“Oh, and here’s my brother—Mr. Stuart Howard,” Mrs. Monroe said.
“Very nice to meet you, Mr. Howard,” Sophie said, looking up at the tall, gangly newcomer. He, like the other men in this casual garden party, was wearing an informal, low hat, and his curling moonbeam-colored hair also caught Sophie’s attention. Felicity’s uncle was in his forties and was clean-shaven but for thick sideburns. He had solid shoulders and slender hands with a strong grip. “You’re an inventor, Felicity tells me?”
“Why, yes, yes, I am,” he said a little nervously. His Adam’s apple bobbed above the collar of his shirt. “My workshop is over there if you’d like—”
“Behind those potted trees,” Mr. Monroe added quickly. “We moved them there to—erm—try and camouflage the mess. Miss Gates isn’t interested in seeing that messy place, are you, Miss Gates?”
Actually, Sophie would have been quite interested in seeing an inventor’s workshop—for more than one reason. It hadn’t occurred to her until this very moment that perhaps Mr. Monroe wasn’t the only person being blackmailed about Felicity. Mr. Stuart Howard would possibly have just as much to lose as his niece and brother-in-law if the truth came out, or—
Sophie’s thoughts stopped suddenly as she looked up at Mr. Howard. He had light-colored hair as well. And the Lincoln boys had mentioned sideburns when they described the “mean man.” But why would Stuart Howard be blackmailing his own brother-in-law—over his own niece’s secret?
Still, one of the niggling questions Sophie had was how the blackmailer had learned about the family scandal. Stuart Howard, an actual member of the family, could easily have discovered the information over the years, considering his proximity to the household and his relationship to Mrs. Monroe.
“Oh, Sophie, there you are again.” Felicity was suddenly back at her side, despite the fact that Sophie hadn’t taken two steps from where she’d been moments ago. “I’d like you to meet my fiancé, Mr. Carson Townsend.” Felicity beamed up at the tall, fair man whose arm she gripped as if afraid he’d flit away.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Townsend,” Sophie said, forcing herself to sound normal—and to offer her hand to the man who had a princelike bearing.
But when he took her hand and bowed briefly over it, it was all she could do not to snatch it away. The idea that the very hand that took hers so gracefully, that was gloved in such a gentlemanly manner, should have beaten a man to death—and bruised a woman—made her ill.
But there was no trace of such ugliness in his eyes when he winked at her and released her hand. “Felicity has been telling me about you for days. She’s fascinated that you live in the Castle. I’d always hoped to see the inside of it someday—beyond what’s open to the public—and now that I know you, Miss Gates, perhaps that will actually come to pass.”
“Oh, certainly,” she replied in a breezy manner she didn’t feel. “Do stop by whenever you like.” Sophie simply wanted to get away from him—and she wished with all her heart she could take Felicity with her.
“There’s Miss Lemagne,” said Felicity. “Carson, let’s go say hello. Sophie?”
“I believe I’m going to fetch a glass of lemonade,” she replied. “I did hear someone mention lemonade, didn’t I?”
“Of course—it’s in the shade beneath that spreading oak. There’s a shrub—lavender and thyme—to drink in the punch bowl as well.”
Sophie thanked her, and when the engaged couple walked off, she strolled aimlessly across the yard.
The Monroe home was one of the mansions only a few blocks off Penn Ave and Seventh Street. Its yard was bordered by a tall black fence, and pink, red, and yellow flowers spilled in clumps through the spires of the fence.
The gathering was in the shady backyard of the mansion. The house itself was four stories tall and made of pressed red brick. Small tables had been set up just beyond the entrance to the house, where guests could rest their punch glasses while they nibbled on small squares of cornbread, fresh strawberries, tiny peach tarts, and shelled peanuts tossed with spices. On each table was a small vase with colorful flowers wrapped in a colorful ribbon.
Sophie estimated about forty people were in the yard, talking and chatting. She wondered how easy it would be to slip into the house and find Mr. Monroe’s office. With it being such a large house, it might take her a while to determine which room was his study.
There was no time like now, she told herself, and began to make her way around the periphery of the yard toward the house. There were two large French doors that opened from a sitting room onto a small brick patio that gave way to the lush lawn on which the guests were milling about.
She gave a quick glance to make sure no one was watching and slipped inside.
A tray of cookies and muffins was set out on a table in the sitting room, leading Sophie to believe that the house was open to the guests as well, although they were clearly encouraged to be out in the summer air. She hurried out of the sitting room and found herself in the main hallway that stretched from the main entrance of the house to the back. There were several closed doors, and at the front of the hall, a stairway led to the upstairs. Sophie decided it was more likely Mr. Monroe’s study was on this floor, and she cracked open the closest closed door.
It led into a small, elegant parlor with dainty furnishings and a lot of flowers. Definitely not the man of the house’s office.
She tried another door and found herself peeking into a music room with a piano and plenty of seating.
The third door, nearest the front entrance, was her last option before climbing to the second floor, and Sophie was relieved when she peeked inside. It smelled of tobacco and was furnished with a large, heavy desk and many bookshelves.
