by Ava Rose
***
Looking around, Libby still saw no one suspicious. She quickly entered the designer’s premises. Sarah was crouched by a woman’s feet sticking pins into a dress and Libby cleared her throat. Sarah glanced up at Libby but obviously did not recognize her.
“Please have a seat, my lady. I shall be with you shortly. In the meantime, my assistant Camilla will attend to you.”
Libby took a seat and waited. When Camilla appeared and offered refreshments, Libby requested a ball pen and paper on which she scrawled a note. The woman Sarah was attending to was known to Libby. Lady Ingrid Bexley was not known for her discretion.
Camilla handed the note to Sarah and she paused her task to give it a quick read. Her dark head snapped up and her gray eyes widened.
“Lady Bexley, my sincere apologies, but there is something that urgently requires my attention. Camilla can finish the fitting—she is very skilled in that regard.”
“No,” Lady Bexley began in that dramatic way of hers, flailing her arms and bulging her eyes out as though she had been placed in the most unbelievable situation. “I need this dress tomorrow, and I need it to be perfect.”
“These are only minor adjustments and Camilla is more than capable,” Sarah said with great patience. “Have I ever disappointed you, Lady Bexley?” When the petulant woman shook her head, she finished with, “Your dress will be perfect. I promise.”
The client grumbled but agreed to let Camilla take care of her dress while Sarah quickly pulled Libby to her small office at the rear of the premises.
Sarah pulled her into a tight hug. “I’m so sorry, Libby,” she said with great feeling. Then she pulled away. “What are you doing here? And dressed like…that?”
“I’m a murder suspect now as you may know.”
Sarah nodded. “It is all over town.”
“I need to clear my name,” Libby said slowly.
“Of course, and I am with you. I wanted to stop by your home later in the afternoon. I have some information that might help.”
“You do?”
“Yes.” Sarah waved at the settee, and when Libby was settled, sat beside her and continued. “Word is that a hit was put out on Mr. Hart.”
“A hit? What is that?”
Sarah laughed lightly. “I forget sometimes that not everyone has led the life I have. At least in recent years. A hit means someone offered money to whoever would kill Mr. Hart.”
Libby’s eyes widened with surprise, even as she touched her friend’s arm, squeezing gently. Sarah’s late father was known as an inveterate gambler, and he had lost the family fortune some time back. Sarah had no doubt lived a very different life to the sheltered one Libby knew.
“Do you know who hit my kidnapper?”
“Who put the hit out? Hmm. I suspect it was the proprietor of the worst gambling hell in the city,” Sarah’s lip curled up with disdain. “A wealthy and reclusive man known as the Raven.”
The Raven. She’d never heard that name before.
“Who is he?” Libby asked.
“Not much is known about his past or where he’s from originally, but he is the owner of The Barbican. Have you heard of it?”
Libby gave a nod. The Barbican was an exclusive and prestigious gentlemen’s club in the heart of Boston. Pen had a membership there.
“Thank you, Sarah.” She was very grateful for this piece of information.
“I had to find something out. I couldn’t just sit by and watch my friend accused of murder. I know you didn’t do it, Libby.” Sarah squeezed her hands.
“I am glad you believe me.”
“Always.”
“I am going to find this Raven and get to the bottom of this,” she declared, preparing to leave.
“I am—unfortunately—slightly acquainted with the man. Would you like me to come with you?”
“Your father’s gambling?”
Sarah nodded curtly.
Libby shook her head as she stood. “Thank you, but this is something I have to do alone.”
“Of course.” Sarah gave her another hug. “Be careful. Don’t trust him.”
***
In under two hours, Libby had made some progress. She had the name—an odd moniker—and the location of the man who most likely had ordered the death of Mr. Hart. He might also be the one trying to pin the murder on her. She could not wait to share this development with Anna.
She ordered her hired carriage to stop three blocks from home and walked the distance, slipping back into the house the way she had slipped out—through the servants’ entrance. She was in her room changing when Anna walked in.
A frown drew her friend’s brows together. “I’ve been worried about you. Did you find anything?”
Libby grinned and opened her arms wide to show Anna that she was absolutely fine. “I did. A man called the Raven put out a hit on Mr. Hart. That is, he ordered someone to kill him. And he may be trying to pin the deed on me.”
Anna’s blue eyes widened.
“He is the owner of The Barbican and a string of gambling establishments.”
“Are you going to tell the police?” Anna asked.
“Not yet. I need to find out more. I intend to visit him.”
“Are you certain you should be doing that? If he is trying to pin this on you, then he is most likely very dangerous.”
“I’ll visit him at one of his clubs. He can’t do me any harm in such a public forum.”
Anna let out a long sigh. “Just be careful, Libby.”
“If I get lost or captured again, at least you will know where to find me,” she joked.
“Good Lord! Libby, that is not funny!”
She could not help but laugh at Anna’s shocked expression, causing Anna to eventually laugh with her. They needed some levity, even if it was in a painful situation.
