by Robyn DeHart
“There are ways of encouraging people to talk. Even to strangers.”
“You do not harm them, do you?”
“No.”
She gave him a thorough once-over. “Well, it’s only that you’re such a large man,” she said quietly, as if alerting him to a fact of which he was unaware. “You could certainly do considerable harm to some people. Although I wouldn’t have pegged you as a man of violence.”
He shook his head. People rarely assumed anything about him, but no one ever claimed to know anything about him.
She made him dizzy.
Her circuitous logic. Her frank inspection of him. Her smile. Her scent.
What was that fragrance? It was ... sweet, similar to fruit. It mattered not what her scent was or of what fruit specifically it reminded him. He needed this case. He needed the money. Therefore he needed to keep his focus where it belonged.
Which was on the case of the missing Nefertiti and earning his hefty retainer. Not how Miss Watersfield smelled, smiled, or tantalized him with her ankles. It made no sense that he even would have noticed her, much less allowed her to distract him. She was entirely too chatty and much too cheerful.
More than likely his scattered thoughts were only nerves. This was his first client since opening his agency, and he’d only been called in because Lord Watersfield knew his father. Well, that and the fact that the police had not been interested in the case since there was no real evidence of a disturbance. So he’d answered the summons because the funds were badly needed for his research.
This job was crucial to funding his research. So despite his current distraction, he would take this case, give them the portrayal they wanted, take his money, and then be able to work on his research.
“I will schedule a time later this week to question your servants. In the meantime, work on compiling that listing of visitors for me. And do not forget to keep people out of this room.”
“I will get that listing done as soon as possible. And I will ensure that no one enters this room. I shall sleep in the hall if necessary,” she said. She stood up taller and gave him a serious little frown. He almost expected her to salute.
He nearly laughed. Nearly.
Chapter Two
“It is part of the settled order of nature that such a girl should have followers.” ~The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist
Meg was the last to arrive, not an entirely unusual occurrence, and ordinarily
Amelia would not mind, but today she was impatient to begin the impromptu meeting. It took a few more minutes for everyone to settle into their favorite spots—Willow in the walnut armchair, Meg folded up in the cushioned wingback chair, and Charlotte lounging on the brocade settee.
“I called this special meeting because something has happened. And I might need your help,” Amelia said.
“What about the oath?” Willow asked.
Charlotte shot a glance at Willow. “Must you remind her? I was quite content that she seemed to have forgotten.”
“I merely pointed it out because it was her decision that it become a part of each meeting,” Willow said.
“And we mustn’t break from tradition or deviate from the rules,” Charlotte snipped.
“Honestly, it was a mistake, that I forgot,” Amelia said. “But we can skip it today. No sparring, you two. We’ve work to do. Now, then, we have a mystery afoot in this very house. One of my father’s antiquities is missing.”
“Gracious,” Willow said. “That’s terrible.”
“Which one is it?” Meg asked.
Amelia sighed. “That’s the worst part. It’s Nefertiti.”
“Is your father well?” Willow asked.
“He’s quite concerned. I worry if she’s not found soon, he’ll become ill. The good news is,” Amelia continued, “we’ve hired a private inspector to find her. I met with him yesterday, and he seems rather competent. I’m certain he’ll be able to solve the case.”
Meg leaned forward. “What a perfect situation.”
Amelia eyed her in confusion, then checked the other girls’ faces to see if they understood what was so perfect. Willow was frowning, and Charlotte simply shrugged and looked away.
“I’m sorry, Meg, but precisely why is this perfect? It was one of my father’s most prized possessions. I admit the mystery is exciting, but it does feel rather selfish to enjoy that at my father’s expense.”
“That’s not what I meant. It seems to me that you have an inspector at your disposal. You can assist him in solving the case, which is fun and exciting for you ... well, for all of us, but primarily for you.” Meg nodded enthusiastically, her red curls bobbed. “This is your opportunity to do some authentic investigating. This will give you the experience you’ve felt you lacked in order to write your own adventure stories.”
