Chapter Two
Elliot chastised himself as he dressed for the blasted poetry reading. Several times since Mrs. Pennyworth had left his office, he’d considered sending a note explaining that time did not permit him to accept her case, after all.
Not a complete lie, since he did have other assignments, as well as some legal work that needed his attention. Of course, no other job required him to be available in the evenings, which was when he would be doing most of the work for his newest client.
Every time he thought of Mrs. Pennyworth, Annabelle’s face rose to mind. Her sweet countenance, her fake blushes, her batting eyelashes as she had lied through her teeth. There was no other way to put it. She’d made a fool of him, cost him his career as an Inspector, and put him on guard with every woman he’d met since.
Especially Mrs. Pennyworth, with her delightful round face, pleading eyes, and shaky hands. An act? Perhaps. Whatever she was about, he would bet his yearly income she was holding something back from him. He would have to remain cautious with her.
Returning his attention to the task at hand, he gave his best suit a good brushing, and dressed. Not having attended one of these functions before, he hoped his closely tailored slack suit with a wingtip collar and four-in-hand tie would be acceptable attire.
He was not attempting to impress Mrs. Pennyworth, merely endeavoring not to embarrass the woman. As a former Inspector with Scotland Yard, and now a private investigator and solicitor, his usual social engagements consisted of a round of boxing at Gentleman Jim’s, followed by a few mugs of ale in the local pub, or a snifter of brandy at his club.
While he pulled on various pieces of clothing, his mind once more wandered back to the disaster that Miss Annabelle Walters had caused. Lovely Annabelle, with her deep-brown eyes and wavy black hair. Beautiful, charming, sensuous. And deadly.
No matter how many times he castigated himself, he still felt anger at her duplicity. And his stupidity.
He had believed those sultry looks and promises of carnal pleasure. He’d fallen hard for her, spending much more time dancing attendance on her than concentrating on his work. He’d been assigned to meet a ship sailing from India with a jewel onboard to be transported to the Tower of London where the Crown Jewels were stored. Annabelle had pouted and complained that she would miss a theater performance to which she had demanded his escort.
It was after she had threatened to attend with another man who had been seeking her favors, that he’d passed the assignment off to an underling. The poor man had been crippled in the attempted robbery of the priceless piece. Weeks later, Annabelle, along with three men who had been her accomplices, had been arrested.
He’d been the one to handcuff her and place her into custody. The venomous words she’d hurled at him in front of the other Inspectors had brought him shame and disgust. After a very brief meeting with the Chief Inspector, Elliot had resigned. He’d spent the past two years attempting to recover his good name.
Now, he was once again working at the behest of a beautiful woman. One to whom he was unquestionably attracted. Unfortunately, due to the nature of her situation, the best method to uncover her tormentor was to delve into her world and spend time with her. He broke into a sweat at the thought of again falling under the spell of an unknown female, and placing his reputation on the line.
Besides attending social events, he would assign someone to watch her doorstep to see if the man could be caught that way, but it was highly unlikely the suspect left the repulsive objects himself.
Placing his derby on his head, he left the house to travel the two miles to pick up Mrs. Pennyworth. Night had fallen, and with the ever-present fog not too heavy, he eschewed hiring a hansom cab for such a short jaunt and instead chose to take the omnibus and then walk the short distance to her house.
The neighborhood changed as he made his way from his lower-middle-class flat to her upper-middle-class home. There was more space between the residences, and the front gardens were better kept. Most likely, these dwellers had permanent staff, as opposed to Elliot, who relied upon his landlady, Mrs. Murray, to clean his rooms, and provide him with breakfast each morning. He sent his laundry out and hired a horse or hansom cab when the need arose.
One day he might take a wife, but until he felt he had recovered his reputation, he would not saddle a woman with his name. If his standing as a crack private investigator, and a top-notch solicitor, continued to grow, he might consider marriage.
Mrs. Pennyworth would make some man a fine wife.
He snorted and shoved that idea from his mind. He barely knew her, had reason to believe she was hiding something, and she was above his station. He’d just spent a half hour reminding himself of the repercussions the last time a woman had distracted him. It was best to squash whatever fancy he might have for her and concentrate on getting the job done.
He was humming a tune by the time he reached her front step. He took a quick look around to see how visible the area was to someone he would send to watch. He could see down the street from both ways clearly enough.
