Shea decided to test that theory. “I thought you might end up with Daley.” She sucked on her bloody finger again while looking for a Kleenex. There wasn’t a box in sight. Of course not, they didn’t have Kleenex back then, they had hankies.
Cross laughed. “Me and Mr. Daley? No. No. I think we’re too much alike—”
Or too childlike, Shea thought.
“—to ever have worked for one another. But man, he is a looker.” Cross let out a low whistle.
Miss Smith giggled. “I love his hair. I’d give anything to have the natural barrel curls he has.”
Shea pulled her finger from her mouth once again; the blood kept pooling. She needed to find a band-aid. She sat her cross-stitch down and stood.
“Everything all right?” Miss Smith asked.
Shea held up her bleeding finger. “Maybe cross-stitching isn’t for me after all.” She excused herself.
Chapter Seven
“Miss Shea,” a voice called to her as soon as she exited the sitting room. She knew it was Mr. Hamilton before she saw him. “Where are you going?”
He looked handsome as always striding toward her. Regardless of the knickerbockers, man slippers, and froufrou-cravat, of course. The ties were out of control. How did ties like that ever last?
She held up her drippy finger. “I poked myself with a needle.”
He was in front of her before she could blink, taking her hand in his. “Does it hurt badly?” He examined it.
She fought the urge to step back and frowned. It was just a little wound, but if she were honest, it hurt worse than that time she ripped her nail off when she was a kid. At least as far as she could remember. “Well, my finger has a heartbeat.”
His brow furrowed, but when he looked up at her, his lips twitched up just a little at the corners. It made her feel cute. She kind of liked that. Also, she kind of hated it. She was a cop on duty for crying out loud, not a three-year-old with pigtails.
He pulled a hankie, a hankie! Finally!, from his pocket and wrapped her finger.
“Come.” Without releasing her hand, he pulled her down the hall and into an office. He led her to a big plush chair, upholstered in a floral print, and motioned for her to sit. He then went to the desk and pulled a band-aid out of the bottom drawer. He sat it on top of the mahogany desk, next to a dial phone.
“Does that phone work?” she asked.
He picked it up and put it in the drawer, slamming it shut. “We don’t talk about such things here. Thankfully, it’s the only eye sore on the property.”
Okay, he was definitely a stickler for the rules. She was down with rule-sticklers, being one herself. Still, she would’ve liked to know if it worked or not. What if Mr. Rafferty had a heart attack? Could they call an ambulance? Not that a heart attack was imminent. Probably. Rafferty wasn’t fat, just a little round in the belly. Still, they served a lot of red meat surprises around here.
Hamilton rifled through another drawer before shutting it with an irritated sigh.
“I have nothing to clean it with,” he said.
“I’m sure a band-aid will be fine.”
“Plaster,” he corrected her and stood. “No, I am nothing if not thorough and would not deign to bandage your finger without making sure your wound was properly cleaned first. We can’t have it getting infected, now can we?”
“Uh—” All this fuss over a little blood. Or a lot of blood. Okay so her finger was putting Old Faithful to shame. It was now seeping through the nice white hankie. Jeez.
“Wait here. I shall return in a moment.” And then he was gone.
As soon as he left, she was out of her chair. If she’d known the office was so close, she might have prodded her finger sooner. As it was, she gave herself a minute, tops, before Mr. Hamilton returned. She went to the desk and opened all the drawers. She found number two pencils, purple paper clips, post-its, and in one drawer a laptop. All sorts of non-regency approved items. So the phone wasn’t the only eye sore.
It made her feel naughty. She didn’t like that. She was so not naughty. It wasn’t in her. So, she ignored the small thrill she felt upon snooping. What was this place doing to her? She liked rules. Rules gave order. She liked order. Loved it even.
When she opened the last drawer, there were several files, each with the names of the actors. It surprised her to discover they went by their real names. In a profession such as this, she’d think that they’d want to change their names to create distance between the character “thems” and the real “thems.” But then again they were men, they probably just compartmentalized.