“That’s right,” Charlotte said. “Now you’ll have no more excuses not to write. It is perfect.” She smiled at Meg.
“Exactly,” Meg said.
“I don’t think I follow,” Amelia said.
“It’s simple.” Meg propped her elbows on her knees, her green eyes twinkling with excitement. “Follow the inspector around. See what he does, the kinds of questions he asks, the conclusions he draws from those questions. It will be like living in a Sherlock story. You always decipher those mysteries before the end of the story. This will be no different. And I would imagine the inspector would welcome the assistance. After all, Sherlock has his Watson.”
And that’s when it hit her. He’d seemed familiar because he’d reminded her of Sherlock himself. It was as if he’d walked off the page into her home. But she couldn’t tell the girls that. They already teased her for fancying a man who wasn’t real. Admit to this and they’d think she’d gone mad.
Meg’s words seeped into her head. She could be Inspector Brindley’s Watson. Her stomach bubbled with excitement. Although he hadn’t seemed too keen on her helping him yesterday. In fact, he’d seemed rather annoyed by her mere presence.
“Suppose this particular inspector has an aversion to my assistance? What, then, shall I do?”
“Why would he do a silly thing such as that? You know more about your father’s antiquities than even your father. You can’t afford not to help. The inspector will need your help. Surely he’ll recognize that.” Meg nodded once with authority.
“What is he like?” Charlotte asked.
“Younger than I would expect an inspector to be, perhaps five and thirty,” Amelia said. “And taller.” She frowned, trying to remember precisely how tall he’d been. When he’d turned around and nearly bumped into her, he’d stood a few heads above her. She’d definitely had to look up to see his eyes.
“Very tall,” Amelia settled on. “His hair is thick and brown and his eyes are the color of chocolate. He didn’t talk too much, but his voice is pleasant. He was precise and tidy—I could tell by his movements and dress. And he smelled clean, as if he’d recently bathed. I must admit, he was rather dashing.”
She could instantly recall his image simply by closing her eyes. Amelia remembered in great detail every last feature in Colin Brindley’s face. She opened her eyes to find the rest of the girls openly staring at her. How humiliating. She gave them a sheepish smile and shrugged.
“Oh, no,” Willow said.
“Oh, no, what?” Charlotte asked.
“Did you not hear her specific description?” Willow asked.
“She’s aware of precise details?” Meg offered. “It’s what makes her good at solving those stories.”
“A dashing inspector? That sounds like a recipe for disaster,” Willow said, sounding worried. “I think it would be highly indecorous for you to assist him with the investigation.”
“Of course you would,” Charlotte said. “But enlighten us, Willow, why would it be indecorous?”
“Because Amelia obviously fancies this inspector, and spending time alone in his presence will lead to nothing but trouble. We certainly should not encourage such behavior.”
Spending time alone with Colin Brindley. It sounded rather delicious to Amelia, but that was precisely Willow’s point.
“With Amelia, it will all be harmless. Work and nothing more,” Charlotte said.
Yes, work and nothing more. She could do that. She might find the inspector intriguing, but she certainly would not do anything indecorous with him.
“But I must say, tall and handsome,” Charlotte continued. “Sounds a bit like Sherlock himself. I should like to meet this inspector.”
Amelia’s hopes shrank a little. She wasn’t precisely harboring dreams of Colin Brindley falling in love with her, but once he met Charlotte, any chance of that happening would be ruined forever. Every man that met Charlotte fell instantly in love with her.
She was exquisite. Beautiful where Amelia was plain, confident where Amelia was unsure, and bold where Amelia was shy. No man would ever choose her over Charlotte. Amelia had accepted that years ago. In fact, the only reason Charlotte was unmarried, as the rest of them were, was simply because she chose to be. It was certainly not for lack of men asking for her hand, as the current count for proposals sat at twenty-seven. Amelia doubted she herself had danced with that many men in her entire life.
