Chapter Ten
Charlotte leaned against Elliot’s chest as he drew her into the circle of his arms and began to massage her shoulders. This was becoming a habit, and although she enjoyed it, the idea of him being so familiar with her person rang a warning bell.
The last of the book club guests had departed, and she was so very tired. Dodging Mr. Spencer, who she’d been quite dismayed to see appear at the drawing room doorway, had been an exercise in futility. When she had attempted to ignore him, he’d followed her about until she’d given him her attention. As soon as she was able to rise from the comfort of Elliot’s embrace, she would leave strict instructions with every staff member that he was never to be granted access to her home again.
Of course, the vicar had objected to each book they discussed, and she’d had to place a staying hand on Elliot’s arm to keep him from bodily removing the man.
“Can I pour you a brandy, or would you prefer tea?”
That was another thing that had begun to frighten her. She was becoming much too dependent on Mr. Elliot Baker, Private Investigator, and his care for her. Even if she were foolish enough to place her heart in jeopardy again, he was not the man to fulfill that role. He was such a black and white individual. He allowed no gray areas in his world. You were either good or evil. Right or wrong. Honest or dishonest.
Were he to learn of the outstanding warrant for the theft of Lady Barton’s jewels, he would haul her off to jail. Yet, she was falling for him in a worrisome way. All she had ever wanted in her life was security and happiness. She’d had it for a brief time with Gabriel, but then fate—and his recklessness—had snatched it away.
In one of his tirades, Mr. Spencer had sermonized that Gabriel’s death was the Lord’s punishment for wrongs she had committed in her past. When he’d said that in front of Elliot, her face had flamed, and she’d wondered if Elliot had noticed. Surely, no loving God would take away the life of a young, virile man to punish his wife for wrongs not committed, but of which she’d been unfairly accused.
“A sherry would be welcome.” She felt so content in Elliot’s arms but forced herself to move back, and sit on the settee. There was no point in harboring such foolish hopes of anything between them. She couldn’t trust him with her secret, and he’d been employed to solve a problem for her, not rub parts of her body that ached.
Well, then. That thought certainly brought heat to her middle. Dismissing the images now at the forefront of her mind, she forced her attention back to Elliot’s rigid beliefs.
It was ironic that the very reason she was hiding something from him was because she didn’t trust him to trust her. She sighed. It was all so convoluted.
He returned from the library with drinks in hand and held one out to her, then joined her on the settee in front of the fireplace. “Your head hurts again, doesn’t it?”
The relief from the shoulder rub he’d just given her had already worn off. She closed her eyes and nodded. She could not remember the last time she’d had a carefree day with no headache and no stress. Elliot put his drink down and took her by the shoulders. “Turn around.”
“No. Not again. This is not a good idea. I feel foolish with you constantly feeling the need to massage my head.” She took a sip of her sherry. “I will be fine.”
“Can you not think of it as part of my duties?”
A smile twitched her lips. “Duties as a solicitor or a private investigator?”
Elliot grinned back. “Perhaps I shall add ‘masseur’ to my list of services offered.” He twirled his finger in the air. “Now turn around, and let me help you get rid of this headache.”
Against her better judgment, but knowing how helpful his ministrations were, she leaned against his chest. His warm hands rested on her head, and he tangled his fingers in her hair. He rubbed her scalp, and she moaned. “That feels wonderful.”
Despite her unease at allowing him the freedom to touch her in this way, the rumble of his low voice, offering soothing words as he manipulated her flesh, blocked all the evil and fear tying her into knots.
She rotated her neck as he continued. The air seemed clearer, the room warmer, and a sense of peace drifted over her like a heated blanket on a cold morning. She felt safe and protected here in his arms.
He grunted, and she suddenly noticed there was something very hard pressing up against her lower back where she sat snug between Elliot’s legs. Oh good Lord, he was becoming aroused, and that aroused her. He anchored her head so it settled snugly against his shoulder and continued to rub her scalp. Feeling decadent, she relaxed, took a sip of her sherry, and enjoyed his attention.
After a few more minutes she began to grow quite warm, and parts of her body that she had ignored since Gabriel’s death began to tingle and swell. Elliot began to shift also, and then his lips grazed her neck. Warm, and moist. He kissed her skin, then tugged on her earlobe with his teeth. Sighing softly, she bent her head to grant him better access. One of his hands slid from her hair and rested on her shoulder and squeezed. She should not be allowing this intimacy. It would only encourage something with which she was not prepared to continue.
Before she could form another thought, his hand slowly slid from her shoulder, and his strong fingers closed over her breast.
