by Jen Turano
“We do have a most stellar group of ladies living here. But if your identity did leak—and not from us, of course—you could always write a different genre under your real name.”
“But I adore writing mysteries.”
“Then it’s fortunate you’re not an abysmal writer and are certain to have a long and prolific career ahead of you.”
“Did you miss the part where I said my current manuscript is a disaster?”
Eunice’s lips twitched. “That would have been difficult to miss, given how dramatically you’ve stated the deplorable condition of your latest draft. Nevertheless, you must know that state is only temporary. It’ll be a riveting read once you write the end and polish it up. It could be that you merely need to rethink the pirate scene you’re determined to include.”
“It’s not merely a single scene. Mad-Eye Willy is the hero of the story and he is in every chapter. One particularly tricky scene has been giving me fits for the past two weeks. I simply cannot figure out how to get my hero pirate off the plank he’s been forced to walk without sending him into the water. He’d certainly face a horrible demise if he toppled off the plank, given that I have an entire school of sharks swimming underneath him.”
Eunice’s brows drew together. “Not that I’m an expert on this, but a pirate seems like an unlikely hero.”
“True, but as I was contemplating what type of man would make the perfect hero for my next book, I decided that my female readers might appreciate a pirate in that role. Many women long to meet men of adventure, as well as secretly long to be associated with dangerous men.”
Eunice gave her nose a scratch. “Perhaps your difficulty with this book centers around the name you’ve chosen for your hero. Forgive me for pointing this out, but the name Mad-Eye Willy is a little off-putting. When I think of someone named Mad-Eye, I picture a dirty scoundrel who smells.”
“My hero does not smell.”
“And thank goodness for that.” Eunice tilted her head. “I feel I also must point out that, at least in my case, when I think of the name Willy, my mind conjures up an image of a gentle, somewhat nervous man who is slight of build. The Willy I always associate with the name is not a man who’d ever be standing on a plank with sharks swimming underneath him.”
The image of the man Eunice was describing immediately popped into Daphne’s mind—a man named Willy who was not a pirate but a rail-thin, pipe-carrying, cardigan-wearing man, who was being attended to by someone because he was in frail health. She narrowed her eyes at Eunice. “You’re going to have to have more care with any additional observations you may want to toss my way.”
“Why?”
“Because now, besides having to figure out how to get my pirate off the plank, I’m going to have to choose a different name for him because you’ve ruined Willy for me forever.”
“Surely not?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Eunice winced. “I beg your pardon for that, Daphne. I had no idea my observation would turn so concerning, but maybe you can change the pirate’s name to Gentleman Jack. I’ve often seen that name used for pirates, and that would allow you to establish to your readers that even though he’s a pirate, he’s still a gentleman.”
“And while that’s an excellent suggestion, I have a brother named Jack. I’ve been remarkably unsuccessful using names of people I know in any of my books.”
“You have a brother?”
“I have three of them. Jack’s the oldest, followed by Arthur, then Frank.”
“You’ve never mentioned any brothers. Truth be told, I thought you were alone in the world.”
“I prefer to keep my life in New York and my family separate. My mother is not really supportive of my chosen occupation, nor is she—or my father, for that matter—thrilled that I’ve gone off on my own and taken up residency here in the city. My brothers were skeptical at best when I decided to leave the family fold, and they still try to convince me to return to Boston any chance they get. As for my sister, Lydia, she’s never been happy about anything I’ve done, but moving here has left her believing she’s related to a woman who’s taken leave of her senses.”
“You have a sister too?”
Daphne smiled. “She’s the baby of the family and is convinced my decision to move to New York has left a stain on the family name, which, in turn, has ruined her chances of securing an advantageous marriage.”
“How could your decision do that?”
“Lydia’s afraid that the most sought-after gentlemen won’t want to chance courting her in case my oddness is something genetic.”
“You’re not odd.”
“So says the woman who scares people by simply stepping into a room.”
Eunice smoothed a hand down one of her black sleeves. “I do seem to frighten people whenever I go out and about, but returning to your family—here I’ve been of the belief that your greatest secret is your Montague Moreland books, but I might be wrong about that.”
“My family isn’t a secret. I merely don’t discuss them often.” Daphne got to her feet and slipped the strap of her bag over her shoulder. “But my family aside, I’m off to fetch that cutlass because the night isn’t getting any younger and I have a chapter I need to finish.”
“Would you care for me to come with you? I have five files of potential new clients to get through, but it’s late.”
“Thank you, but no. The agency is only a few houses away. Given the sound of the rain pounding on the window, it’s clearly turning nasty outside. No sense in both of us getting soaked.” She nodded to Winston. “Winston will do well as my guardian.”
“He’s a complete and utter coward more often than not.”
“Winston’s proven he can rise to an occasion if something concerning is transpiring.” Daphne gave a snap of her fingers. “Come on, boy. Time for that walk.”
