Chapter Fifteen
Elliot followed Charlotte out of the drawing room and watched as she dashed up the stairs, and made a right turn into her bedchamber. With a thud that rattled the house, she slammed the door.
“Mr. Baker, what should I do with the box?” Her face pale and eyes wide, Bridget held the container away from her body as if it would bite her.
Perhaps it would.
Although he was sure there was something unpleasant in the box, he preferred to talk Charlotte into viewing the contents with him when he opened it. “Place it on the low table in the front of the sofa in the drawing room, then you may return to your duties.”
She gave a slight curtsy and with obvious relief, returned the box to the room.
Elliot studied the steps for a minute, then decided propriety be damned, Charlotte needed him. He took the stairs two at a time and tapped on her bedchamber door. “Charlotte, open the door.”
Expecting to be ignored, he was surprised when the door opened only a few inches. “You can’t come in here. It is not proper.”
“Then come back downstairs so we can discuss this.”
She shook her head and backed up, giving him the opportunity to join her. He closed the door gently since Charlotte looked fragile enough to shatter into pieces. Her knuckles were white, and the rapid rise and fall of her chest worried him that she would soon pass out.
He held out his hand, giving her space, allowing her to make the decision to accept his comfort. “Come here.”
Thankfully, she closed the few paces between them. He opened his arms, and she settled against him. She began to pant, and fidget, finally pushing him away. “I can’t get enough air. I can’t breathe.”
“You are getting plenty of air. In fact, too much. Come.” With his arm around her shoulders, he led her to a blue and white striped settee in her sitting room. Anything to get her away from the sight of her bed, and lowered them both to the seat. “Stop breathing so hard.” He rubbed her back, but she continued to gasp. “Take slow breaths in through your nose and release them out your mouth.” He kept up the slow circles on her back. “Relax.”
After a minute or so when things did not seem to be getting any better, he said, “Stand up.”
“Why?” She barely got the word out.
“Just do as I say.” He pulled her to her feet, then turned her and began opening the back of her dress.
“What are you doing?” Again, the words barely made it out of her mouth.
“Don’t speak. Just try to relax.” Once enough buttons had been undone, he quickly undid the cord of her corset, pulling the sides of the garment apart. She immediately relaxed, taking in a deep breath.
“Why women punish themselves with these things is beyond my comprehension.” He turned her to face him and pulled her into his arms, his hand still stroking the warm flesh of her back as she slowly grew limp against him, and her breathing eased.
Elliot helped her back to the settee. He sat next to her, drawing her back to his chest. He leaned his chin on her head, the scent of wildflowers, honey, and Charlotte drifting from her hair. She was soft against him, and with his arm around her waist, he was sorely tempted to move his hand up to caress her breast.
Not now. He would not take advantage of her anxiety, although a good romp between the sheets would definitely release some stress, and take her mind off the package downstairs.
“We must look in the box, and not just to see what he is up to now. There could very well be a clue.”
She turned, the misery in her green eyes tearing at him. “I shall post someone at the door all hours of the night and day to catch whoever is leaving these packages.”
“I had a man watching your house for weeks, but somehow he never saw anyone approach the front door. I am thinking whoever is doing this has hired another to watch the house and when no one is about, a box gets left. Although, this time, Bridget said a delivery boy walked right up the steps and knocked on the door.
“Another reason to open the box is this might not be from our suspect. Remember you had those flowers from an admirer that we never identified—although given what I just learned about the vicar, it could very well have been him.” A true would-be beau complicated the entire mess.
“Lord help me. Why can’t I be left alone? I don’t want admirers. I don’t want diamond bracelets, or flowers.”
To his horror, she covered her face with her hands and dropped her head into her lap and sobbed as though her heart would break. He did what most men did in such circumstances. He mumbled stupid platitudes and stroked her arm. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a clean, white handkerchief. He handed it to her, and she took it with a mumbled, “Thank you.”
After a few minutes, her sobs turned to slight hiccups. She took a deep breath and stood to adjust her gown. Raising her chin, she looked him in the eye. “Please fasten my gown, and then we shall see what’s in the blasted box.”
He grinned at her change in demeanor. Charlotte, his fearless, independent woman was back. Perhaps she needed that cry to release some of the tension in her life recently. Women apparently handled such things in that way, while a man would go to one of the boxing clubs and pound away at something hard.
