, promenades, and other grueling social engagements that honestly felt more akin to being a piece of art on exhibit or an animal in a zoo.
Bess overheard it, of course—she was much more savvy than anyone gave her credit, this one—and rolled her eyes with an answering (much more dramatic) groan.
“Honestly, Nancy, it’s just a dance.” Bess bent her neck around the ornately carved screen to comment. “There’s no need to play the sacrificial lamb.”
“You’re one to talk,” Nancy replied, in the driest possible tone. “Considering that this is the sixth dress you’ve tried on since the tea was brought up.”
George smirked around a tea cake and nudged Nancy with her foot under the table, not waiting to fully chew and swallow before adding, “It’s the seventh.”
“Oh, bite your tongue,” Bess chided, swishing across the room with her bodice unbuttoned to grab another frock. “Or better yet, have another cake, George. It’s not as if anyone else is finishing them.”
Nancy tried and failed to hold back a laugh, and her half-muted snort caught the attention of Laura Tandy and her older sister Tiffany, who was in her fifth season, still unmarried, and quite bitter about it. The Tandy sisters were perched in front of Bess’s vanity, trying out her vast collection of cosmetics while attempting to do something daring with Tiffany’s hair.
“Rumor has it that George is eating her feelings,” Laura sniped, “because Ned Nickerson—the millionaire from Florida—snubbed her after they walked alone together in the park last week.”
“I don’t know if I’d set much stock in rumors if I were you,” Nancy commented, loud enough for the whole room to hear. “Particularly considering what they say about Tiffany gunning for the position of being Ryan Hudson’s mistress last season.”
George choked on her tea cake at that revelation, but by the time Nancy looked back at her, she’d schooled her expression into a smirk at Tiffany’s expense.
“Too bad she’s not a better shot with that gun,” George muttered, taking another sip of tea.
A gasp from Laura and a scowl from Tiffany told Nancy she’d gone too far. Again. Honesty was tantamount to brutality in polite society. She kept forgetting that ridiculous fact.
“Apologies,” she said, as she set down her cup. “That was unkind of me to say, even if—“ even if it was true. “Even if I was just repeating…what is obviously a cruel falsehood. I’ve obviously had too much…tea.” She pushed back her chair and stood, trying to seem prim and apologetic. “Please excuse me while I take a walk to clear my head.”
“Do you want some company?” Bess chirped, still half-dressed in the latest fluffy pink concoction designed to snare the eyes of everyone in the ballroom—men, women, anyone who might stand witness to her magnificence; she wasn’t picky. “I could be ready to go in ten…twenty minutes, if George helps with my laces?”
“No need,” Nancy waved her back. “I promise not to wander far enough to need a chaperone. I’ll probably just go to the library and take a book into the garden. Be back in time to change for the ball. I promise.”
As Nancy gathered her coat and strode out of the room, four pairs of eyes followed her—the Tandy girls’ speculative, George envious of her escape, and Bess wistful at how Nancy’s hair seemed to shine like a brand new copper kettle without the aid of any pomade or expensive french oils. For the first time in her life, Nancy began to understand why most people seemed to find her own watchful and speculative ways so unsettling. She was used to being the one who solved the mysteries, not being the mystery herself. But now that she was a lady, and a Hudson to boot, this was her lot.
Perhaps that was why she delighted in escaping as often as possible, in stealing away and placing herself as far from polite society as she could, as often as she could.
As she hurried through the ornately-decorated halls of The Marvin’s Greenwich Village mansion, dodging the startled greetings of servants along the way, she wondered if there was any way to fake an illness that was not so serious that a doctor would be called but bad enough to excuse her from this latest ball. She’d already hit her quota of sudden headaches for the season, per Bess. What other ailments might do the trick? Scarlet Fever? No, that was too contagious. Smallpox? Too difficult to fake. Hmm.
She’d been a guest here long enough that the layout of the house had become almost second nature to navigate—including the secret entrances to the servants corridors behind the walls. As soon as Nancy found herself finally alone, she ducked behind a tapestry and into a hidden door that led to a narrow stone staircase. Here, it was cool, and dark, and she could finally breathe a little more freely.