His thumb skimmed leisurely over her nipple, bringing it to a sharp point. The tingles turned into needy throbs when he removed his other hand from her hair and grasped her chin, turning her head to take her mouth in a searing kiss. She shifted until she was practically sitting on his lap, but it wasn’t close enough. Clothes hindered the skin-to-skin touch her body craved. A slight knock on the drawing room door had them springing apart like two youths caught stealing kisses in the stables.
“Yes.” Lord, was that her voice? She slid off his lap and smoothed out her skirt. “Come in.” She glanced at Elliot, but the blasted man slumped on the settee, his arm resting on the back of the sofa, looking perfectly at ease, as if he fondled women in their drawing rooms every day.
Perhaps he did.
Bridget entered. “Cook wanted to know when she should serve dinner, since your guests have only just left.”
“Will you join me for dinner, Mr. Baker?” Didn’t she sound all proper and composed? He was not the only one who could quickly pull himself together.
“I will pass on the invitation, since I have unfinished legal work I must see to before tomorrow.”
Bridget viewed them oddly, no doubt smirking inside at their stilted words, which, added to the flush Charlotte knew covered her face, gave the girl reason to believe something improper had occurred. She stiffened, refusing to bow to embarrassment in front of her employees. “Since Mr. Baker is leaving, please have a tray sent up to my bedchamber, but I would like a bath first.”
Bridget dipped a curtsy and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Charlotte stood and shook out her skirts. Raising her chin, she said, “I will see you out.”
Elliot rose and grasped her arm, turning her back toward him. “There is nothing to be ashamed of, Charlotte. We are adults, and we did not do anything wrong.”
Nothing wrong, indeed. More than ever she wished this entire matter over with, so she could go back to her very pleasant, uncomplicated life. A life that did not include a most unsuitable man with whom she was becoming a bit too attached. “I have no idea what you are talking about.” She headed to the door.
Once Elliot had donned his hat and coat, he grasped her chin and turned her head to study her. “You look quite fatigued. A bath and a dinner tray are precisely what you need.”
Despite her immediate reaction to his highhanded manner, she found she hadn’t the strength to argue. “I am so very tired of this. I no longer enjoy attending events with the people I have grown close to over the year. Some of these people had been Gabriel’s friends, others I befriended myself. But since this all started, I find myself withdrawing from them, suspecting every man who smiles in my direction. On the other hand, I do not wish to become a recluse who hides behind my curtains, peeking out each time someone passes my house.”
“I have an idea. Why don’t you enjoy a day out without friends? You and I will take a trip to the art museum. No suspicious individuals to be wary of, no talk of flowers, packages left on the doorstep, or men who lecture you about sin and damnation.”
She was certain an excursion to the art museum was another service not normally provided by a private investigator. Nevertheless, the idea of just the two of them, with no others, greatly appealed. “That sounds wonderful. I love the museum, and I can easily become lost in the treasures there.”
“Then it is all set. I will escort you to the museum tomorrow. Be ready to depart about ten o’clock.”
Why was this man so nice? Why couldn’t he be the typical ex-inspector turned private investigator with jowls, a cigar jammed between his teeth, and a paunch? No, her private investigator was handsome, well-built, charming, and a definite threat to her sanity and well-being.
…
Charlotte attempted to quell the excitement in her middle as she waited for Elliot. This trip to the museum was for fun, and she had no intention of allowing conversation about the investigation. Today, she was merely Charlotte, and he was merely Elliot, and they were going to enjoy the day.
The smile he gave her as he entered her house assured her he did not view this trip as part of the investigation, either. He bowed as he stepped into the entrance hall. “Are you ready for a day of no worries?”
“Yes, indeed.” She turned to have Elliot help her with her pelisse. After tying the ribbons on her bonnet, they left the house.
It appeared the weather had also decided to cooperate with their sense of ease and adventure. The rare sun shone brightly in the cool, crisp air, warming her back as they descended the stairs and he helped her into her carriage.
“I’m sure this sounds silly, but I feel as carefree as a young girl.” Charlotte almost giggled as she settled in. The sun shining through the window, lighting up the green velvet interior of the coach, cheered her, as well.
Elliot grinned back. “Not at all. You need this day out to forget about everything, except having fun. I thought about the science museum, but then I realized women do not generally view science with the same vigor as men, so that venue might not be your idea of fun.”
“Actually, I do have an interest in science. However, since this is to be a lighthearted day, I am happy we are headed to the art museum. Have you been there before?”
His demeanor sobered. “Once. But my companion was not very interested in art, so we did not stay long.”