A young fresh-faced parlor maid opened the door to his knock and escorted him to the drawing room—a well-appointed, lovely room.
Deep rose-colored patterned wallpaper covered the walls, with white wainscoting along the bottom. A plush decorative carpet protected most of the highly polished wooden floor. He groaned at the uncomfortable-looking, yet stylish furniture taking up a great deal of the floor space. ’Twas obvious no man had selected these pieces.
Dozens of knick-knacks, clocks, bowls, lamps, picture frames, figurines, and other whatnot decorated the area, giving him an immediate sense of claustrophobia. Yet, from the little he knew of Mrs. Pennyworth, the room looked very much like what he would have supposed. Attuned as he was for sounds, he knew immediately when she entered the room. The slight swish of a gown, mixed with the light scent of roses he’d noticed when she’d come to his office.
He turned, and wished he had not decided to conduct the investigation in this manner. His client was a stunning vision who robbed him of breath. Her deep-lavender dress displayed her form to perfection. Her warm smile and intelligent eyes suggested she was not just another pretty face. Mrs. Pennyworth possessed an inner core of steel that attracted him as much as her visage.
Despite the trouble her maid no doubt went to in arranging her hair, all he wanted to do was pull the pins holding up her golden tresses and run his fingers through its length.
I am in deep trouble.
He gave her a bow and smiled. “You look lovely this evening.”
She gave a quick curtsy in return which, given their stations, was not required, but she looked almost as confused as he felt. Before he could make a cake of himself, he extended his arm. “Shall we?”
“Yes.” She took a deep breath and licked her lips, causing his lungs to seize. Every single drop of blood in his body traveled south, shouting hooray! After Elliot assisted with her cloak, they headed to the front door.
The muscles in her arm tensed as the parlor maid opened the door. He bent toward her, a whiff of her delectable scent filling his nostrils. A big mistake. “Do not concern yourself. There was nothing there when I arrived.”
She offered him a slight smile and relaxed as they stepped onto the empty front steps.
“Shall I fetch a hansom cab?”
“No. I have my own carriage. Yesterday, I arrived at your office in a hansom because my coachman was down with a chill, but he has recovered.”
No sooner had she finished her explanation when a smart carriage and matched pair rounded the corner from the mews and rolled to a stop in front of her house. Whoever Mr. Pennyworth had been, he’d certainly left his widow in a comfortable place.
Elliot waved at the coachman to stay where he was, opened the carriage door, and helped Mrs. Pennyworth in. He followed her, and when they were both settled, he tapped on the ceiling of the carriage, which rolled away to the familiar sound of horses’ hooves clomping on the cobblestones.
“Tell me a little bit about the poetry reading.”
Mrs. Pennyworth laughed, a light tinkling sound. Somehow, he had expected her laugh to be deeper, throatier. However, this appealed to him more, and suited her well. “Do you realize, Mr. Baker, that you wince every time you mention poetry?”
“I am afraid poetry is one art form that escapes me. If it rhymes, and the writer uses words that make sense, I can understand it. But I find most of it boring drivel.”
“Well, do not hold back, Mr. Baker. Please do tell me how you feel.” She tempered her words with another smile.
He offered her a lopsided grin in return. “I am afraid that is one of my character traits.”
“Therefore, I assume you do not suffer fools?”
“No, not at all.” He hesitated as he studied her. “’Tis something to remember.”
Her raised eyebrows were her only response.
Arriving at the townhome, they entered the room where the poetry reading was to take place. Mrs. Pennyworth nodded at a few people, most of whom were already seated. They took their seats, and Elliot looked around at the crowd of about forty people. His attention, of course, was on the men.
From what he could see, none of them were paying any special attention to Mrs. Pennyworth. All those who greeted her were friendly and seemed harmless enough. However, he knew from experience that meant nothing when it came to crime. Some of the most congenial people committed the most horrendous misdeeds.
After about ten minutes, an older lady moved to the front of the room. The feathers in her hair wobbled as she nodded and welcomed everyone, and announced the first reader. Elliot groaned inwardly and prayed he could stay awake.
One final sweep of the room revealed no one looking in their direction. Satisfied that, for the moment, he could relax his guard, he gave his attention to the young man at the podium with a sheaf of papers, adjusting his horn-rimmed spectacles.
