Not Quite a Baroness: A Sweet Victorian Gothic Historical Romance (The Boston Heiresses Book 2)

by Ava Rose

Several minutes later, Mr. Read re-entered the office and sat behind the desk. “How may I help you, Mrs. Armstrong?”

  Libby decided to tell him a part of her story, leaving out details that were not pertinent to the information she needed. “There was a man, Nolan Anthony Hart. He is dead and I am suspected of his murder.” She paused there to allow him to react to her revelation. His eyes flared with recognition while beside her, Mrs. Dawson gasped.

  “You are the one accused of Mr. Hart’s murder?” He looked very surprised.

  “The police can be quite hopeless sometimes,” she replied, trying to insert some levity into her tone.

  “But that is impossible. You couldn’t have done it.”

  “That is why I am here, Mr. Read. Lady Sarah Smith-Jones is a very good friend, and I approached her to see what information I might learn. She mentioned that a hit had been put out on the dead man by the Raven, and that she had heard that piece of information from yourself.”

  His head bobbed. “That is correct.”

  “May I ask your source? My investigation has revealed that the Raven is actually not responsible. Which means there must be someone spreading this tale around, and I would like to know who.”

  Mr. Read tapped his teeth while he thought. “I’m sure I got the word from a bartender nearby. Lewis is his name, and his bar is just a block from here if you turn right as you leave. It was also the last place Mr. Hart was seen before he was murdered.”

  “And do you know where he could possibly have heard that rumor?”

  Terrance Read shook his head. “I am afraid I do not know.”

  “That is all right. I will speak with him.”

  “He doesn’t open until five in the afternoon,” he supplied. “It’s also…a little rough.”

  “I can look after myself,” she said, with more conviction than she actually felt. She glanced at a clock on the desk. Four hours until the bar opened. “I will be back later.” She gave Terrance Read a grateful smile. “Thank you, Mr. Read.”

  “You should come and taste some of my caramel,” Mrs. Dawson said, when they were outside Terrance Read’s shop.

  Libby followed her back into the sweet shop where she was offered a square piece of caramel with a sprinkling of salt on top, and chocolate. Both were rich in flavor and Libby decided she would make this her favorite sweet shop.

  She was still relishing her samples when a bag of sweets was thrust into her hands.

  “You can have these for the road,” Mrs. Dawson said, grinning at her.

  “Oh, you’re so very kind,” she said, feeling touched by the woman’s compassion. “How can I ever repay you?” She was not talking about the sweets, and Mrs. Dawson seemed to understand that.

  “You remind me of my daughter, bless her soul. If she had lived, she would have been about your age.” She smiled sadly. “If a stranger had helped her, she might still have been here today.”

  Libby’s heart broke. Without thinking, she pulled Mrs. Dawson into a hug. “I will never forget this,” she whispered.

  She left the shop feeling a hundred times better than when she had entered.

  And then she collided with Henry.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Henry had not even considered allowing Libby to come with him to this neighborhood, even though this was the better part of Roxbury. It was not a place for a genteel lady like her. Yes, she was no delicate flower, but she was very vulnerable right now, particularly with someone following her. He had not been able to determine whether they were male or female, for all he had seen the other day was a hooded figure; a dark medieval-style cloak.

  His concern for her safety had greatly increased in the past days, as had another feeling he would not dare pause to name.

  So, he had come here to Roxbury in his own carriage, to study the murder scene. Without her.

  The alley where the murder had allegedly happened was his first stop. It had not yet been searched by the police. Many days had passed since Mr. Hart’s murder and all evidence had most likely been tampered with, but if there truly was something to find, he would find it.

  At first, it looked like any alley, in need of some cheer and cleaning, but as he advanced farther in, he found a large brick lying beside the steps to a shop. He put down his bag and picked up the brick to examine. The rain had washed the top surface clean, but when he turned it, he found a crack with a few strands of blonde hair stuck beneath, and a greasy substance that smelled like a cross between perfume and men’s cologne. It was a very distinctive odor. He placed the brick back onto the ground before reaching into his bag and retrieving a wooden box. He had several such boxes, ideal for collecting evidence.

  Very carefully, he removed a couple of the hairs stuck in the brick’s crack and placed it in the box, together with a scraping of the perfumed grease. Mr. Hart had blonde hair, and Mr. Burris had described a distinctive pomade found during the autopsy. And a boulder had supposedly been used to bash him on the head. Even though this was not a boulder, it looked sturdy enough to fracture a grown man’s skull. He contemplated taking the brick with him, but there was no space for it in his bag, and he couldn’t possibly carry it around.

  The police could always come back here. If they cared to, that is.

  Henry studied the whole area, even in corners looking for more evidence, but he was not as lucky as he’d earlier been. When he was sure there was nothing more for him to find, he picked up his bag and returned to the main street, then continued down.

  He spotted a slight woman in a fine black dress that looked uncannily like Libby stepping out of a sweet shop. It couldn’t be her, surely? He quickened his pace. The woman turned back to say something to an elderly lady in the shop doorway. When she swiveled to face the street, they collided.