Other women frequently considered Charlotte cold, but Amelia knew her abrupt nature resulted from the fact that Charlotte, unlike most women, knew precisely what she wanted in a man. Whether or not he existed remained to be seen, but she had the courage to wait and see.
Amelia was not that confident she would find the right man. She knew it was far more likely that she would either remain unmarried or end up wedded to an old widower looking for a bed companion. Neither option was her first choice, but so far it didn’t appear that she would have a wide selection of suitors to choose from.
“Amelia will not allow anything improper to ensue,” Meg assured. “This would be strictly research. Even you”—she pointed at Willow—”can’t argue against that. Isn’t that correct, Amelia?”
Amelia’s head snapped up. She cleared her throat. “Yes, of course. Strictly research,” she repeated. She wasn’t so certain that was convincing, but she honestly meant it. Besides, Inspector Brindley had made it abundantly clear that he held no interest in her even speaking in his general direction. She knew her virtue would be safe with him.
Willow pushed her spectacles farther onto her nose. “I will not agree that this is a good idea.”
“Fair enough. But will you agree that, despite an unlikely chance of impropriety, this is the perfect opportunity for Amelia to start on her own writing? What has she been saying for years?”
“You don’t have to talk about me as if I’m not in the room.” Amelia crossed her arms over her chest. “You simply cannot write about something without any firsthand knowledge or experience. How am I to write about solving mysteries if I’ve never done so in my everyday life?”
“I’ve always found that reasoning faulty.” Willow straightened in her chair. “You cannot tell me that Mr. Doyle has murdered someone merely for the experience so he could write about it.”
“He was a physician. Or perhaps he knew someone who had done the killing,” Meg offered.
“Exactly,” Charlotte said. “This is precisely the same thing. Amelia, you can work side by side with this inspector, learn all his methods, and be able to use them in your own stories. Perfect idea, Meg.”
The petite redhead smiled broadly. “Thank you.”
“Then it is settled,” Charlotte said.
It wasn’t completely settled. There still remained the tiny matter of the inspector not wanting her assistance.
“I still don’t think Inspector Brindley will want my help,” Amelia said.
“That’s preposterous/’ Meg said. “You’re delightful to work with. I’m sure he’ll recognize that.”
She hadn’t felt so delightful yesterday. She’d felt rather like a nuisance. As if he’d have preferred she not be in the same room. Perhaps he didn’t realize she had some experience when it came to solving cases. She could certainly prove her worth to him. She had thought of several people to talk with regarding the investigation, and the list he’d requested was well on its way to completion. Yes, he would be pleased to have her assistance, and in return he could answer any questions she had regarding investigative methods.
She would visit him at his office. See where he worked, perhaps that would put him more at ease. Yes, Meg had been right, this was the perfect plan.
Amelia double-checked her bag to ensure the list remained safely tucked inside. If she was to assist Inspector Brindley in this case, she needed to prove herself a worthy partner, which meant she needed to appear clever.
She’d worn her sharpest dress. A black and chartreuse striped confection that molded nicely to her body, giving her a straight, put-together look. She tugged on the hem of her jacket, then straightened her bonnet. Remembering one last tip from Charlotte, she bit down on her lips to pinken them, then rang the buzzer.
His office was in a part of town with legitimate businesses, though not exactly one she’d want to frequent in the evenings. But the sidewalk was clean enough and no street urchins had bothered her as of yet.
No answer.
She took a step back and peered up toward the windows to check for signs of movement. None, but she thought she spied the reflection of a light. Surely he wouldn’t leave a lamp burning if he’d stepped out.
She buzzed the door again. Twice for good measure. Not a moment later, she heard footsteps, and then muttering.
The door flew open to reveal Inspector Brindley wearing tweed trousers and a shirt. No jacket. No vest. No tie. And his sleeves were rolled to his elbows revealing well-muscled forearms dusted with dark curly hair. She resisted the urge to fan herself.