She looked up. Honestly, now that she thought of it, men would make better prostitutes than women. Not that the men here were equivalent to prostitutes. Not really. They weren’t having sex with the women. Were they?
An image of a rotund man with crooked, yellowing teeth came to mind. She’d arrested him three weeks ago for solicitation. If the actors were a form of a prostitute, did that make her the female equivalent of that guy? She shuddered, then went back to snooping.
Pulling each file out to read the names at the top, she read: M. Rafferty, J. Asher, R. Hamilton, and J. Bayliss. She ran her thumb over the R on Hamilton’s name, briefly wondering what it stood for. Robert, Richard, Ricardo? Now, where was Daley? And Mr. Rafferty?
She shut the drawer and looked at the papers on the desk. Under a stack of tax documents and a letter addressed to May Rafferty from Francis Gray (the woman had large, messy handwriting,) were two manila folders, one with the name P. Daley and the other W. Rafferty.
From the hall, Mr. Hamilton’s cool voice called out, “I’ll be there in a moment.”
Her gaze went from the open door to a list pinned on the wall next to it. A roster, maybe?
She couldn’t hear the response, but she recognized the voice it belonged to. Mary, her chambermaid. Shea furrowed her brow as she quickly went back to her chair and plopped down. Did Mary help Hamilton with his clothes too? Of course not; that wouldn’t be Regency appropriate. And did the men even need help with their clothes? It wasn’t like they had corsets.
Oh, duh. She face-palmed with her good hand. They’re actors. Hamilton and Mary were probably friends. He’d know her from working together, not because she helped him out of his clothes.
Mr. Hamilton re-entered the room, ridding her of the ridiculous thoughts, and carrying a wet washcloth. He grabbed the band aid, er, plaster, from the desk and knelt down on one knee in front of her. He took her hand carefully and unwrapped her finger from his hankie.
“It’s warm,” he warned her.
When the heated cloth touched her sore finger, she flinched.
His gaze flew to hers. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, sorry.” She gave her hand back.
“Please, Miss Shea, don’t apologize—you have nothing to be sorry for.” He focused his attention on her finger and gently wiped it clean. When done, he wadded the cloth, let it drop on the floor. He blew on her finger causing the hair on her arm to raise. When it was dry, he grabbed the plaster. “This should last awhile, but if it doesn’t, please, let me know and I’ll get you another.” With slow, smooth movements, he wrapped it around her finger. When done, he grabbed her hand with both of his and looked her in the eye. “There—almost as good as new.”
“Thanks to you.”
His eyes widened, and abruptly, he stood. “It was my pleasure.”
She stood too, not knowing what else to do, and saw that he’d gone all grumpy on her again, but was trying to hide it. He must have a temper. It was the only way to explain why he had these moments but contained himself for the role. Or maybe that was part of the role. Bayliss was the sophisticated, albeit slightly conceited one. Asher the genial, puppyish one, Daley the incorrigible tease, and Hamilton the brooding, mysterious one. It made sense, but also confused her.
If this was a game, and the men and women all players, she couldn’t see how the women were supposed to come out winners. Even now—even afte
r having softened somewhat to the place and the men—there were just so many wheels within wheels of deception. It made her feel suddenly ill for the women who did pay to come to this place.
“Permit me to escort you back to the sitting room?” He held a hand out to her.
She took it, and he smoothly tucked it around his elbow before leading her from the room. She caught a quick glance at the list on the way out, certain now that it was names. She’d have to come back for it later.
Hamilton said nothing as they inched down the hall to the sitting room. She refused to allow herself to fantasize he was trying to stay with her for as long as possible. That was the last thing she wanted to deal with.
When they reached the sitting room, they turned to one other in possibly the most awkward silence she’d ever felt. When she finally decided that he would not be saying anything, she curtsied. He reached out, taking her hand once more, then lifted it to his mouth and kissed her knuckles.
“Miss Shea, it was a pleasure. As always.”