Let the torture begin.
…
Although she would never admit it, Charlotte was no great fan of poetry herself. In fact, she had rather enjoyed Mr. Baker’s description of it. She also felt if it didn’t rhyme, it wasn’t poetry. The only reason she had accepted the invitation was because her dear friend’s son was offering a reading of his poems.
Mr. Alvin Macon was third in the program, and his mother, Lady Oldridge, was unable to appear due to attending her daughter in Bath. The woman had just delivered her third child and desperately needed her mother’s assistance.
Lady Oldridge had never accepted that her daughter had married a member of the merchant class. As such, she did not live in a grand house, have a horde of servants to see to her every need, and had to actually—gasp—deal with her own children as they did not employ a full-time nurse and governess.
Even so, she had agreed to help her daughter, with the strict understanding that she would only entertain the two older children, and not deal with the new baby. Charlotte adored the woman, even though she sometimes found her insufferable. She’d never told Lady Oldridge of her own meager beginnings, of being forced into service in a noble’s home when she was seventeen years.
Papa’s older brother, who had acted, rather reluctantly, as her guardian after her parents had perished in a carriage accident, had given her from the age of fifteen to seventeen to find a husband. When no one appealed, she was shipped off to her first servant job. In fact, Charlotte had never told anyone about her background. She still worried about the theft charges brought by Lord Barton. She was certain he had carried through on his threat, and right now there was a warrant for her arrest hovering over her head.
Oftentimes, in the dead of night, she would awaken and think of how her comfortable life could disappear in a blink. She shivered at the thought.
“Are you chilled, Mrs. Pennyworth?” Mr. Baker’s smooth voice brought her back to where she was. Safe in Mrs. Ainsley’s drawing room, among friends and acquaintances, who liked and respected her.
As safe as anyone could be with an unknown man leaving upsetting items on her doorstep. “Yes, perhaps a bit.” ’Twas better to say that than explain to Mr. Baker about her past. A past he would surely question, considering what she had hired him for. Former Inspectors were not of the ilk to dismiss a pending arrest warrant, nor view the recipient thereof in a favorable light.
“Would you care to change seats so we are closer to the fire?”
“Heavens no, I’m too warm already.” Oh dear God, she was so immersed in her concerns over her possible arrest, she’d forgotten her comment about being a bit chilled. He viewed her with curiosity.
“I’m sorry. I sometimes become too cold or too warm rather quickly.” She hesitated. “I am afraid that is one of my character traits.” She grinned at tossing his words back at him.
He tilted his head to one side. “Well done, Mrs. Pennyworth,” he murmured.
Lord and Lady Monroe, sitting in front of them, turned and gave them displeased looks. Mr. Baker raised his eyebrows, glanced at Charlotte, and covered his amused lips with his finger. She had to stifle a giggle. So, the staid former Inspector had a sense of humor.
An hour later, Charlotte took a glance once again at the long clock in the corner. She stifled a yawn just as she heard a light snore. She turned to find Mr. Baker fast asleep. Lest they garner the attention of the couple in front of them once again, she nudged his arm with her elbow.
“What?” His loud response stopped the poet in his tracks. All heads turned in their direction. Embarrassed, Charlotte winced at the irony in her waking him, so his snoring would not disturb the couple in front, only to have him respond with such gusto that they now had everyone’s attention.
The young man at the front of the room cleared his throat and continued. Thankfully, he was the last reader on the program. With a sigh of relief, she stood and shook out her skirts. “Would you care to accompany me to the refreshment table? I feel quite parched.”
“Yes, refreshments sound wonderful.” He took her elbow and escorted her to the table and bent to speak into her ear. “This is a good opportunity to introduce me.”
Charlotte was amazed when Mr. Baker took two plates and placed various items on them. He escorted her to a small table where he left her with the food, then he returned with two cups of tea. Certainly, a private investigator should not know the proper protocol for taking refreshments at a Society event.
That thought reminded her how little she knew of the man. But then, there was no reason to know him any better. He was her employee. That was all. And it would do her well to remember that, so they did not cross any boundaries.
She needn’t notice how well he fit in with the other members of the poetry reading audience, or how gentlemanly he was to hold her elbow to escort her. She could walk by herself, thank you very much. Her legs had been holding her up for years.