  Annoyance filled him. It was, indeed, Libby. What the devil was she doing here in Roxbury? Instead of steadying her, he stepped back. He was too angry with her right now.

  “Henry!” she squealed.

  “Baroness,” he said coolly.

  A sheepish smile lit up her face and she held out the paper bag.

  “Would you like a sweet?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “All right,” she said awkwardly. “It’s been nice running into you…so…I’ll be on my way now.” She tried to move past him and he grabbed at her arm.

  “I’ll take you home. Now.” His voice was low and steely.

  She stiffened, clearly receiving the message that he would brook no argument. He clasped her hand tightly in his before dragging her down the street in the direction he had come from. His man and carriage were waiting where he’d left them, and he quietly handed her in before joining her.

  “Henry,” she began nervously.

  He did not respond. He could not remember the last time he had been this angry. It was better to remain quiet until his ire had abated.

  She spoke again. “I—”

  He held up a hand to silence her. “Not now, Libby.”

  She huffed and turned her face toward the window. She was sitting on the rear-facing seat and he was opposite.

  Henry thought to wait until they arrived at Armstrong-Leeds House to censure Libby, but once he felt calm enough, he spoke. “What were you doing there?”

  She turned her hazel eyes to him and as much as she made an effort to hide it, there was a vulnerability there that made him feel churlish for reacting in the way he had.

  “I spoke to my friend as I told you I would, and they provided information that led me here.” Her voice was solemn.

  Now for the real question. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Her eyes suddenly flashed with defiance. “I don’t remember needing your permission to do anything.”

  “I am not talking about permission here, and you know it, Libby.” His voice rose, together with the anger he had been trying for the past several minutes to tamp down. “This place is not an area suitable for a lady—”

  “Oh, quit patronizing me! I am more capable
than you think. And stop using my class to mask your prejudice.”

  “I have sisters and I would never allow them to visit places like this.”

  “Well, I am not your sister and I will not have you control my life.”

  He released an exasperated sigh. One of them had to calm down before they set the carriage on fire, so to speak, and she did not show any sign of coming down from her mantle of ire. He wanted to growl. Instead, he lowered his voice and took slow breaths to regain his composure.

  “Libby,” he said eventually, in a calmer tone. “I am not controlling your life nor do I wish to do such a thing. I am angry because I was scared for you. This is coming from a place of care and concern.”

  She continued to glare daggers at him. Clearly, she did not believe him.

  “The murder happened not far from where I bumped into you.”

  Her hand crept up to cover her mouth.

  “You, of all people, are especially vulnerable.” As her brows came together, he quickly held up a hand. “Don’t get me wrong again. I say that, because you are wanted for murder and someone is determined to prove you guilty regardless of the truth. The danger for you is greater than most.” Not to mention someone following her. He left that part out so as not to scare her more. He wanted her to be cautious, not terrified.

  Her shoulders slumped and she lowered her eyes but not before he caught a glimpse of her inner pain.

  He leaned forward and took both of her hands in his. “Forgive me.”

  “I am cautious, Henry,” she said, raising her unguarded eyes to him. “Well, mostly. In this instance, I felt time was not on my side. The sooner I find out the truth the sooner my family will be free.” She pulled her hands away and reached into her dress pocket where she brought out a small sheathed dagger. “See? I can defend myself.” She returned the dagger and began to reach under her skirt.

  His hands shot out instantly to stay her.

  “What the devil are you doing?” His voice thickened with both consternation and unexpected desire.

  She pushed him away and continued what she was doing and he was torn between curiosity and modesty until she produced a pistol.

  Henry’s eyes widened. He had thought she could not surprise him more.

  “I am a good shot. We can go outside of town if you would like proof.”

  He closed his mouth which had been hanging open and blinked a few times. He tried to speak, but no sound came out. She had rendered him quite positively speechless.

  “So?” she asked, holding the pistol out toward him.

  He cleared his throat to find his voice. “Where did you learn to shoot?”

  “I practised a lot with Lady Anna growing up, here and in England, much to our parents’ chagrin. When they realized that we could hurt ourselves if left to our supposed vices, they engaged a tutor.”

  She smiled mischievously and something kicked hard in his chest. God, she was a remarkable woman!

  “He only lasted a week,” Libby admitted. “Once Anna and I had grasped the basics, we dismissed him.”

  “I must admit, I am very surprised…and impressed.”

  Her pretty eyes widened. “You are impressed?” she echoed.

  He nodded.

  “Every man who has heard that story either cringes, says something I don’t like, or challenges me to a competition. And the women,” she scoffed. “Well. The women say I am not truly one of them.”

  Thank the Lord she was not like other women. If he moved in society and was inclined to take a wife, he would have swept Libby away a long time ago.

  “It is a foolish society, Libby. Rest assured you will get no such comments from me. As a matter of fact, I dislike shooting at bottles just to prove who is a better shot.”

  She smiled then. “You and I will get along fine, then.” She raised a cautionary finger. “As long as you trust me and allow me to do what I need to do to clear my name.”

  “I will allow you that, but only if we work together. As partners.”