Obviously, women were smarter than men, since the only result of their tears was a blotchy face that faded in a few hours, where a man could carry bruises for a week. They made their way back downstairs to the drawing room. The box sat exactly where Bridget had left it. He laughed at himself, wondering if he’d expected the container to have special powers, and leap from the table, or disappear in a puff of smoke.
Charlotte took a deep breath. “Well, let’s have at it.” She knelt on the floor, next to the low table, gesturing for him to join her. “I don’t want to pick it up, so I’ll just undo the string and wrapping paper.” Once she’d decided to open the thing, her fingers worked quickly, as if she were afraid she would change her mind and run back upstairs.
She drew away the paper, lifted the lid, fell back on her rump, and screamed, scrambling away from the table.
…
Two large brown spiders, the size of a man’s palm, rested in the bottom of the box. Their dark bodies were marked with creamy stripes. They began to move once the lid was removed.
Charlotte jumped to her feet and backed up, her hand covering her mouth as she stared at the box. “What is that?”
Elliot grabbed the box and stood. “I am not a spider expert, but they resemble a picture I saw once of a fen raft spider.” He quickly left the room.
Once the weakness passed, her last meal began to rise from the back of her throat. Not being anywhere near a chamber pot, she swallowed profusely, attempting to get her stomach under control.
“I asked Bridget to have a tisane made up for you,” Elliot said as he entered the room. “I think it is best if you lie down for a while. I will remain here so we can speak once you have recovered.”
She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hands, trying desperately to rid herself of the sight of the nasty creatures crawling around in the box. “Spiders! I hate spiders. Whatever is wrong with this man? Why spiders? Were they poisonous?”
“I don’t believe so.”
She shuddered as she dropped into a comfortable chair. Once settled, Elliot tucked a lap robe over her just as Bridget entered, still white-faced herself, and handed Charlotte a glass of liquid.
“Drink, Charlotte,” Elliot said.
Like a toddler with her nurse, Charlotte took the glass from Bridget’s hand and gulped the liquid down, hoping the tisane would help her disappear for a while. Perhaps for months. At least until the nightmare her life had become ended.
Fleetingly, she thought again of moving from her house, or possibly London, altogether. But she would not do that. Whoever this horrible person was, she would not allow him to drive her from her home. “Perhaps I should get a pistol.”
Elliot had the nerve to grin. “I don’t think that is a good idea.”
“Why not? I could obtain a derringer and keep it by my side for protection.”
“Against spiders? Would you shoot the entire box of them? Or perhaps the dead animals left here?” He leaned forward, a frown on his face. “The biggest danger from an unskilled person owning a gun is shooting oneself, or a servant. A person must be well-trained in firearms to have a gun.”
“I know of several ladies who carry guns in their reticules.”
Elliot groaned and shook his head. “Please do not even think of doing such a thing. It is too bad the government has not taken steps to ascertain that those individuals who are purchasing pistols have the proper set of mind, and the ability to own such a dangerous weapon.”
Charlotte’s eyes grew heavy as he continued to speak on the ills of uninformed and untrained owners of guns. The tisane was working. As if from a distance, she heard Elliot’s voice, now close to her ear. “I will carry you upstairs and tuck you in. We will discuss the ridiculous idea of you running about London with the pistol in your reticule, ready to shoot yourself in the foot, another time.”
She nodded and was soon lifted, carried, and tucked in as promised. It was the last thing she remembered until she awoke the next morning.
…
Three days after the spider debacle, Elliot held out Miss Garvey’s chair as she sat at the dining table. She was to be his partner at the dinner party hosted by Mrs. Alice Banberry, a friend of Charlotte who he had met at a few social events. Charlotte took her seat several guests down, on the same side of the table, which made it near impossible for them to communicate. It also impeded his opportunity to study the men who spoke with her. But, nevertheless, it gave him the opportunity to possibly gain more information about Mr. Talbot, since the man and Miss Garvey seemed quite fond of each other.
Tonight, the woman was dressed in a gray gown, with no adornments, almost to the point of plainness. The sleeves came almost to her fingers, and the neckline hugged her chin. Elliot did not pretend to be a master of fashion, but it was obvious to him that Miss Garvey’s outfit, while exceedingly unflattering to her, was still well-made, and of an expensive fabric.
Her silver-streaked black hair had been pulled into a bun so severe it made his own head hurt. “How are you this evening, Miss Garvey?”
“I am well, thank you.” She gave her attention to her soup.