But there was no place to rest here, not without the threat of being stumbled upon. So after a few seconds of glorious solitude, Nancy continued down the stairs and into another long corridor, listening carefully for any sounds of movement as she followed the now familiar path to the secret entrance behind the bookcase library.
Judging from the cobwebs and dust, and the fact that the wall sconces were empty of candles, it seemed that this part of the passage was rarely used by servants. Hence, it was one of Nancy’s favorite areas to hide and spy as she passed the time.
Unfortunately, when she reached the hole in the wall that sat behind one of the paintings, she was chagrined to discover that the library was currently empty. No men were meeting to discuss their daughters dowries or the shifting stock market while tossing back brandy—at least, not today. Disappointing. But at least that meant she could sneak out of the passage and borrow a book the way she’d planned.
According to Bess, the library was her uncle’s domain, and girls weren’t really allowed in there without supervision. Having met Owen Marvin, Nancy assumed this had more to do with his rakish persona than any concerns about ladies getting ideas from the books contained in this room. She’d already made a mental note never to be caught alone with Sir Owen, given that her reputation was already hanging by a thread and any hint of scandal would sever it entirely. That, plus the fact that (as Nancy had observed from behind the wall, for weeks now) Sir Owen’s approach to negotiating was closer to that of a pirate than businessman.
Nancy, being American born and raised by Americans in spirit if not geography, had never been all that impressed with titles. In fact, she usually had a hard time keeping track of which was more impressive—a Duke, a Count, an Earl? Especially since it seemed that the most important factor (at least here in New York, and in society as a whole) was how rich a person actually was. Hence, the society buzz surrounding Ned Nickerson, the self-made millionaire. Or the fact that, in spite of his youthful follies and illegitimate heir, Ryan Hudson had been so readily and fully forgiven by his peers as soon as he’d returned to the fold and the family industry. His daughter and now heiress in tow, in spite of her odd hobbies and lack of social graces.
Toting her borrowed book—Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky, in the original Russian—Nancy made her way back through the servants corridors, thumbing through the tome as she headed for a solitary place to devour it. But she must’ve gotten distracted, because when she emerged from the passage, she wasn’t outdoors as planned, in the quaint little gated garden that ran alongside the house.
Instead, she found herself in a cavern of brick walls and polished stone floors, surrounded by the most impressive selection of motor cars and carriages she’d ever seen in one place.
Drawn to the dazzling chrome and glistening paint of mechanical progress, Nancy crept closer to the nearest automobile, lips pressed together and book held tightly to her chest. She reached out to run a fingertip across a silver ornament perched on the nose of the car, lips curling in delight at the artistry of it, the practical machine beautified by legend. A gryphon perched at the crest of a man made machine, as if to give an air of irony to man’s hubris.
Nancy had only ridden in one a few times, and then mostly in the city. She’d taken the train from Horseshoe Bay to New York. But she’d read that the latest models could get up to almost 80 miles per hour. How she’d love to learn how to work one and try those limits out for herself.
Nancy didn’t realize she’d sighed her ennui aloud until someone chuckled.
“Sounds like a tragedy in the making.”
Startled, she quickly stepped back, almost dropping her book as she moved away from the low and smooth rasp coming from the vicinity of her ankles. The youngish male voice was unfamiliar, and yet…something about it inspired a tingling sensation in her mind. Like a dream half-remembered that turns murky the longer you try to look at it.
Bending at the knees and craning her neck to peer down, underneath, to where the voice had originated, Nancy skirted the car until she came apon a lean set of long—very long—legs clad in loose black slacks and a pair of shiny, knee-high boots that looked a bit like riding boots but with a more rounded toe. ‘Probably more comfortable to boot,’ as her adopted father Carson would’ve joked.
“Excuse me,” she said, after realizing she hadn’t responded, and that was rude. “I didn’t mean to startle anyone. I…got lost on my way to the garden, and was just pausing to admire this work of machinery.”