Heart pounding, she slipped inside, grateful that the sun shone brightly through the windows—which faced the side of the house, not the back where all of the guests were—and gave her excellent illumination for her search.
Sophie had never actually snooped before, so at first, all she did was stand over Mr. Monroe’s desk and look at everything without touching it. It was fairly neat, and the few stacks of paper were letters and envelopes that, at first glance, appeared to be messages about the position Monroe’s clients wanted him to take with the congressmen with whom he met. An inkstand, pens, wax seal, and paperweight were on the right side, and on the left was a photograph of Mrs. Monroe and Felicity.
She saw no personal correspondence, and realized that of course Mr. Monroe wouldn’t leave blackmail letters just sitting out on the desk for anyone to see. So she was going to have to dig a little deeper. Her heart pounding and her hands damp beneath her lacy gloves, she carefully pulled one of the desk drawers open. She started when she saw a revolver sitting in there, pretty as you please, along with some ammunition. She closed the drawer quickly, a little harder than necessary, and grimaced when it made a sharp thunk.
Slow down, she told herself, and took her time opening the next drawer. Ink bottles and pens, blotting cloths, and a small wax stick for sealing, along with a small penknife and some coins. In another drawer she found personal correspondence—letters from friends and family. She quickly flipped through them to make certain that was all there was, keeping a look for a darker colored envelope with a slight smudge that made “Henry Monroe” look like “Benry Monroe.”
Nothing caught her attention in that drawer, and she was just pulling open the fourth drawer when she heard footsteps outside the door. She froze, staring at the knob, and when it began to turn, she looked around in panic before diving under the desk.
Oh God, oh drat, oh no, oh God . . .
She curled herself into the smallest ball possible, thankful that the cubby under the desk was only open on one side. The only way someone would see her would be if he or she came around to the sitting side. Maybe it was a servant, coming in to fetch something for Mr. Monroe. Please.
She held her breath, trying not to pant—but her corset made it nearly impossible to take a good bre
ath while crunched up like this. And she’d laced it tighter than usual today, blast her vanity. It was a miracle she’d actually been able to fold herself down and under the desk, to be honest. Just then Sophie realized she’d left the chair away from the desk, not pushed in, and hoped that Mr. Monroe—or whoever it was—didn’t notice.
When the footsteps came over to the sitting side of the desk, Sophie began to feel very sick. And it wasn’t just because she couldn’t breathe in her stays. She carefully pulled the edges of her hem as close to her as possible, tucking them under her knees where she cowered.
Just don’t sit down. Please don’t sit down.
She held her breath, trying to make herself as tiny and as far away as possible as two trousered legs—a man, as she’d suspected—came to stand in front of the desk. They were dark blue or black; it was difficult to tell, but because she was terribly focused on watching them, prepared to react the moment they bent to sit, she noticed that the fronts of the trouser legs glinted a little in the sunshine as the man stood at the desk, moving papers around. It looked as if there were minuscule sparkles in the fabric, and she was fascinated and curious at the same time.
His black shoes were polished but were broken in and worn. She observed them carefully, as she imagined Adam would, in case she needed to identify the man. The stitching on the boots was neat, but there was a tiny thread loose on the left foot. Also a little crack near the toe of the same shoe.
That was all she could see as the man rummaged around on the desk, muttering to himself. When the chair moved, as if he were pulling it back to sit in, Sophie nearly gasped aloud—then suddenly she heard voices too, and the sounds of people coming closer.
The man cursed and grabbed something hard from off the desk, then hurried away. A moment later, Sophie heard the door open and close, and she thought she heard him go out.
But she waited quite a few minutes just to make sure she was alone—and that the voices in the distance went away—before climbing out from beneath the desk. She crawled on her hands and knees and poked out from the side first and assured herself she was alone.
At last able to take a full breath, and feeling faint with relief, she stood there at the desk, looking down. She was certain it hadn’t been Mr. Monroe who’d come into his own office and hurried out as soon as he heard people approaching.
So it had been someone else. Another man, but she hadn’t been able to see anything but his trouser legs and shoes.
And someone in the office didn’t mean anything in and of itself—but whoever it was had clearly not wanted to be caught. So what would a guest of the party be doing here, snooping around in the office of the host anyway?
Sophie felt herself flush, for of course, she was a guest and was snooping around in the office. But she had a good reason to be doing so . . .
It couldn’t have been Adam—Mr. Quinn—could it? She snickered quietly. That would have been very amusing if they’d encountered each other in here, searching the office for clues.
The house sounded silent, and Sophie thought she’d best take the opportunity to leave in case whoever had been looking around decided to come back. She moved swiftly to the door and listened before opening it to peer down the hall.
No one was there.
Giving a relieved heave of breath, she slipped out and into the corridor, closing the door behind her.
Just as she stepped into the hall, she felt rather than heard someone behind—no, above her.
She spun to see a shadowy figure standing on the stairs that led to the second floor. He was looking down at her.
CHAPTER 15
“Mr. Quinn,” she said, stumbling back in surprise as he came down the stairs. “What are you doing up there?”
“I reckon the same thing you were doing in there,” he said, glancing toward Mr. Monroe’s office. “Looking around.”