“You had best stay out of trouble. I will not go through hell again to find you.”
“Nonsense! Of course, you would.”
Anna glared at her.
Placing her hand on her friend’s shoulder, Libby said, “But it brought you and Pen together.”
Anna’s expression softened and the fire in her eyes died down as a smile played on her lips. A part of Libby yearned for something like what they had, but she stomped the thoughts as quickly as they broke through the surface of her mind. She was not going there. Absolutely not!
“When do you plan to see the man?” Anna asked.
“Tomorrow afternoon. I don’t want to risk going out again today.”
“Good.”
“How is Mama?”
“She’s asleep, and Mary and I were in the drawing room when I heard you return.”
“Pen?”
“He is not back from wherever he went earlier.”
“I’ll change out of this dress and join you for tea.”
Anna nodded and left her, and she moved to the window and pulled the heavy red velvet drapes aside. Looking down, her eyes immediately clashed with a set of silver-gray ones staring right up at her window, and her heart jumped.
CHAPTER FIVE
Why, that wretched man! Was Detective DeHavillend the one who’d been following her? Giving her the goose bumps along her arms as she’d visited Sarah? She had felt a presence stalking her while she’d been out. Libby glared down at him and dragged shut the drapes as soon as she caught sight of him standing there in the street. She was still angry with him for not believing that she hadn’t committed murder.
And why was she hiding? He was the one in front of her house watching her. She pulled the drapes apart again.
He was still there, standing by a wrought iron fence on the other side of the road. He was wearing a gray greatcoat and a black top hat, and he seemed unperturbed by the autumn drizzle. His silver eyes held hers once again, only this time, she felt her skin tingle. She couldn’t deny he had a presence, and even from afar he affected her.
With slow deliberateness, he pulled the brim of his hat down in a greeting gestu
re and Libby turned away. Now he was mocking her.
She walked into her dressing room and changed her clothes without assistance, then went downstairs. Something made her stop mid-stride in the foyer and she turned toward the front door and opened it very slowly. Surely, he must be gone by now, but she had to check.
Detective DeHavillend was still standing where she had left him, but this time, he was not looking up at her window. He was staring straight at her.
Instead of shutting the door and retreating to the safety of her home, she opened the door wider as their eyes remained locked. She didn’t know what it was about him that pulled her, but she did not deny it.
As if he’d heard a silent call, he crossed the street and walked up the short steps to stand before her. She blinked as though she’d just woken from a trance.
“Are you watching me?” she asked, tilting her head back to look at his face. Despite the fact that she was on the step above him, she still had to look up. He was very tall; well over six feet.
“Maybe.” One corner of his fine mouth tilted wryly.
Suddenly, she was reminded of her anger toward him. “You didn’t want anything to do with my case earlier. Why are you here now?”
“I have not changed my mind, if that is what you are asking.”
“No. I’m asking why you’re here?”
He shrugged and smiled briefly. “I don’t have to answer that,” he replied smoothly.
“You are in my house. You have to answer.”
His eyes glanced upward. “Technically, I am not in your house.”
She placed her hands on her hips. “Technically, you have crossed onto my property. So yes, you are in my house.”
That lazy smile turned into a proper grin. “You win.”
“Why are you here, DeHavillend?”
He laughed now and it irritated her. She could not help but feel mocked. First, he was outside her house watching her, then he was at her front door refusing to tell her why he was here, and now he was laughing at her.
“No Detective?” he asked.
“No. DeHavillend.” She stressed his name to return his mockery.
“Fine, Baroness. I am here to really find out if you are guilty or not.”
She drew in a slow breath and released it. Just what exactly was he playing at?
“I thought you had already decided on my guilt.”
He quickly held up a hand. “I never said that.”
“You didn’t need to.”
“I am uncertain,” he said, as though he were talking to himself. “I came back to find out more.”
“By staring at my window?”
He chuckled and his debonair countenance returned. “I didn’t know it was your window. I was trying to determine which window belonged to you when you caught me.”
She gave him a dubious look. “You did not look like a man who had just been caught.”
“Oh, I don’t blush easily.” He leaned closer and she caught a waft of his cologne; sandalwood. “However,” he added very softly, his voice flowing out and enveloping her with mysterious sensations. “I would like to make you blush.”
As if he had just commanded them, her cheeks began to heat up. She clenched her jaw and tried to remember all the reasons she disliked him to conceal the effect his closeness had on her senses. “It’s not working,” she said tersely.
He grinned. “Perhaps you should invite me in for tea and we try again?”
“No, DeHavillend. I am not inviting you into my home.”
“What if I want to ask you more questions about the case?”
“I will not let you in even then. And I certainly will not answer any of your questions unless you are officially investigating as my brother earlier asked you to.”
He started to dissent and she held up a dismissive hand.
“I no longer want you to investigate my case.”
“Are you trying to get back at me for rejecting you the first time?”