Assuming Elliot referred to Annabelle, Charlotte changed the subject. “I, on the other hand, am very interested in art. In fact, I had at one time thought to study art but never had the means to do so.”
Elliot’s brows rose. “Do you paint?”
She blushed. “A bit. That is, if one considers applying paint to a canvas as painting.” She could hardly call her attempts at artistic work “painting”, but she loved working with oils, and charcoals, as well. The hobby had helped her during her mourning period when she’d been confined to her home more than she was used to. Now, since her life had taken a turn toward perverse matters, she’d shoved that all aside.
“Someday you will have to show me some of your work.”
Charlotte waved her hand. “Oh, it is not good enough to show.”
“I have found that an artist’s opinion of his or her work is rarely honest.”
“But mostly accurate,” she said with a light laugh. “At least in my case.”
“I shall have to see and make the judgment for myself.”
She’d never shown her work to anyone, and the thought of allowing Elliot to have a peek into that part of her life was both exciting and unnerving. Even Gabriel had shown no interest in her artwork when she told him about it. He’d merely offered her that benevolent smile that gave her the feeling that she was a dog that he’d just patted on the head.
The rest of the afternoon passed in pleasant conversation and a light luncheon at a small café only a block from the museum. She discovered they enjoyed the same type of artwork, and eschewed the same type, as well.
“It appears we have a great deal in common,” Elliot said as they made their way back to the carriage later that afternoon.
“So it seems.” She took in a deep breath and smiled. “Thank you so much for this day. I really enjoyed myself, and for a little bit of time forgot…”
Elliot’s finger drew circles on her hand resting on his arm, the slight touch comforting. “Try as best you can to put it from your mind. I promise you I will unearth this cad and return your life to normal.”
…
Two days after the trip to the museum, Elliot left his rooms shortly before the dinner hour with a whistle on his lips. The note that had arrived with the flowers, along with samples of Vicar Spencer and Baron Von Braun’s handwriting, were tucked away in his pocket. It had been blind luck that he’d stumbled upon Von Braun at his club the night before, not realizing he was a member. They’d sat and chatted until Elliot could think of a way to have him write something. Taking out a stubby pencil and small pad he always carried, he handed them to Von Braun and asked him to jot down the title and author of a book he was encouraging Elliot to read. The man had graciously agreed, and Elliot had tucked it into his pocket, happy to have more than one sample.
Upon arrival at the Foreign Office, he found Drovers in his office, his head bent over some papers, a magnifying glass in his hand, as he perused the document in front of him. The man’s hair stood on end, as if he’d run his fingers through it several times. So great was his concentration, he didn’t hear Elliot enter the room.
“Hard at work, as usual, I see.” Elliot moved farther into the room and took a seat in front of the worn, wooden desk.
The man looked up, not at all startled. “Good evening, Baker. Come with samples for me?”
Elliot withdrew the paper with Von Braun’s scrawl. He laid it on the desk on top of the paper Drovers had been studying. “What can you tell me about this specimen?”
Not one to rush through anything, which, of course, in his line of work was imperative, Drovers studied the sample with his magnifying glass. After a few minutes, he pushed the paper back to Elliot. “This man thinks a great deal of himself.” He leaned over and pointed to a sentence. “See how he forms these letters? That shows rigidity, a man not able to bend to anyone else’s opinions.”
“Is this man capable of leaving a number of frightening items on a woman’s doorstep meant to disrupt her life?”
Drover grinned, one of the few times Elliot had ever seen such. “Given the right circumstances, I believe most people can do things out of the ordinary.” He leaned forward and folded his hands together. “However, based on your letter to me outlining the problem, to do it over and over, takes an individual who has something wrong up here.” He tapped his temple. “But to answer your question, yes, this man is capable of doing so. But, that doesn’t mean he did.”
“Well, that clears that up.” Elliot chuckled in frustration.
“When dealing with human nature, and what man can justify to himself, nothing is clear-cut. You, of all people, should know this, Baker.”
Elliot stiffened, assuming Drover was referring to his slip-up with Annabelle. Until the man waved his hand and continued, “I’m not referring to your matter, but to the general population that you have dealt with in your line of work. I, myself, have been surprised many times by the cruelty and downright degradation one can foist on another human being. And find justification for it, as well.”
He snorted. “People rarely change. If they are evil, they will always be evil.”
Drover tsked. “Such a rigid stance for a young man.”
“Lesson learned.” Elliot placed the sample of the vicar’s writing on the desk. “This one?”
Again, the man studied the sample carefully. “Ah, an interesting one. Your friend here is erratic, critical, and methodical. He could be a bit unstable, or merely had a poor tutor when he was learning his letters.”