“Was that you who came in there a few minutes ago?” She was certain she would have recognized him by those long legs if he had, but . . .
“No. Someone came in there while you were—?”
Footsteps and laughter cut him off, and a pair of young women appeared from around the corner of the sitting room that opened to the party. Neither of them seemed to find it odd that Sophie and Adam were standing in the corridor; they merely nodded to them as they passed by to climb the stairs.
“Gertrude will have it fixed up in no time,” said one of the girls to the other. “She’s an absolute wizard with a needle.”
“They must be going there to freshen up,” Sophie said. Then she looked at Adam. “I’m glad you were able to attend today,” she said formally.
He looked so different. He was holding a hat, and his hair was combed back in a high, smooth pouf instead of sort of falling in waves around his face like it usually did, and he was wearing a tight collar with a dark blue neckcloth and a striped navy waistcoat. His coat was tailored and showed off his broad shoulders, unlike the loose, flapping thing he usually wore. And he had on gloves. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him dressed so formally before—except maybe at the Lincolns’ first levee, when she hardly knew the man, and even then, his hair hadn’t looked like that.
“I didn’t see you when I first arrived, so I reckoned you’d gone inside to riffle through Mr. Monroe’s study,” he said, looking down at her with a sort of twitch to his lips.
“Well, I—well, yes, of course. That was exactly why I decided to attend. When would I get another opportunity?” Her cheeks were warm.
“My thoughts as well.” He offered his arm and she took it, noting it was his real limb and not the false one. “Now that you’ve done so, you can tell me all about it outside. I understand there’s lemonade.”
“That does sound good.” She was parched—mainly from being dry-mouthed with fear while hiding under the desk.
They walked down the hall to the sitting room, then out to join the party. The first person Sophie saw was Constance, standing in the middle of the party in her yards of pink and lace. Her mood soured like the lemonade and she smoothly pulled from his grip. “Oh, there’s Miss Lemagne. I’m certain she’d like a glass of lemonade.”
He flickered a glance in the direction she was looking but made no move toward Constance. “I spoke with Henry Monroe on Monday,” he said instead, and thus captured her full attention.
“Did you learn anything?” Sophie glanced around to make certain no one could overhear them.
“I’ll be happy to tell you about that while you tell me what you found in his office just now. I reckon we could sit over here out of the way, Ss—er, Miss Gates.” He was looking at her strangely.
She batted at her bonnet and touched her face. “Is my bonnet crooked? Do I have a smudge?” Drat! She’d probably completely disheveled herself when she dove under the desk. Perhaps she should go upstairs and check in the mirror.
“No, of course not. You look very pretty,” he said.
“Well then, why are you looking at me like that?” she replied, sinking onto the bench he’d motioned to.
“I reckon because I can’t seem to look anywhere else.”
“Oh.” Sophie’s face went hot and she nervously fussed with her skirts to spread them out—something she never did. “How kind of you.”
He sat next to her and she smelled a waft of fresh, crisp lemon. “Is something wrong?”
“Of course not. What would be wrong—except the fact that there’s a murderer loose in the city and he might very well be here, right now.” She kept her voice low as she looked out over the party, her nerves growing tighter. “I’m certain it’s either Henry Monroe or Felicity’s uncle, Stuart Howard. They both fit the description Tad and Willie gave us—light colored hair with sideburns—and neither of them are stooped or old. Either or both could have been being blackmailed by Piney Tufts. Tell me what you learned when you spoke with Mr. Monroe, please, Mr. Quinn.”
He shifted on the bench, then gave a quiet sigh of acquiescence. “Henry Monroe is definitely being bl
ackmailed. He’s distraught about it, and I reckon he’d do whatever he needed to do to keep his family safe. Although he claims to have no idea who’s blackmailing him. I tend to believe him about that. He also says he was in bed on the nights Tufts and Morris were murdered. What did you learn?”
“I didn’t find anything of note in his office,” she confessed. “Not that I expected to see blackmail letters sitting out anywhere, but even when I looked through the desk drawers, there wasn’t anything interesting.”
“But someone came in while you were in there.” His expression was grave. “Did he see you?”
“No. I hid under the desk.”
He smiled and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “You did? I reckon that wasn’t very comfortable.”
She chuckled. “Not at all. It was a miracle he didn’t discover me—if he had sat down and pulled the chair in . . . well . . .” She swallowed hard. “It wasn’t Mr. Monroe, because as soon as he heard people coming, he got out of there. That’s why I asked if it had been you.” He shook his head, still smiling. “I wondered why anyone else would be digging around in his study. It sounded like he took something off the desk. Do you think it could have been the blackmailer?”
Adam’s grin faded and he nodded. “That is a question. If it was the blackmailer, I reckon he was looking for something or was going to leave something for Monroe.”
“Maybe. But I’m certain he took something with him. There was a dull clunk and a quick little scrape like he was picking up something hard. Maybe he put his hat down or his walking stick while he was poking around. He didn’t open the drawers, which was good, because one of them had a revolver in it.”
“What side of the desk was the ink pen and bottle?” he asked.
“The . . . um . . . right side,” she replied after a moment of trying to picture the desk. “Why?”
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