by Alyson Chase
He narrowed his eyes. “Besides what?”
She ran her palm over the carriage seat. The leather was cool and soothing against her skin. “As soon as I stepped through the front doors, the walls of Bluff Hall started to close in upon me. It felt suffocating. Something isn’t right in that house. I don’t want to be there.” And she loved that house. Loved her comfortable rooms, her stacks of books next to her window seat. But the past few months had transformed that love into dread.
She swallowed. “And now that my father has gone, I don’t even have to feel guilty about leaving.”
Brogan’s face softened. “It’s not your job to protect your father. You have nothing to feel guilty for.”
She nodded, but inside, she knew. She should have stayed with her father. She’d let fear sway her judgment. Convinced herself she would have a better chance discovering who was behind the attacks when she wasn’t under threat herself.
All her hopes and dreams for being a shining light, someone people respected, a notable philosopher her peers looked to for guidance, and she’d failed at her very first trial. Her heart thudded dully in her chest. How could she effect change to help cure society’s ills when she couldn’t even help her family?
She lifted her chin. All she could do was move forward. Do better. And in order for that to happen, she needed to be free. “My brother most likely feels in his gut that something isn’t right, as well. It makes sense that he’d want to have me home. He thinks home equals safety.” And she wouldn’t be able to convince him he was wrong.
“So when he contacts the agency again to search for you?”
She raised a shoulder. “Tell him you’ve already performed that investigation and wish to move on to more interesting endeavors. You are under no obligation to take on every enquiry you receive.” But perhaps he’d be willing to take on what, in her mind, was an investigation much more compelling. She didn’t have a lot of ready money, but when she uncovered the plot against her father, she was certain he would pay the expense that saved his life.
“I don’t take the cases.” Brogan crossed his arms over his wide chest. “The owners of the agency and the manager make the contracts. I fulfill them.”
She nibbled on her bottom lip. Yes, the owners. She, along with the rest of society, had heard when the five noblemen, the Duke of Montague, the Earls of Summerset and Rothchild, the Marquess of Dunkeld, and the Baron of Sutton, had formed their agency for discreet inquiries. Such an enterprise had been quite the on dit for a fortnight at least. Matrons had sniffed with disdain at aristocracy sullying themselves in a trade. Gentlemen had laughed at the very idea.
But secretly, they’d all been jealous. Jealous of the nerve and adventure such an undertaking represented. Such men as who would create such an agency would have to be open to hearing her pleas. She should have begged for an interview with them before, shown them that the case they should be taking was hers.
Yes, she would throw herself on the mercy of the owners. Her brother wasn’t well-respected in society. She should be able to convince them hers was the better case to accept.
Although it would be a merry-go-round of easy money to work for Snow. She’d run from home; they’d pick her up and deliver her back. Run, catch, get paid. Run, catch, get paid. She grew dizzy at the very thought.
It would also leave her little time to uncover the plot against her father.
She drew her shoulders back. She would just have to be convincing. “When we return to London, we’ll go to your office and I’ll speak with one of the owners. Ask him to investigate my case instead of my brother’s.”
Duffy angled his body and kicked a muddy boot onto the seat next to her. “The owners don’t spend much time in the office. Only involve themselves in cases they think will be interesting.”
Her case was infinitely interesting. Of course, the owners would want—
“You can talk to Wilberforce. The manager. He’ll make the decision.” Duffy tugged the brim of his hat low over his eyes as he settled into the corner of the carriage. “Don’t get your hopes up. Even I can see it would be a conflict of interest taking your case.”
And with that, he ignored her for the rest of the journey, napping with the innocence of a babe. As though a man’s life, her father’s, didn’t hang in the balance.
Juliana crossed her own arms, glaring at the man. She tucked the blanket around his boot, making sure his mud didn’t dirty her skirts.
She was good at debate, one reason she was so eager to join Rose’s debate society. She’d managed to convince this lout not to turn her out of his carriage, after all. She’d convince this manager to take on her case.
She had to.
Because she was running out of ideas. As varied as her education had been, nothing had taught her how to investigate attempted murders. For a woman who prided herself on her ingenuity, she had been running dangerously low on new avenues to explore. Hiring professionals might be her only chance.
Duffy let out a low snore.
Even if said professional was an aggravating, impertinent beast of a man.
Chapter Eight
Her second visit to the offices of the Bond Agency didn’t improve her impression of it. Yes, the furniture was all well-made and expensive, and the layout efficient, but the rooms were much too dark, too masculine, to be truly welcoming. The light brown walls did nothing to brighten the aged mahogany floors. Even the light streaming in from the curtainless windows didn’t alleviate the office’s severity, although that could be because the sun was near to setting.
And the gloomy feeling might be all inside Juliana.
“But don’t you see,” she explained to the taciturn man who managed the agency. “Your employment with my brother ended when Mr. Duffy returned me home. Now you are quite free to work for me.”
Mr. Wilberforce scraped his palm across his jaw. His eyes, a lovely grey-green color, narrowed. “It seems a bit of a conflict of interest, if you ask me.”