A fit of giggles echoed into the hall, right as Shea came back into the sitting room. The source of Miss Cross and Miss Smith’s merriment sat on the couch across from them, the golden, barrel curls immediately giving him away.
“Mr. Daley, you’re a tease,” Miss Cross said.
Shea slouched back to her chair.
“So, you don’t believe me then?” Mr. Daley asked.
“Believe that you ran away from the circus?” Cross shook her head.
Miss Smith threaded a needle with pink thread. “Don’t most kids run off to join the circus?”
Daley had her cross-stitch and was working the thread through the canvas. “I’m not most boys.”
“No doubt,” Cross said.
“What are you doing here?” Shea asked.
Daley eyed her. “I came to see if you were feeling any better today than yesterday, but I’m guessing no?”
“Oh no.” Miss Smith sat up straight. “You don’t feel well?”
“I’m fine.” Shea felt inexplicably petulant and pointed at her cross-stitch. “That’s mine.”
He tied a knot and handed it to her. “I finished the sheep for you.”
She stared at his work. He’d done a better job than she had, and he’d fixed where she’d sown out of line. She frowned. “Thanks.”
“Anything else I can do for you, Cousin Elizabeth?” he asked.
She examined his handy work, getting more irritated by just how good his cross-stitch was. “No, thank you. I’m fine. I feel fine. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
A faint, low chuckle reached her ears.
Daley glanced away the second she peered at him.
“Well, I suppose I should head off,” he said.
“Why didn’t you go hunting with the men?” Miss Smith asked. They were told earlier that the men had gone off again. Shea was sure they had a range somewhere, but started to think that “hunting” was really code for “Halo.” They had to take breaks sometimes, right?
“I prefer fishing.” He stood and bowed. “Ladies, enjoy the rest of your morning.”
When he left, Cross said, “I’m so glad I came here.”
Shea took advantage. “Why did you come here?”
Cross stared ahead with big dark eyes. “It seemed like it’d be fun. How about you two?”
Miss Smith answered immediately, giving Shea a chance to think over her answer. Why hadn’t she anticipated this question?
“I’ve wanted to come here since I was a little girl, I love Jane Austen. Pride and Prejudice is my favorite book,” Miss Smith said.
“Yes, Pride and Prejudice is amazing,” Cross agreed, “but my favorite piece from the nineteenth century is North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell. Not exactly Regency, but close.”
“Ooh, I love that one too.” Miss Smith bounced in her seat.
“So how about you, Miss Shea? What brought you to Bristle Park?”
“I have an ex,” she almost said boyfriend, but that wouldn’t have worked in the Regency era, “fiancée that I needed to get away from. This was the first place that came to mind.” She risked a glance in the direction of Miss Cross, pleased that she seemed to be mulling this over. Maybe if Cross sympathized enough, she’d spill about her ex-boyfriend. They still had no idea who the man was. She just needed a name.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Miss Smith said. “What a horrible thing to have to go through. Was there another woman?”
Shea choked. It took her a moment to gather her wits again. “Uh, no. No other woman. I rushed into it. He was a nice man, but just not the right man.”
“If only there were more Mr. Darcys in the world,” Cross agreed. “I wish we could have a girl’s night while we’re here. Have a sleep over, paint our nails, watch films. Get our fill of romantic heroes.”
Miss Smith flushed the shade of cranberries.
Shea couldn’t quite tell if she was excited or nervous.
“I brought all my regency inspired movies with me,” Smith whispered.
“Did you?” Miss Cross turned on the sofa to face her. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
That explains the T.V. in my room, Shea thought.
Miss Smith returned to a normal shade. “I even brought North and South!” Her excitement buoyed.
“I knew I liked you. What do you say, Miss Shea?” Cross asked. “North and South tonight?”
“Sounds great,” Shea said. Whatever that was.
Chapter Eight
That night during dinner, Miss Smith, looking a little pale excused herself. Shea couldn’t blame her. She wasn’t sure how many more meat pie surprises she could handle herself.