It took more than a few minutes to convince Winston once again that he longed to go for a walk, especially after Precious, at the mere mention of a walk, plopped herself down beside Eunice and refused to budge. By the time Daphne got Winston out of the room, shoved her feet into boots, and slipped into a traveling cloak, she was rethinking her decision to fetch the cutlass.
That rethinking was only reinforced when she stepped outside and rain mixed with sleet hit her squarely in the face. Tipping her tricorn hat lower, she hurried forward, thankful that the Bleecker Street Inquiry Agency was only five doors down, but with the wind howling around her, it seemed to be miles away.
Unlocking the front door of the agency, Daphne slipped into the hallway with Winston by her side, who immediately slouched toward the library, clearly in search of someplace drier.
Daphne turned on a small gas lamp in the receiving hallway before she shrugged out of her cloak, hung it up, then made her way to her personal office. Three minutes later, armed with the cutlass she’d found underneath her desk, she hurried down the hallway, shivering as she stepped into the library. Deciding it would be prudent to warm up before venturing into the storm again, she threw a few logs into the grate, smiling when Winston, who was stretched out in front of the fireplace, rolled onto his back and stuck his feet straight into the air as warmth spread throughout the room.
Sitting down on a divan close to the fire, Daphne settled back against the cushions, her gaze running over the numerous bookshelves filled with books on police procedures, city atlases, law books, and even a handful of the latest mysteries of the day.
Even though the Bleecker Street Inquiry Agency had only come into existence the previous fall after a resident at the Holbrooke boardinghouse, Miss Jennette Moore, now Mrs. Duncan Linwood, had been arrested and unjustly charged with theft, it had turned into a viable endeavor.
It had quickly become evident that many women in New York City were desperate for someone to give their problems the attention they deserved. These women had not found success using the tried-and-true avenues for justice, such as the police department or the Pinkerton Agency. Those a
gencies were run by men, and it was common knowledge that men didn’t take women or their problems seriously.
The Bleecker Street Inquiry Agency believed every woman deserved to be heard, but more importantly, they believed them. That was why what had started out as the only way to clear Jennette’s name had now turned into a lucrative business.
Cases were varied—from cheating husbands, to thefts, to missing people—and every resident at the boardinghouse was assigned to cases based on their different and varied skills.
Daphne’s main job at the agency was to sift through their clients’ disclosures, using the imagination that had allowed her to become one of the country’s most popular mystery authors in order to create lists of possible suspects and motives. She enjoyed her role in the agency, especially because it generally kept her away from the action. The few times she’d been pressed into service had not exactly been pleasant experiences. Truthfully, they’d been downright horrifying, especially the night when she’d happened upon Mr. Nicholas Quinn for the first time and he’d pointed a pistol at her, which had resulted in her fainting dead away while in the middle of Jennette’s case.
Granted, Nicolas hadn’t been intending to shoot her, but she’d not known that at the time. All she’d known was that he was a threat, and she’d proven time and again that she wasn’t a lady who dealt with threats in a calm and deliberate fashion, not with how she normally ended up unconscious on the floor every time she felt threatened.
“Hello? Anyone here?”
Daphne snapped out of her thoughts but found herself frozen on the spot because the voice that had just called out was certainly male and seemed to have come from within the agency, suggesting she might have forgotten to lock the door behind her—a mistake a seasoned inquiry agent would never have made.
“Go see who it is,” she whispered to Winston.
It swiftly became evident that Winston was not going to embrace the attitude of a true pirate dog, or fierce guardian, for that matter, because he immediately crawled underneath the fainting couch.
That unfortunate state of affairs meant that she, Miss Daphne Beekman, a lady prone to swooning whenever her nerves got the better of her, was now on her own to deal with a mysterious gentleman who, hopefully, was not a criminal in search of his next victim.
CHAPTER
Two
Slipping out of her boots, Daphne crept across the library on bare feet and snagged up the cutlass, even though it was a flimsy excuse for a weapon because it was made out of pressed paperboard. She sent Winston a scowl, which he didn’t see because he was now completely out of sight underneath the fainting couch. She then inched for the library door, lingering right inside it as she contemplated her options.
The most logical option would be to pretend she wasn’t there and hope that whoever was in the agency would simply go away, leaving her in peace—or as much peace as she could possibly find after suffering such a dreadful fright.
The most illogical option would be to confront the man.
“Hello? I know there’s someone here. I can see a trail of wet footprints moving down the hallway.”
It was hardly a mark of a good inquiry agent that she’d not even considered the tracks her boots might have made. She cleared her throat.
“We’re not open for business,” she called.
“There’s a light on and the door was unlocked.”
“But if you’ll look at the sign on the door, it states that our hours are from eight until five.”
“There’s no light on outside the agency, so I couldn’t have seen the hours of operation posted.”
Exasperation was immediate. “Then you’ll have to trust my word on this and return on Monday when the agency opens again. We’re closed on the weekends. If you’re unaware, it’s well past ten on a Friday night, which begs the question of why you would expect to find someone here in the first place.”
“I assumed an inquiry agency was run like the police department, which is always open to investigate crimes.”