  Her face took on an amused expression. “I agree. Perhaps we will make more headway, working together.”

  He held out his hand to seal their agreement and she shook it. Just as he had done earlier that morning, he kept her hand in his and she made no move to free herself. When he looked into her eyes, he found a reflection of his own feelings there; the magnetism between them, their matched stubbornness and a strange confusion as to how to behave around the other.

  He shook his head, pulling himself out of his daze. He could not be distracted by a beautiful woman and his growing feelings for her at this moment. His focus instead should be helping her to solve the case, and most importantly, keeping her out of trouble.

  “I have some news,” he said, to shift the mood. “But we will talk about it when I get you home.”

  Libby finally pulled her hands from his and leaned back in her seat. “I have something to share, too.”

  He smiled. “It appears we may have both made progress.”

  “Indeed.” She pulled off one of her leather gloves before reaching into the paper bag and pulling out a caramel. She plopped it into her mouth, and chewed daintily. Eventually, she held out the bag to him.

  “Are you one of those sticklers who claim sweets rot your teeth?”

  “On the contrary.” He accepted the bag and looked at the contents. Sugar plums, chocolate, and caramel, his favorite, “I have quite the sweet tooth.” Unlike her, he bit his caramel in half, rolling it around in his mouth, savoring the taste before chewing. “And I know an excellent dentist in South End should my teeth get into any trouble.”

  She laughed softly. “I doubt they will. You have fine teeth.”

  Heat rose up his cheeks, astonishing him. The last time he had felt near blushing had been in his school days. Libby was fast turning him into a fool and he didn’t know what to do to stop it.

  ***

  “Is that a compliment, Libby?” Henry asked in that baritone that always awakened her awareness.

  She felt the heat begin to rise from her neck and knew immediately that she should not have complimented him. But it had not been intentional. It had just popped out of its own accord.

  She glanced out the window before replying. They were nearing home. “I don’t think it is.”

  “But I didn’t detect any insult there either,” he said.

  She tried to appear insouciant when she said, “Make of it what you will.”

  “Oh, I already have.” He bowed his head slightly. “And thank you. Compliments don’t come my way often.”

  She gave him a look. “I find that rather hard to believe.”

  He was a very handsome man and if he moved in society, girls would have thrown themselves at him. Even Libby might have taken a second look--

  She quickly shook her head to dismiss the thought.

  “It is the truth. I don’t exactly have a social circle.” He ate another caramel. His fifth one. His comment about having a sweet tooth was true.

  “Is that by choice?” she asked. She vaguely knew his family and had met one of his sisters, but knew very little about this man and why he had chosen this life over the one that had been handed to him by birth.

  He finished his caramel before replying. “Certainly. I like my life better this way.”

  “Why did you choose to become a private detective?”

  He frowned, staring into the sweets bag for an interminable moment. Libby was starting to think that she may have crossed an invisible boundary when he replied.

  “I did not feel like I had a purpose. The only communication I had with my father was regarding estate affairs, and my mother…I hardly ever saw her because she was always in her chambers. She was always melancholy. I had little tolerance for the shallowness of society and my friends were few and far between. I felt as though I was not truly living.” His silver eyes met hers and he smiled ruefully. “I decided to leave that life behind, and rented apartments in South End.”

  She found
herself smiling, too.

  “I remember my first case. I read about a theft in the newspaper and started going around the city investigating, introducing myself as Detective DeHavillend. I caught the thief within two days. It felt…” He paused, then said, “Fulfilling. For the first time. After a few more solo cases, the police took notice and actually approached me to join them. I declined, of course.”

  “Why?”

  “Some of them are very good people, but not all. Others are corrupt and do not truly help those who need it. Many cases go unsolved because of a fear of confronting the members of high society.”

  “But they are confronting me,” she argued.

  “Yes, but they are unlikely to convict you, even if you are found guilty. It may well all end up hidden under a rug, so to speak.”

  That revelation instantly turned Libby’s mood sour.

  “But then the truth would never come out. What sort of cruelty is that?” She was outraged. She would not be punished for her supposed crime, but her reputation—and that of her family—would remain in tatters. She was paying a price either way, for something that was not her fault.

  She closed her eyes and leaned back in her seat.

  “I’m sorry for your situation,” he said quietly. “I want to make things right.”

  “Thank you, Henry…for everything.” She opened her eyes and stared at him. “You didn’t have to help me, but you did.”

  He took her hands again. “I can’t live with myself if this ruins your life. There must be something I can do to change things.”

  His words curled around her and that fire that had begun in the center of her heart burned bigger and brighter. It was so short a time to feel this way. Perhaps some of what she was feeling was fueled by gratitude, but it was more than that. Libby understood exactly what was happening to her, and if she had met Henry under different circumstances, things may have been able to play out differently. But she was now a ruined woman, with grime that stained her life. No one would want her.

  Days ago, she would have been fine with that idea, but now she had met Henry, and things had changed. She had changed.

  Something warm touched her cheek and trickled down. Her ungloved hand went up to her face and to her mortification, discovered tears. Even more embarrassing was the fact that she seemed unable to stop them.