Yes, one that Juliana hoped to exploit. After all, if she were a client of the Bond Agency then they couldn’t very well accept another job from her brother to find her.
“Does accepting an investigation put you under a lifetime commitment to Snowdon?” She glanced at Brogan, but there was no help to be found from that quarter.
After escorting her into the offices, pushing her in the direction of the manager, he’d plopped his rear end on the edge of his desk, picked up a bit of wood, and started whittling. He’d become a spectator to the debate, watching as she pleaded for her father’s life with seeming disinterest.
“Well, no—” Wilberforce began.
“And wouldn’t you agree that the circumstances surrounding my father’s supposed accidents are strange? Deserving of further investigation?”
“His secretary—”
“Might very well be one of the culprits, but who paid him?” Juliana paced to the window and back. “If it was merely about his stealing from my father, then he wouldn’t have made attempts on my father’s life. Killing my father wouldn’t profit him. He’d lose his position and any access to my father’s funds.”
“But if your father suspected him of the thefts, killing him might keep Pickens out of prison.” Wilberforce looked at a longcase clock against the wall and frowned. “That’s a strong mot—”
She whirled on him. “But my father didn’t suspect! No one thought anything amiss but me. It makes no sense that Mr. Pickens would try to kill him, not if his only crime was robbery. But if someone paid him to hurt my father…” She raised her hands, palms up. “Then it all makes sense.”
Wilberforce exhaled noisily. “You and I have differing ideas on what makes sense. Have there— let me finish,” he said as she opened her mouth. “Have there been any recent attempts on his life, or accidents that threatened him?”
“No.” She chewed on her bottom lip. “But he is not at home now. He’s visiting a friend up north.”
&nbs
p; “He just left this morning,” Brogan pointed out. When she glared at him, he rolled his eyes. “But it could make sense for the perpetrator to wait until all suspicions had died down.” He cocked his head. “With the fuss Lady Juliana has been kicking up about threats to her father, it would be irrational to strike against him so soon.”
She beamed at him gratefully. Finally, some support.
He pressed his lips tight and refocused on his whittling, looking for all the world like he regretted speaking.
But she wouldn’t let him take it back. “Exactly. This plot didn’t begin with Mr. Pickens. He was merely a tool. There is someone out there who still wishes harm on my father, and I intend to find out who.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “I hope you will assist me in discovering the truth.”
“What a pretty sentiment.” A man dressed all in black stepped from one of the back offices. His nutmeg hair was cropped fashionably close and his bearing was elegant. “Discovering the truth. Some truths, however, don’t want to be uncovered. Some truths are ugly and better left buried.”
Wilberforce glanced at the clock again. “Lady Juliana, this is the Earl of Rothchild, one of the owners of this agency. Rothchild, the Lady Juliana Wickham. She was the…object of one of our investigations.”
Juliana approved of the past tense in the manager’s statement. “Yes, and now that that case is over, I was hoping to employ your agency myself.”
“So I heard.” The earl’s gaze drifted to Brogan. “You think her claims merit investigation?”
He stood. “Perhaps.”
She gritted her teeth. “I don’t know if you’ve met my father, Lord Withington, but he needs your help,” she implored the earl. “I do have my own money. Well, I will have the money to pay you. I receive an inheritance when I turn twenty-five. It isn’t large, but it should be enough to pay your fees.”
“Payment isn’t this agency’s main concern.” The earl’s eyes flicked over her, then back to Brogan. “What do you think? Should we accept her case?”
Brogan shifted. “That’s not my decision.”
“Nevertheless,” the earl said, “I’m asking your opinion. Do you think her father is in danger?”
Juliana clenched her hand. The decision would be left up to this man? Brogan had shown a decided lack of imagination in her encounters with him thus far. Unless there was a handwritten note by the villain confessing his actions, Brogan would never—
“I don’t know.” Brogan pursed his lips. “But if I wanted the man dead, I’d wait before I struck. I’d wait until Pickens was rotting in prison for some time and everyone had forgotten before I went after him again. Just because there have been no further accidents is proof of nothing.”
She blew out a breath. Perhaps not a full-throated endorsement, but more than she’d expected.
Rothchild shared a look with Wilberforce, then shrugged. “Whatever you decide, I’ll stand by it. Now, I have somewhere to be.” He nodded at another investigator, who hurried over carrying a satchel. “The felt pads for my boots have been replaced?”
“Yes, milord.”
Wil frowned. “Wasn’t Lord Dunkeld working with you on this investigation?”
The edge of Rothchild’s lips quirked up. “His charming wife requested his company at a house party up north, and you know he can never deny her appeals.”
Both Brogan and the other investigator stiffened at the mention of Lord Dunkeld, then released matching breaths when Rothchild said he was away.
“Let’s go,” Rothchild said to the agent. “We have a job to do.” He dipped his head towards Juliana as he and the other man strode from the office.
“Please.” She clasped her hands together and turned her most desperate look on Wilberforce. “There is very little downside to you taking my case, but you could be saving a life.”