Hamilton left shortly after dinner, claiming he had some important business to attend to, and the Rafferty’s went to bed. The rest of the group headed to the sitting room, which was apparently the central hub for entertainment; if you could call whist entertainment.
As she was reluctantly pulled into a game with Cross, Asher, and Bayliss, Mr. Daley and Miss Gray somehow managed to avoid it and now sat together in one of the window seats whispering to one another.
Thick as thieves.
Shea stared at her cards wondering which she should play, when Asher leaned over and pointed one out. The game was taking way longer than it should’ve because Shea couldn’t for the life of her figure it out. Cross was more amused by Shea’s inability to play, and Captain Bayliss was really into winning, so no one seemed to mind.
Mr. Asher had the patience of a saint. He diligently tried to explain what was happening between each move.
“I win,” Bayliss said, throwing his cards down. One flew across the table and landed in Shea’s lap. She narrowed her eyes at him as she replaced the card on the table. He blew her a kiss. Shea had the sudden urge to Ralph.
“You always win.” Cross stacked all the cards.
“What can I say?” He lifted his hands.
“Shall we play another game?” Asher asked, gaze glued on the door. He was probably hoping for Smith to come back.
Shea and Cross grinned at each other.
“Only if we can do strip whist, winners lose clothes,” Shea said.
Silence followed her remark, and she wanted to smack herself.
“What?” Asher asked, face reddening.
Jeez, Shea! She wasn’t in her department with all the guys. She couldn’t say things like that, especially not here of all places. In her department it’d be immediately taken as a joke, but here not so much apparently.
Cross burst into a fit of giggles. Bayliss leaned back in his chair and gave her a once over that suggested he might let her win if they did.
Gross.
Shea changed the subject and addressed Asher. “I’m sure Miss Smith is fine.”
“Of course. Another game then?” He didn’t sound in the least enthusiastic.
Cross shook her head. “How about I check on her, will that make you feel better?”
He sat up straight. “Would you? I’d
be ever so glad to know how she is.”
“Yes, so would I.” Bayliss fluffed his cravat. Shea had no doubt the man was attracted to Smith, but the way he’d said this sounded like it was an afterthought. He caught her in a stare and winked. He reminded her of a pimp they’d brought in months ago. The man had been a shameless flirt and cold as the ice caps.
“I can go check on her.” Shea stood at the same time as Cross.
“No, let me,” Cross said. “I need to stretch my legs for a minute.”
Cross curtsied, and quit the room. Shea tensed. She examined the pros and cons of following her. Cons won out. It was still early, and the staff was all over the place. Smith’s room was just about the first door at the top of the main stairs. She’d be up and back lickety split.
The remaining players made their way to the sofas. Before sitting, she went to the bookshelf and retrieved the sonnets. She got close enough to Daley and Gray in passing, and caught the word “mousy” from Gray, followed by a giggle. She half suspected the woman had wanted her to hear, which didn’t surprise Shea.
Returning to the couch, she took a seat next to Asher and across from Bayliss.
“What do you have there?” Bayliss asked.
She answered through a yawn, then repeated herself. “Excuse me. It’s Shakespeare’s sonnets.”
“Are you quite all right, Miss Shea?” Asher asked.
“Yes, just a little tired.” She looked at the water pitcher in the middle of the table and scooted forward. “I need a drink.”
Moving faster than she was, Asher snatched up the pitcher and poured her a glass. When he handed it to her, she lifted it a little in salute—pinky extended.
“Thank you.” She smiled.
“Sonnets? You enjoy those?” Asher’s face twisted—almost a grimace.
She nodded.
“I’d like to know what your favorite book is, Miss Shea?” Asher asked.
The last time she could remember reading anything other than a case file, nonfiction, or self-help book, was when she was in college. And the last time she remembered enjoying a fiction was in high school; Lord of the Rings. She loved the honest friendships between the characters, the sacrifices they had all been willing to make for one another, and the epic struggle between good and evil. Those had been great books. But they weren’t written in the nineteenth century.
Regencyland- The Bristle Park Murders Page 5