“We’re not the police department. We’re also not currently open, nor will we be open again until Monday.”
“It’s imperative that I speak with someone tonight.”
Edging into the hallway because, clearly, the man was possessed of a persistent nature, and an annoying one at that, Daphne kept a firm grip on the cutlass as she tried to quiet nerves that were beginning to distract her. She made it all of two feet before she caught sight of the man, and that sight had her heart missing a beat because he was the largest man she’d ever seen.
She edged behind a coatrack, peering around it to get a better look at him. Well over six feet tall and with shoulders that suggested the man might earn a living as a boxer, he was her worst nightmare come to life. Large gentlemen were at the top of her long list of things that left her with a distinct urge to swoon—and not in a romantic, be-still-my-heart kind of way.
She swallowed past the lump that had formed in her throat. “As I mentioned, numerous times now, the agency is closed. Someone will be happy to speak with you on Monday morning.”
“But I’ve made the effort to travel here tonight, and my patience is beginning to run thin over the notion you’re unwilling to make an exception and speak with me merely because I didn’t arrive during normal business hours.”
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that impatience is not a virtue?”
Oddly enough, her question was met with silence until there was a rustling sound, one that almost suggested the man had withdrawn a notepad and was riffling through the pages.
Curiosity had her feet moving down the hallway. She stopped when she was five feet away from the man and realized he had pulled out a notepad and was now writing something down in it.
Ignoring that the palms of her hands had turned clammy, which was making it difficult to keep a firm hold on the cutlass, she lifted her chin. “What are you doing?”
The man continued writing before he finally lifted his head, revealing a face that had a marvelous bone structure, complete with a chiseled jaw and sharp cheekbones, highlighted by the hint of stubble. The stubble lent him a far too dangerous air, which had her brandishing the cutlass in his direction in what she hoped he’d take as a threatening fashion.
“I was writing that bit down about impatience not being a virtue. I’ve often heard the phrase patience is a virtue, but not the one you just mentioned.”
“Why would you need to write that down?”
“I write down everything I find interesting because I never know when it may come in handy. But speaking of interesting . . .” His gaze traveled over her. “Why are you dressed like a pirate? And surely you don’t believe that prop you’re brandishing would do much harm if I were about to attack you, do you?”
She kept the cutlass aimed at him, even though her arm was beginning to shake because the cutlass was much heavier than she’d anticipated. “I’m sure my cutlass could at least slow you down if you were to attack, which I’m fervently praying you’re not about to do.”
“I’m certainly not here to attack you. I’m here to procure the services of the Bleecker Street Inquiry Agency. I’ve been told your agency, even though I understand you mostly cater to the feminine set, has seen great success with a variety of cases. I’m hoping you’ll be able to enjoy success with the case I’m about to present to you, if you actually take up cases on behalf of gentlemen.”
“Of course we take cases on behalf of gentlemen, although . . .” She wrinkled her nose. “Now that I think about it, we’ve not done that as of yet.”
“Then I’m sure you’ll want to take on my case, because that will allow you to tell future male clients that you’ve had gentlemen clients in the past. With that said, but before I get into the particulars of my case, you’ve yet to explain why you’re dressed like a pirate.”
Daphne readjusted her tricorn hat. “I needed to get into a pirate frame of mind, which has nothing to do with this disturbing situation at hand.”
> “What disturbing situation? I already promised I wouldn’t attack you.”
“No, the troubling matter of you writing my words into that notepad. Why did you do that?”
“I’m a writer, which is why I’m curious about your attire because writers tend to be curious creatures. May I assume you needed to get into a pirate frame of mind because you’re an actress?”
“Why would an actress be lingering about in an inquiry agency?”
“I’m sure I have no idea, but it was the only reasonable explanation I could come up with. Now that I consider the matter more thoroughly, are you, perhaps, working undercover?”
“No, but my appearance is not a matter for your concern. What is a matter of concern is what you intend to do with my statement regarding impatience not being a virtue.”
“It’s a witty line. I imagine I’ll find a good use for it in one of my books someday.”
His explanation went far to banish the fear that had pervaded her the moment she’d realized she wasn’t alone in the agency. “You can’t steal my words and use them as your own.”
“There’s no law saying I can’t. As a writer, I often take liberties with conversations I’ve overheard and use them in my work.”
“But what if I intend to use that line in something I may write someday?”
Skepticism immediately clouded eyes that Daphne only then noticed were a piercing shade of blue. “You’re a writer?”
She couldn’t claim to be surprised about the skepticism. Ever since she’d decided to become a writer when she was fifteen years old, skepticism had dogged her every step.
Her mother had not believed she’d find success with her writing and instead encouraged her to settle down with a nice local gentleman, or more specifically, Mr. Thomas Sibley, of Boston.
She didn’t care for Thomas Sibley, which was why she’d decided five years ago, when she reached the ancient age of twenty, and after Thomas began pressuring her most assiduously to marry him, to leave her parents’ comfortable house in Boston and move to New York to pursue her dream of becoming a published author.