“I’m afraid that doesn’t help.”
“In any event, I don’t think you will find your perpetrator by analyzing handwriting. It is much too hard to predict what someone is capable of doing by studying how they write.” The man sat back and adjusted his spectacles.
“Perhaps not, but I must pursue every avenue.” At last Elliot pulled out the paper from the man who had left the flowers. “What I’d like to know about this one is if it matches either of the other two.”
Drovers studied the sample, then laid the other two alongside it. He looked back and forth, and finally looked up at him. “This is an interesting one.”
Elliot sat forward. “Yes, go on.”
“Whoever wrote this one is trying to disguise his handwriting.” He moved his magnifying glass over the sample. “It doesn’t match either of the other two, but my educated guess is the scriber is left-handed and tried to write this note with his right hand.”
Drover removed his spectacles and rubbed them with a cloth. “Languages are different in more ways than one. Those that are written left-to-right, like English, are harder to write with the left hand. You see, a right-handed person writes away from his body and pulls the writing instrument, while a left-handed individual must write toward his body and, therefore, push the instrument.” He tapped the paper. “This person is left-handed and is writing with his right hand.”
Feeling encouraged by that information, Elliot stood and tucked the paper in his pocket. “Thank you for your insight. I do appreciate your expertise.”
Before Elliot had crossed the room and closed the door, Drovers had once again returned to perusing the document on his desk with his magnifying glass.
A light rain had begun to fall when he exited the building. Elliot opened his umbrella and decided to catch an omnibus instead of walking. What he was looking forward to now was an evening in his rooms with a brandy, a warm fireplace, and thoughts of Charlotte.
Now there was a true conundrum. Truth be told, he would enjoy an evening in his rooms with a brandy, a warm fireplace, and Charlotte sitting on his lap. Curled up with her head resting on his shoulder, her plump breasts pressed against his chest. He would slowly unbutton the back of her dress and ease it off her silky-smooth shoulders.
His lips would cast feathered kisses over her neck, his teeth nipping her earlobe. Then, he would—
The devil take it, he was hard as a rock and sweating just thinking about her. This nonsense had to stop. She was his client, nothing more. The kisses they’d shared were an aberration. They should not have happened and would not happen again. Yes, she was a lovely woman, but she was hiding something. He sensed it, and his past experience with Annabelle made him more attuned to deception.
He hailed the omnibus and climbed aboard. The light drizzle had turned to a steady rain. Darkness had descended earlier due to the weather, and he shivered, anxious to be home in dry clothes. The horses plodded along, stopping to allow riders to alight and board the vehicle.
Eventually, the conveyance came to a stop a block from his rooms. He stepped onto the pavement and opened his umbrella. He raised the collar on his jacket, and head down against the rain, he hurried toward home. Before he even identified the sound as footsteps behind him, he was thrown to the ground, a large body landing on top of him with a grunt.
All the air in Elliot’s lungs whooshed out of his body, and the side of his face smacked the pavement. The cold steel of a gun nudged against his temple as very bad breath wafted over him, followed by whispered words. “Leave off yer a’en’ions ’o the lady. She ain’ yers.” He pressed the gun harder against his head. “I’m bringin’ ye ’his message as a cour’esy. Nex’ ’ime I won’ be so gen’le.”
The lumbering ox fisted Elliot’s hair and slammed his face into the ground once more, bringing stars to his eyes. The footpad climbed off him, leaving Elliot still gasping for breath. After a few minutes, he stumbled to his knees and emptied the contents of his stomach. The side of his face throbbed, and he shook his head to clear it. Warm liquid ran from his nose over his lip to drip on the stones under his knees. He swiped his face. Blood mixed with rainwater.
There was no need to attempt to follow the man, since he had disappeared into the mist. Elliot made it to his feet and with the help of the handrail, dragged himself up the stairs to his front door, fumbling until he could insert the key and enter the building. He viewed the stairs he needed to climb to reach his rooms, and with a deep breath and shaky legs, slowly made his way up the steps.
He collapsed face down on the bed, not caring that he smeared blood all over the pillow. After he gave himself a few minutes to rest his throbbing head, he would tend to his injuries. His thoughts swirled around in his mind at the attack. It was apparent Charlotte’s situation had gone from frightening to dangerous. He did not think the man who had attacked him was the same one leaving the packages. This man had been hired to put the fear of God into him. Which, of course, would not work, since he did not scare easily. And now that he knew how serious her “admirer” was, he would take every precaution to protect himself.
And Charlotte.