Mrs. Palmer had invited Yvette to join a game of Whist—an early form of bridge with similar rules. The foursome included two of Mrs. Palmer’s closest friends: Mrs. Braine and Mrs. Jones.

  Nearby sat Miss West and her fiancé, Mr. Anderson, who endured not so much conversation as sardonic remarks aimed their way by the two ladies.

  Through their barbs, Yvette learned Mrs. Palmer was the sole heiress among them. Her banker husband had died young, leaving her childless but fabulously wealthy through bonds and properties. She’d sworn off remarrying, instead globetrotting on her fortune.

  Miss West, her niece, stood to inherit it all—a prospect motivating her father to plant her as Mrs. Palmer’s companion. Officially, this was “caring for her aunt”; unofficially, it was to block any “gold-diggers” from the widow’s path.

  Yvette guessed Mrs. Palmer saw through this ploy. Miss West’s awkward shyness hardly charmed her aunt, explaining why Mrs. Braine and Mrs. Jones felt free to mock her. Within two hours, Yvette had mapped their tangled dynamics.

  While Miss West stayed quiet, her fiancé retaliated against the ladies’ snipes. Both women, Yvette noted, were middle-class; their voyage funded entirely by Mrs. Palmer’s largesse.

  But as an unmarried suitor, Mr. Anderson remained socially vulnerable. The ladies insinuated he courted Miss West solely for the inheritance—why else would a notorious flirt chase such a bland girl?

  Their accusations rang partly true. Mr. Anderson glared daggers at Yvette after she charmed Mrs. Palmer, as if warning: I see your game, you little thief.

  Trapped in this viper’s nest, Yvette stifled regrets. The simmering tension—verbal jabs and clashing agendas—proved morbidly fascinating.

  Does Mrs. Palmer even enjoy this? Yvette wondered. Surrounded by leeches playing courtiers…

  “How do you spend your days, Mr. Fisher?” Mrs. Palmer trilled. “A striking lad like you must have sweethearts galore!”

  “I’ve… niche interests. Few ladies share them.”

  Yvette’s routine involved swordsmanship, honing her powers, and casework. Her sole leisure was the Maze of Thoughts club—a haven for male logic enthusiasts. She did lack ordinary female friends.

  “Niche interests?” Mrs. Palmer pressed. “What youth eschews theaters and pubs?”

  “Mystery novels, mostly. And fencing—a family tradition. My elders demand excellence.”

  The ladies cooed over this image: a noble, brooding swordsman straight from a penny dreadful.

  “Mysteries! I devour them!” Mrs. Palmer gushed. “Mr. Faulkner’s Chevalier series is divine—The Vampire Murders hooked me instantly! And the dashing Chevalier… why, he’s a French swordsman like you, Mr. Fisher!”

  Oh no.

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  Yvette’s blood ran cold. She’d stumbled into a fan of her own pseudonymous novels.

  “Your family must be saints,” Mrs. Braine simpered, rescuing the silence, “to raise such a…”

  “A proper gentleman,” Mrs. Jones cut in, eyeing Mr. Anderson. “Not some tavern-haunting wastrel. More boys should emulate Mr. Fisher!”

  The officer reddened but bit his tongue—Mrs. Palmer’s fondness for Yvette stayed his fury.

  “Since you’re loafing, Mr. Anderson,” Mrs. Jones sniffed, “fetch our cocktails. They’re an American novelty, Mr. Fisher—far better than punch. Amaretto sours: almond liqueur, lemon, perfectly tart… though ladies prefer them.”

  At Mrs. Palmer’s nod, Mr. Anderson fetched the drinks. The tray arrived, brimming with golden glasses fragrant with citrus and almonds.

  He served Mrs. Palmer first, then Yvette and Mrs. Braine. Mrs. Jones, served last, thirstily gulped hers.

  “Divine!” she sighed. “The almond and lemon sing!”

  A breach of etiquette—drinking before the hostess—but Mrs. Palmer merely chuckled, toasting Yvette: “Try it, dear boy!”

  The widow sipped—then gagged. Her glass shattered as she clutched her chest, retching.

  “Poison…” she rasped, staring hopelessly at the spill.

  Amaretto sour… Cyanide!

  Yvette’s mind flashed to mystery tropes: cyanide’s almond scent masked in treats, killing within moments.

  Pandemonium followed. Corseted ladies—their organs crushed by tight lacing—fumbled for smelling salts. But no ammonia could save Mrs. Palmer. Thirty seconds later, she lay still.

  Dead.

  Yvette blinked, then sprang onto a table: “Everyone stay seated! The doctor’s coming. This is murder—the killer’s here. Do nothing suspicious!”

  Aboard the Silver Star, murder shattered the voyage’s tranquility, jolting even the seasoned captain into action. The Cunard Line, already locked in rivalry with three other Albion-based shipping giants, could ill afford scandal. Crewmen were dispatched to placate passengers, but whispers spread—a poisoning, no less, with the victim collapsing mid-lounge before witnesses.

  Transatlantic liners often concealed such horrors. Overboard "accidents" were discreetly logged; rival firms traded unspoken truces to bury mutual shame. But this death defied silence. Ladies’ screams drew crowds, and Albion’s appetite for intrigue—poisonings! secret plots!—ensured the mob’s fervor. Sailors strained to hold them back, yet excited murmurs pierced the lounge’s oak doors.

  Ruined. All ruined…

  The captain’s grip tightened on his hat. This ship had been his life’s work since her maiden voyage. She’d clinched the Blue Riband, crossing the Atlantic in two weeks and nine hours—a record that held for years. Now, legacy teetered on catastrophe.

  If the killer slipped ashore in the New World, beyond Albion’s reach, the Silver Star’s name would rot. Steeling himself, he shouldered through the throng.

  Inside the lounge, chaos reigned. Amid brawny deckhands and a ship’s doctor knelt over the body, three passengers—two women and a gaunt ex-soldier—hurled venomous accusations. A youth stood apart, composed.

  "Order!" The captain’s bark cut through the din. "Cunard assures utmost diligence. Now—names, connections to the deceased, reasons for being here. Start with you," he nodded to the youth, whose poise stood out.

  "Ives de Fisher, Royal University, classical studies." The young man’s voice stayed steady. "Miss West invited me an hour ago to make up a card game. I’d never met Mrs. Palmer before."

  Beside him, a golden-haired man drew the captain’s ire next—until the ship’s doctor gasped.

  "Sir Ulysses Josué? The cholera reformer?!" The doctor near-groveled. Consultant Physicians, after all, dwarfed mere ship surgeons in prestige.

  Ulysses acknowledged the praise with a nod. Typical, Ives thought. Uncle’s flair for understated theatrics.

  Reluctantly, the captain enlisted Ulysses’ aid.

  Next came Jasper Anderson, the dead woman’s niece’s fiancé—and debt-ridden ex-soldier. "He brought the tainted drinks!" Mrs. Jones shrilled.

  "Lies!" Anderson shot back. "You owed her money! And you—" he wheeled on Mrs. Breen, "—your shop’s debts could bury you!"

  Mrs. Jones retaliated with a bombshell: Mrs. Palmer’s "young lady friend" Nelly was, in fact, a male actor from the Royal Strand Theatre—a scandalous affair.

  As motives tangled—greed, jealousy, blackmail—the captain grimaced. Every soul in that lounge, save Ives, had means and malice aplenty.