The sun was peeking out from the clouds by the time they arrived at Mrs. Pennyworth’s house. He bounded up the stairs, and the door was opened immediately by one of the maids. She nodded at him. “Mrs. Pennyworth is in the drawing room, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Just as he started down the corridor, an unfamiliar man stepped out of the drawing room. “Are you Mr. Baker?”
“Yes, sir.” The man did not have the demeanor of a servant and carried a small bag. “And you are?”
“Dr. Blakely. I was summoned by Mrs. Pennyworth’s lady’s maid a bit ago. It seems she had a fright and needed something to calm her nerves. She mentioned you were employed by her to clear up a rather nasty business she has been dealing with.”
“That is correct. How is she now?”
“I gave her a sedative, but she refused to take it until she’d spoken with you.”
Elliot nodded and walked around the man into the drawing room. Mrs. Pennyworth reclined on a settee with a cold cloth on her head. He cursed himself at the sight of her paleness. The young man he’d employed to watch the house had left word that nothing had arrived. Either he had been lying abed while writing that note, instead of on the job, or the package had arrived after Stephen had checked and left.
“I assume another package has arrived?” He pulled up a dainty stuffed chair that he worried would not hold his large frame and sat, taking in her tightened lips and fearful eyes.
“Yes, it was horrible.”
“What was it this time?”
Mrs. Pennyworth struggled to sit up, and he immediately rose and helped her. “It was a dead rat, its head practically cut off.” She closed her eyes and shuddered. “Next to it was a parcel, a gift-wrapped package.”
“Where are the items now?” She looked dreadful, and he hoped to gain as much information from her before she was forced to take the sedative the doctor had left.
“Bridget was at the door when I found it. I apparently fainted, and my footman, Thomas, was summoned to carry me here. I believe someone took the dreadful items to the back courtyard.”
Elliot ran his fingers through his hair. “There are several things that must be done. I need to see the objects, and then I need to speak with your staff. One by one. I know you did not want me to interview them without you present. Do you feel up to it?”
She nodded, twisting a lace handkerchief in her hands. “Yes. Honestly, I feel better with you here.”
…
Charlotte took a deep breath. Mr. Baker’s mere presence calmed her frazzled nerves. She hated more than anything to depend on a man to make her feel secure, but there it was. This was by far the worst parcel she’d received yet, and she had an awful feeling they would only get worse.
“Can you please pull the cord to summon a maid?” She nodded in the direction of the brocaded rope hanging near the door. “I need to send notes to St. Jerome’s and Mrs. Fenster, who is expecting me for tea after my normal visit to the orphanage.”
Mr. Baker did as she bid and waited. Beatrice appeared, and after instructing her on sending the notes, Charlotte asked her to show Mr. Baker the items.
She rested her head against the cushion and closed her eyes. Her lovely, peaceful life was spinning out of control. Must she now hide in her house? Afraid to leave lest she meet this man who tortured her so?
Within minutes, Mr. Baker returned, carrying the beribboned velvet bundle. She had no desire to ask what had happened to the dead rat. He laid the package on the table in front of the settee. “We need to see what is inside. Do you wish for me to open it somewhere else?”
She viewed it as if it would jump up and bite her. “No, you can open it here.” She had to stop being so lily-livered. Mr. Baker was sitting right across from her. He began to untie the bow, and she had the urge to cover her eyes but kept her hands in her lap.
Mr. Baker put the ribbon aside and opened the flaps of the cloth. Charlotte gasped. Sun streaming through the drawing room window reflected off a beautiful gold bracelet, with diamond and ruby stones. The workmanship on the piece was exquisite, each stone set perfectly. Nothing she owned came close to the beauty of the bracelet.
“Dear God, who would leave something like that on the front steps?” She looked up at Mr. Baker. “With a decapitated rat alongside it?”
She ran her hands up and down her arms. Hysterical laughter and the urge to scream overwhelmed her. “This man must be deranged.” Her shaky hand tucked the loose curl that had escaped her topknot. She turned her eyes from the table. “Throw it away.”
“If you wish to eventually throw it away, that is up to you. However, we might have our first solid clue here.” He reached out, tucked his knuckle under her chin, and turned her face toward him. “If we can track down the store that sold this, we have our man.”
Her chin shook as the tears gathered in her eyes. “Do you think so? Do you think this could possibly be over?”