Now was Libby’s turn to laugh. “What a petty thought!”
The detective was not laughing.
“No, DeHavillend, I am not exacting any sort of revenge,” she said, to fill the silence that had fallen. “I have simply reconsidered your involvement in my case and I would rather you don’t take it. Faith is very important to me.”
“But I hardly know you, Baroness. Asking for faith from me is a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”
He was right, of course, but she would not let him know that. Whether or not he decided to have faith in her, she did not care. She would not allow him to investigate her case and that was final.
“Have a nice day, DeHavillend.” She moved fully inside and closed the door in his face. It was rude, she knew, but he seemed to have a talent for bringing out her bad side and making her feel foolish.
“Who was that?” Anna asked from the drawing room doorway.
“Detective DeHavillend,” she heard herself say.
Anna brightened. “He wants to take up the case?”
“I don’t know what he wants.” She shrugged. “I don’t want him working on it, though. The man is insufferable.”
Her friend nodded, looking slightly deflated. “Tea is ready.”
***
What had he been thinking? Standing outside her house like that and staring up at her window like some sappy fool. And that conversation at her door? The flirting?
Lord have mercy.
What had come over him?
The baroness was a feisty woman and one of the strongest female personalities he’d ever encountered. He knew this because he had worked on over a hundred complex cases over the years and when a misfortune befell a woman, she usually wailed or swooned or even slipped into incurable melancholy. But Lady Elizabeth did none of that; she was bold and very much in control of herself.
It was this boldness that had him unsure of her innocence, for he believed an innocent woman would soak his handkerchief with her tears.
Right now, with the door slammed in his face, he was still confused.
Henry walked desultorily away, then hailed a passing carriage to take him back to the police station. He didn’t care what Montgomery thought of him. He had decided to see this case through. If she was innocent, he would bring the truth to light, and if it were the reverse, justice would be served.
Have faith, she had said. Was that possible, for one such as him?
“Back so soon?” Anderson called when Henry entered the station.
“I have business with Montgomery.”
“He said you would return.” Anderson chuckled.
Henry rolled his eyes. Montgomery was just leaving and they almost collided. The commander chuckled as he stepped back into his office and invited Henry in. “The look in your eyes said you would not let this go.”
Henry did not respond.
“Very few men care about the people involved in a case more than the case itself. Quite a few of my detectives only care about solving the case and earning points. That’s not you, is it, DeHavillend? You care about whether or not the woman is innocent.”
Henry shrugged. “You should teach your men better. You are, after all, their leader.”
Montgomery gave him a rueful smile. “One cannot teach honor, son.”
This was perhaps the nicest thing the commander had ever said to him. Instead of feeling good about it, it disturbed him. His own father would rather have died than give him a smile, much less a word of encouragement or praise.
“So, what it is to be? Are you going to help us?” Montgomery asked as he retrieved a folder from his desk and passed it to Henry.
“I am going to help her,” he corrected, accepting the file.
“That is fine by me.”
Henry opened the folder and flipped through the pages containing information about the case. Autopsy results indicated that the most probable cause of Mr. Nolan Hart’s death was the blow to his head. But the coroner made no mention of why he reached that conclusion.
>
“May I see the body?” he asked.
“I don’t see why not.” The commander moved to the door. “After you.”
They left the police station and went into the building next door; a much smaller building. The strong smell of formaldehyde arrested his nose as they approached the coroner’s office which was close to the examination room. His stomach turned from both disgust and the stench. This was the part of his job that he liked the least.
Montgomery opened the office door and stepped in first. Mr. Burris, the medical examiner, was bent over his desk scribbling notes onto the page of a large, leather-bound volume. As they approached his desk, Henry realized he was logging records. The chubby man looked up and removed his thick gold-rimmed glasses.
“Good day, Chief, Detective,” he greeted. “I assume you are here to see a body.”
“That’s right,” Henry said. “Mr. Nolan Hart.”
Mr. Burris picked up a bunch of keys and led them out of his office and into the examination room next-door.
Henry’s stomach turned again and he swallowed hard. These were the moments where he had to remind himself of the reason he was doing this. It was the only way to find the fortitude to remain in the room long enough to learn anything.
The coroner directed them to a table and lifted a white sheet from the body. Henry’s eyes went straight to the ears where he saw dried blood.
“This is from the blow to the head, correct?” he asked Burris.
“Yes. Bleeding from the ears often indicates heavy trauma. He is more likely to have died from the head injury than the stab wounds.”
“And what object do you reckon did this?”
“There is a fracture starting from the occipital bone,” Burris pointed at the back of the skull, “all the way to the temporal area. The skull is tough and would require a heavy blow to break.”
“Could a woman have done this?”
Burris sighed, looking unsure. “It is possible, yes. But the question is not the person wielding the object, but the object itself.”
Henry interjected, “Mr. Burris, it very much is about the wielder. We have to find the murderer. Can you tell me more?”