Mr. Conrad approached their table. He was a pleasant man, nearing his fiftieth year. She’d always enjoyed speaking with him, but now Mr. Baker had put her on guard, made her re-examine every man with whom she spoke.
The idea that someone from her social circle was responsible for the packages on her doorstep had crossed her mind briefly, since they had arrived the mornings after she’d attended various affairs. She hadn’t realized how much she’d dismissed that idea until Mr. Baker had presented it as the obvious one. It was difficult to believe someone she spent time with, and had possibly even shared a dance or conversation with, could do such a thing.
“Good evening, Mrs. Pennyworth. Did you enjoy the readings?” Mr. Conrad bowed over her briefly and cast an inquiring glance at Mr. Baker.
“Yes. The readings were delightful. May I present Mr. Elliot Baker to you, Mr. Conrad? He is my guest this evening.”
Mr. Baker stood, and they shook hands. “Will you join us?”
Charlotte was sure Mr. Baker wanted to speak with various men, and Mr. Conrad was a good one to start with—even though she had found him to be a mild, innocuous gentleman, who would never dream of doing dreadful things to upset a woman.
They were soon joined by Mr. and Mrs. Graymoor and General Norwich. Although he held his own with the conversation, Mr. Baker covertly eyed each man and most likely took note of how they presented themselves.
“Mrs. Pennyworth, will we have the pleasure of your attendance at the assembly this Thursday?” Mrs. Graymoor, an older woman, regarded her as she took a sip of the ratafia. “Mr. Graymoor and I so enjoy your company.”
“Yes, I do plan to attend.”
“Excellent,” General Norwich said.
The conversation continued, with the Graymoors eventually quitting the small group and a few others taking their places. Eventually, Mr. Baker addressed Charlotte. “Mrs. Pennyworth, may I interest you in a stroll around the room? I find that standing in one place makes me a bit restless.”
“Of course.” She joined her arm with his, and they strolled away.
He bent close to her ear, “Introduce me to a few more men.”
She steered him in the direction of a group of men having a lively discussion about the latest reports from Scotland Yard on the lack of progress in catching the man brutally killing prostitutes in Whitechapel. She preferred not to listen to the details that men so enjoyed sharing, but once she joined the group, the talk changed to the weather and other subjects fit for a lady’s ears.
Once several of the guests began to ask for their carriages, Charlotte turned to Mr. Baker. “I find I am quite fatigued. Perhaps we can call for my carriage?”
“Of course.” He led her to the front door where he spoke with the butler. His eyes never stopped moving, taking in the surroundings, and focusing on the men conversing.
Charlotte hadn’t realized how strained the evening had been for her until she settled into her carriage. Every man who spoke to her had become a suspect. At least she hadn’t needed to worry that Mr. Baker would stand out as someone who did not belong. He had conducted himself exceptionally well.
“I must thank you for your attention this evening, Mr. Baker.” She offered him a warm smile. He turned to her, and once again she was taken with his appearance. He was certainly an attractive man. His strong features looked as if they’d been chiseled from marble. Except he was a flesh-and-blood man. Even though he’d arrived at her door freshly shaven, already a light shadow appeared on his jaw and chin.
The way he studied her in the golden glow of the lantern on the carriage wall brought flutters to her insides. Although she had no intention of ever entrusting her heart or well-being to a man again, as a widow, she could perhaps one day engage in a liaison with a gentleman without too much scandal, providing they were discreet.
But certainly not this gentleman, who represented the law, and who, for all intents and purposes was her employee.
“Aside from the poetry, it was my pleasure,” he answered. “Since I do not travel in the circles to which you are accustomed, I had hoped not to call attention to myself.” He grinned. “Except for the snoring, I believe I succeeded.”
She laughed, more of the tension leaving her body. “Yes, you did succeed. However, I am sure Lord and Lady Monroe will never sit in front of us again.”
“Ah, yes. It is difficult to relate to someone who is actually there to listen.”
The carriage continued on until it rolled to a stop in front of her house. Mr. Baker helped her from the vehicle and escorted her to the door. Suddenly, she felt awkward. After all, this was not a true social engagement for them, but merely business. “My carriage will take you the rest of the way home.”
“Thank you very much, but after all that sitting, I believe I would enjoy the walk.” He bowed slightly, and once the front door was opened, he turned and hurried down the stone steps.