Mr. Baker moved from his chair and joined her on the settee. She shifted forward and considered bolting for her bedchamber, but before her thoughts turned into action, he put his arms around her and pulled her to his chest.
The tears fell lightly, at first, then the fear and shock of finding the grisly rodent let loose, and she sobbed on the man’s jacket. It felt so good to be held, to be comforted. There had been no one when she’d escaped from Lord Barton, and no strong arms to hold her when Gabriel had died.
He rubbed circles on her back and murmured soothing words that made no sense, but comforted her, nevertheless. The rumble of his chest against her ear as he spoke, the warmth of his body, the scent of something spicy, mixed with starched linen, wafted over her, carrying her to places far away from where she sat.
“You have been under a great deal of stress. We will catch this person, and return your life to you.” Mr. Baker fumbled in his pocket, and then handed her a handkerchief. “Yours is a bit soggy.”
A light laugh escaped her, and just like that, her tears dried up. She dabbed her face with the handkerchief and pulled away, casting her eyes from him, embarrassed. “I must apologize for my lapse in manners, Mr. Baker. I will pay to have your jacket cleaned.”
He waved dismissively. “No need to concern yourself.” After a moment, as she tried to regain her dignity, he said, “Mrs. Pennyworth?”
“What?”
“Look at me.”
Taking a deep breath, she turned her head in his direction. This handsome, virile man sat here in her drawing room, ready to uncover who was distressing her. Yes, she was paying him, but she doubted foot rubs and holding a sobbing client were part of his services.
“I will find the person doing this to you, be sure of that. But there is one thing I must ask you, and I insist you answer me honestly.”
She wiped her nose. “What is that?”
“Are you keeping something from me? Is there anything at all in your background you need to tell me before I continue my investigation?”
…
M sat in the large chair by the window, sipping sherry, thinking about the latest gift to Anne. Hopefully, the reminder left with the bracelet would impress upon her that she was being watched. She knew when her lover was not happy, and she would certainly know it now. Allowing that despicable man to escort her to the assembly! What was she thinking? Did she imagine M didn’t know? Didn’t see?
The piece of paper resting on the table next to the chair held the schedule of Anne’s events. Next would be a card party. M would be ready.
Chapter Six
Charlotte stared at Mr. Baker, his question echoing in her ears.
Are you keeping something from me? Is there anything at all in your background you need to tell me before I continue with my investigation?
The fear was always present in the back of her mind that perhaps Lord Barton had found her and was the one behind the leavings, but that was not his style. Had he unearthed her location, he would march right up to her front door with a constable in tow and have her
dragged off to jail. “Certainly not.”
He studied her for a minute, then leaned back in his chair. “Since I am here, I would like to interview your staff. I have a man watching your front door, and he reported this morning that nothing had been left. Obviously, that was not true, and I will address that issue with him when I leave here.”
“Do you wish to speak with just the men?”
“No. Any one of the female staff may have seen something that might help us.”
Charlotte sighed. “Very well.” As much as she would like to drink the sedative the doctor left and retire, it was necessary for her to help in any way she could.
She rose from the settee and pulled the brocade cord. Within minutes, Bridget hurried into the room. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Please ask Mrs. Blanchard to gather all the staff and direct them to the drawing room. It will be necessary for them to speak with Mr. Baker.” She did not employ an immense amount of people. Just Cook, Mrs. Blanchard, Bridget, Beatrice, Thomas, her coachman Bones, and Malcolm, the groom. Certain times of the year she hired a gardener, but there had not been one on staff for a few months.
Bridget gave a quick dip. “Yes, ma’am.” As she turned to go, Charlotte said, “One minute.” She turned to Mr. Baker. “Have you had luncheon, Mr. Baker?”
“No, I was on my way home from my morning activities when your coachman delivered your message.”
“Bridget, please have Cook send in a light luncheon for Mr. Baker.”
“And Mrs. Pennyworth.” His deep voice right behind her made her jump. When had he crossed the room? He was so quiet. His stealthy movements battered her already stretched nerves.
She tried hard to quell her pounding heart, and turn her unease into anger at him practically ordering her to eat. “I am not hungry.”
“It matters not. You must eat something, or you will faint again.” He placed his warm hand on her lower back and escorted her back to the settee.
Well, then.
He was now directing her life? Even though she agreed with him, it was hard to allow him to command her. “I believe I am adult enough to know when I need to eat.”