Heaven’s gate, he was handsome. She’d never seen a man, save her father, in only trousers and a shirt. It seemed so ... intimate. Her cheeks burned.
“What!” he said, then took a look at her and straightened. He brushed a hand across his hair. “I beg your pardon, Miss Watersfield, I didn’t realize it was you.”
She smiled. “Obviously.”
He raised his eyebrows and paused as if waiting for her to say more. “Yes, well, what can I do for you?”
“I brought the list you requested.”
“List?”
She waited for him to remember his request, but when he did not, she offered, “The list of visitors.”
“Ah, yes, the list of the people who’ve seen the antiquities. Many apologies, I’m afraid my mind is elsewhere this morning. You compiled the list quite quickly. Excellent.” He held his hand out to retrieve said list.
He wouldn’t get rid of her that easily. “I thought we could go over it. So I might give you more details. Answer any questions you might have.”
“My office isn’t exactly designed for entertaining, Miss Watersfield.”
“This is a business meeting. It could hardly be construed as entertaining.”
He took a moment to deliberate, then stepped aside and held the door for her. “It’s right up these stairs.”
He led her up a half stairway and through a door on the left. His office was the very picture of masculinity, richly colored in dark hues with the smell of tobacco and ink hanging in the air.
Precisely how she’d imagined Sherlock’s office. Chills skittered up her arms and prickled the hairs at her neck.
“How perfect,” she said.
“Pardon me?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Nothing.” She certainly couldn’t admit the truth behind her comment.
The room was large, and aside from the two windows, the walls were covered floor to ceiling with dark mahogany bookcases. Filled with books, no less. Leather-bound, and varying in size and color, they dominated the space.
She held her breath for a moment in sheer awe. She had plenty of books at home, but they did not have as grand a display, as her father had taken over the bookshelves years ago to exhibit h
is antiquities.
“Do you like books, Miss Watersfield?” he asked.
“Yes.” She gave him a broad smile. “Very much.” She stepped closer to a shelf. Philosophy, science, nature. She ran two fingers down the length of one spine, reveling in the smooth feel of the leather. “You must have a book on every subject. Your collection is somewhat breathtaking.”
“These are not only mine. My father was a collector for a while, but he left them with me when he moved to the country. The medical books are all his.”
“Oh, yes, he’s a doctor. I had forgotten.” She shook her head. This needed to be about the case, about finding Nefertiti for her father’s sake. “I apologize for my distraction. That is certainly not why I’m here. Obviously my father’s situation is more pressing than your books. I was momentarily overcome, but I am feeling quite right now. My apologies.”
He said nothing for a moment, simply stared at her—no discernible expression on his face. “Yes, well, let us take a look at that list of yours.” He motioned to the sitting area, where two wingback chairs sat facing the empty fireplace. On one of the chairs slept a large orange tabby cat curled into a ball. Colin gently picked up the animal, sat, then placed the feline on his lap.
Once seated, Amelia retrieved the list. She leaned forward to view it with him, but the inspector pulled it from her hands.
He skimmed it a few moments before he spoke. “Now then, what was it you needed to explain?”
The cat moved to the floor and gave a great stretch before jumping onto a table by the window and settling in for another nap. Amelia realized she didn’t know Colin Brindley all that well—at all, really—but it seemed fitting somehow that he owned a cat.
“I thought since I know all of these people, I could assist you in weeding out those who should not be considered suspects.”
He crossed one long leg over the other. He must stand a good five inches taller than most men. His legs seemed to go on forever. She felt a blush warm her cheeks. Surely it was improper to stare boldly at a man’s legs. But they were fascinating, even encased in his tweed trousers. Long, and she was certain they’d be well muscled, perhaps as much as the circus acrobats she’d seen last summer. He moved too smoothly, too controlled, not to have well-structured legs.