So much for pleasant social chatter with his dinner partner.
Mrs. Tilton, on his other side, drew his attention with lively repartee about her three grandsons who, apparently, kept her daughter either brimming with love and laughter, or in the bowels of parental hell.
Mr. Nelson, on Mrs. Tilton’s other side asked her a question, and Elliot used that opportunity to address Miss Garvey once more. “I see Mr. Talbot is not with us this evening. He is not ill, I hope.”
“No.” She took care to cut her well-cooked lamb into small pieces and chewed each piece long enough to keep her stomach from having to do any work in digestion. “He will be joining us later for the musicale. He had matters to see to that needed his attention.”
He leaned to one side to allow the footman to refill his wine glass. “I understand Mr. Talbot was friends with Mr. Pennyworth before his unfortunate death. Were you acquainted then?”
“No.” She placed her hand over her wine glass when the footman attempted to refill it, then continued to masticate her lamb.
Well, hell and damn, he was not going to allow her to ignore him this way. Now it had become a contest of wills. He would get information from her if he had to shake it out of her. “How long have you been in London, Miss Garvey?”
She turned her unusual silver eyes on him for the first time since they’d been seated. “Six months.”
Fortunately, Mrs. Tilton once again regaled him with stories of the three young boys who sounded like the devil’s spawns. But, as a true grandmother, interspersed with her tales of woe, were constant references to the “little angels.”
Sounded more like “little devils” to him.
The fruit and cheese had been enjoyed by the guests when Mrs. Banberry stood. “If you will all join me in the drawing room, the musical part of our evening’s entertainment will begin.
Unable to let Miss Garvey go without at least one more attempt to garner information, Elliot leaned toward her before standing to pull out her chair. “Tell me, Miss Garvey, is Mr. Talbot fond of spiders?”
If he surprised her, she did not show it, but merely turned her head slowly to look at him with narrowed eyes. “I have no idea. Perhaps you should ask him.”
Not only was the woman unlikeable, it was obvious she disliked him.
Mr. Tilton approached Elliot as he made his way over to Charlotte to escort her inside. “I say, I heard you ask Miss Garvey about spiders.”
“Yes.”
“Talbot does have a collection of spiders. Took me to his house one time to show them to me. I’m not a squeamish sort of person—leave that to the ladies—but spiders are a ghastly thing to be interested in, if you ask me.”
“Yes, I agree. Quite nasty. Thank you for that information.”
“Appalling looking things, but he was right proud of them.” The man shook his head and walked off as Charlotte approached. Based on the flub with the vicar’s involvement, he didn’t want to get Charlotte’s hopes up again. Also, based on the friendship Mr. Pennyworth had shared with Talbot, and Charlotte’s reluctance to think ill of the man, Elliot decided to keep the information gleaned from Tilton to himself. But he would certainly keep a closer eye on Mr. Talbot.
The musicale had been quite enjoyable, and Charlotte and Elliot had a lively discussion about the evening as the coach bore them back to her house. He pondered whether moving into her house might make sense. Since her predator had taken to leaving potentially dangerous things, she could certainly use the protection. Besides that, he had a better chance of catching the culprit, if he were there when the packages arrived.
On the other hand, he would be merely feet from her bedchamber—and her bed. Things had progressed to the point where he thought about Charlotte and having her in his bed more each day.
He’d had a sufficient number of lovers in his day, but never one who’d captured his attention the way Charlotte had—not even Annabelle. And he hadn’t even gotten close to taking her to bed. Despite her pretty face and generously curved body, she had courage not seen in a great deal of women. Most females he knew would have collapsed and taken to their beds for weeks under the stress she had experienced.
He admired her, and that was a scary thought.
He dismissed the carriage once they alighted, as the walk home would give him time to think about all that had happened so far in this case. He took Charlotte’s arm, and they moved up the steps. The sky had cleared from the earlier rain, and amazingly enough, no mist surrounded them, which allowed the area to be fairly well-lit from the half-moon.
Thomas had the door open before they reached the doorstep, a smile of greeting on his lips. Charlotte stepped inside, and Elliot wished her a good night. He turned to leave and then swung back to ask about their next event when he heard a pop, and something slammed into his arm.
He wavered for a minute, then his knees buckled, and he grabbed the doorjamb to hold himself up. “What the devil was that?” He turned to Charlotte. Her eyes were like saucers.
“Oh my God. You’ve been shot.”