“You could be a barrister for how convincing you are,” the manager said dryly. He nodded. “Yes, we’ll investigate any threats on your father. Do I assume you wish to remain in London during the course of this investigation and not return home?” At her nod, he reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a key. “You can use an apartment we keep available for your stay.”
She took the key, squeezing it gratefully. When Mr. Wilberforce chose to be agreeable, he was really quite handsome, not taciturn at all. “Thank you.”
“Now to assign an investigator.” Wilberforce looked around the room. “I assum—”
“I’ll do it,” Brogan grumbled. “I already know the players.”
Juliana bobbed on her toes. “I have many ideas. We’ll work together splendidly.”
His eyebrows slashed downward. “I’ll do it…. But there will be rules.”
“Then I’ll leave you to it.” Wilberforce shrugged on a greatcoat. “I have a play to catch. Rest assured, Lady Juliana, the Bond Agency will do everything in its power to find the truth.” With one last glance at the clock, he hurried outside.
“Now.” Duffy crossed his arms over his chest. “Let’s discuss those rules.”
Chapter Nine
One bloody hour on the case and she’d already broken rule number one.
“Lady Juliana.” Brogan rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the knot tightening his muscles. “You agreed to let me do the speaking.”
He should have left her in the agency’s apartments. He’d only agreed to let her accompany him this morning while he conducted interviews because he’d thought that a female presence would be a welcome influence on Pickens’s sister, the first person on his list to question.
Apparently, Lady Juliana wasn’t the welcoming type.
He’d made sure to introduce her without her title. He’d glared at her sternly whenever she’d opened her mouth to ask her own questions. Even so, it hadn’t been long before Mrs. Waters had put two and two together and realized that the woman before her was responsible for her brother being in prison.
What had been strange was that Mrs. Waters hadn’t seemed angered by Juliana’s presence, only defensive. Did she believe her brother’s guilt? Was she embarrassed by him? All he knew was that the woman had devolved into one-word answers after she’d ascertained Juliana’s identity.
“Did you see the necklace she was wearing?” Juliana took his hand and climbed into the carriage. “She tucked it under her fichu quick enough, but the gold of the chain was close to pure. And I do believe the pendant was an emerald.”
Brogan had indeed noticed that bit of flash. He gave the driver instructions and climbed in after Juliana. But the pendant wasn’t large. There were any number of ways a woman in Mrs. Waters’s position could have obtained the trinket. The widow of a newspaper editor, she could have come by her comfortable set-up quite honestly.
He grunted. But there were several dishonest means she could have resorted to, as well. “Her carpet in the sitting room was new. Looked expensive, too. Regardless—”
“So, if her brother had been paid to hurt my father, he could have left the money with her.”
“Or he could have given her some that he’d stolen.” He shifted onto one hip and leaned towards her. “None of that excuses you speaking when you agreed you wouldn’t.”
She patted his arm, as though having a brute twice her size crowding into her was an everyday occurrence.
Something in his chest shifted. He knew what he looked like. He’d scared more than one opponent out of the ring with a glare and a crack of his knuckles. Something about this high lady seeing him as nothing more dangerous than a child’s doll made his temperature rise.
“I agreed to try to follow your rules,” she said. “Some of them will come more naturally than others.”
He narrowed his eyes. He didn’t remember her agreeing just to try last night. She’d been so excited that they’d taken her case, she’d readily agreed to everything he’d asked.
Excited.
Or desperate.
He rolled his hat between his hands. “
You know we might not find any answers.” Optimism was all well and good, but he didn’t want her to be disappointed if their investigation came to naught. “There’s a good chance that Pickens was just stealing from your father. No grand conspiracy.”
“With his sister buying all those pretty new things?” Juliana shook her head. “And with a real, professional’s help, I know I’ll figure out what is going on.”
Her eyes were wide, her face lit with excitement. Her face looked… well, not quite pretty, but definitely no longer plain.
Brogan shrank back into the corner of the carriage. Her buoyant spirits only served to make him disgruntled. “You still didn’t follow my rules. I’m taking you back to the apartments.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You will do no such thing. Besides, I only had trouble with that one rule. It’s ever so difficult keeping my mouth shut when I want answers. But I wrote my father like you asked. I can follow rules when they’re reasonable.”
Brogan closed his eyes. “That wasn’t a rule, but a request to make sure he made it to his friend’s home all right. Let’s go over the rules again. One, you let me do the talking. Two, you do what I say—”
“Those two could be combined into one rule. If you tell me not to speak, that would also be doing as you say.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Three, if I decide no one is after your father, you go home and leave this nonsense behind.”
She sniffed. “That one seems like you are already prejudging the outcome.”
He cracked open one eye to see Lady Juliana in a delicious sulk. She sat wedged in the corner of the carriage, arms crossed beneath her bosom, forcing the swells to crest the square neckline of her gown, eyes squinty and lips pursed.
He dragged his gaze from her bosom, irritated with his hardening cock. That one is not for you, he told it. Aside from being too forward, too demanding, she was in a class so far removed from his she might as well have been queen.
“Rules only exist for those who can’t think for themselves.” She sniffed again, a habit he either found irritating or endearing. He hadn’t decided yet.