Another low chuckle, then a scraping sound, and the legs bent to pull their owner out from under the car on some kind of rolling plank. Nancy was initially fascinated by the mechanism—what a simple yet ingenious device for getting oneself into hard to reach places—until she caught sight of the rest of the body. His body. The boy—the man—that had been lying beneath the car.
Strong thighs, narrow hips. A muscular torso, clad only in a white dress shirt and vest—an unbuttoned vest, to be exact—with the sleeves rolled up on the shirt, and his bare forearms were—oh, goodness gracious, she was staring. Her mouth was hanging open like a fountainhead, and she was staring. Blue eyes, like hers but much deeper, somehow. More like the ocean than the sky. Dear god—and secretly, Nancy didn’t know if she actually believed in god, but DEAR GOD—that face. Roman statuary would weep with jealousy if they could. And that hair, golden brown and unfashionably long in the most attractive possible way, and yes, yes her mouth was still open, and she was stammering. STAMMERING, like a magpie with a failing memory.
“I…I, uhm, I was just. I um.”
He smiled, and the metaphorical magpie keeled over, dead. “Can I help you, miss?”
“Can you…help…?” Pull yourself together girl, you aren’t really a mindless debutante, after all!
Nancy cleared her throat, which was unladylike, but necessary in this case. After taking a beat to reset herself, she smoothly continued, “Actually, yes. If—if you don’t mind.” Somewhat smoothly. “I wonder if you might be able to tell me, how fast does this car travel, at a maximum?”
Her question seemed to light his face up from the inside, and she dug her fingers into the spine of the book, pulling it closer like a paper chest plate. As if literary armor might protect her from being penetrated by this beautiful boy’s—man’s—gaze, or melted by the warmth of his smile.
“I’m so glad you asked,” he said, pulling himself to his feet, where he then towered over her, grinning. “There’s nothing better to do on a nice day than cure a pretty girl’s troubles by taking her for a fast drive. Let me just grab a schmatta to clean the oil off my hands, and I’ll start her up.”
Nancy Drew Hudson had never swooned in her life, but she was considering it.
“Oh, well that sounds…” Ideal. Wonderful. Like the perfect escape plan from this terribly boring new life. “Interesting. But I probably shouldn’t…uh, I mean, something tells me it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to go on a fast drive—or a drive of any kind, really—at least not with a strange man I’ve just met. We…we haven’t been properly introduced, and I’m sure there are rules about…this kind of thing.”
“Well, that is what we call a fixable problem, milady,” he said, grabbing a clean white towel and running it over and through his fingers. “Us having not met.”
Nancy found herself momentarily transfixed by his movements, so much so that she wobbled a little when he stepped back toward her with his hand extended.
“The name’s Joseph Eli Hardee, but everyone I know just calls me Ace.” He held his hand out to her, like he was expecting her to do something with it.
Oh, right. A handshake, Nancy recalled. People shook hands. That was a thing that regular people often did. She peeled her right hand away from the book at her chest, forcing herself to relax her shoulders enough to reach out. His fingers embraced hers, squeezing once gently, dwarfing her hand in a way that made her forget where she was until he let go.
“I’m—“ the name Nancy Drew was poised to tumble off her tongue, but before it did, she remembered that it wasn’t so simple anymore. Ever since she’d been outed in the society papers, her beloved anonymity had gone up in smoke. Which made it difficult to sleuth around unnoticed as often as she’d done back home.
When her pause stretched on, he filled it smoothly, without even a hint of awkwardness. “I’m the Marvin’s chauffeur, in case that much wasn’t clear.”
“Oh, of course!” And also, somehow, a relief. What were the odds a chauffeur read the society gossip papers, and would therefore recognize her face on sight? “Yes, I deduced as much. I’m…Katherine. Katherine…Carson. But my friends call me Kate.”
“So then, Kate Carson.” Eyes sparkling with mirth, he leaned in toward her by just a few inches. Not too close as to be improper, but close enough that Nancy forgot to take the next breath. “Fancy a drive?”