His raised brows were his only answer. With their eyes locked almost in combat, she relented, thinking she could probably eat a little bit, if that would move this along so she could put the dreadful morning behind her. “Yes, Bridget, I will have something, as well. Mrs. Blanchard can begin sending in the staff one at a time when we are through with luncheon.”
“I know you have a sedative from your doctor, but given your paleness, I believe a small sip of either sherry or brandy might help steady your nerves.”
Why in heaven’s name did this man sound as though he was ordering her around, and at the same time offering practical suggestions? It would not do for her to allow him to assume he could take such liberties.
He grinned. “I can see you trying very hard to disagree, but you know it is for the best.”
Pulling her skirts close, she moved around him, her chin in the air, and headed for the library.
“Stay here, and I will get it for you.”
He returned with a half-full glass, and in a fit of defiance, she gulped the entire thing and was overtaken by a fit of coughing that negated her cheekiness. A soft chuckle from Mr. Baker annoyed her even further.
After they consumed a luncheon of bread, cheese, cold beef, fruit, and tea, the stream of servants to be questioned began. The first one, Bones, stood in the center of the room, twisting his cap in his hands, looking decidedly uncomfortable.
Never having had reason to examine him so closely before, she hadn’t realized how very slender the man was. Apparently, his slight frame had something to do with his name. He shifted from foot to foot, nervously licking his lips.
“It is all right, Bones. Mr. Baker will merely ask you a few questions, and then you may return to your duties.” Charlotte didn’t bother offering him a seat since she knew he was quite anxious to get the interview over with. Bones was not comfortable in the house.
“How long have you worked for Mrs. Pennyworth?” Mr. Baker drew his pad forward on the small desk he had moved from the corner of the room to the middle. Charlotte sat on the edge of the settee, eyeing her empty glass, wishing she had the nerve to excuse herself to fetch another one.
“Since Mr. Pennyworth bought the house, back in ’78,” the coachman answered.
Mr. Baker nodded and made a notation on the pad. “What are your duties?”
Bones scratched his head, no doubt wondering about this strange man who asked what a coachman’s duties were. “I drive the missus carriage.”
“Yes, and what else?”
“Keep the vehicle clean, and in good repair.”
“Do you tend to the horses?”
“No, sir. The groom does that.”
Charlotte saw no rhyme or reason for the questions Mr. Baker asked, but since she was not an investigator herself, perhaps there was something necessary in his line of questioning.
Mr. Baker leaned back in his chair and tapped his lips with his pen. “Have you noticed anything unusual in the neighborhood in the last few weeks? The presence of a previously unknown individual? Someone who seemed to stop and watch the house?”
“No, sir. Nothing any different than the way things have been forever.”
“Thank you, then. If you think of anything that might be of help in finding the man who is leaving these distasteful items for Mrs. Pennyworth, please contact me.” He reached in his pocket and withdrew a small white card that he handed to Bones.
Once the door closed, Elliot turned to Charlotte. “What do you know of your coachman’s background?”
“Not much. He had already been in place when I married Mr. Pennyworth. Why?”
“He bears a strange tattoo on the back of his left wrist, right above his glove that could denote nefarious activities somewhere in his past.”
“Indeed?” She had never noticed the tattoo, but then again, she was not a private investigator. “Does that mean something?”
“Only that I don’t trust him.” Mr. Baker gazed at the door the man had just left.
“Why?”
He shrugged. “It could represent some sort of gang. Once a criminal, always a criminal.”
Charlotte sucked in a deep breath at his callous statement. “Can you not believe that things are not always as they seem?”
“No. I would be a fool to believe that.” He looked down at his pad. “Who is next?”
Still reeling from his words, she consulted the list Mrs. Blanchard had sent in. “The groom, Malcolm.”
“How many staff members do you employ?”
Charlotte ticked off on her fingers. “Mrs. Blanchard, Bridget, Beatrice, Cook, our footman, Thomas, Bones, and Malcolm.”
Just then the door opened, and Malcolm, with dirt, and possibly some other interesting matter on his shoes, and looking as uncomfortable as Bones, stepped into the room. He stood before Mr. Baker as if facing the executioner. Despite the man’s demeanor, she had doubts the poor man, who had also been with the house since Gabriel bought it years ago, had anything to do with dead animals and expensive jewelry appearing on her doorstep.
She leaned back and regretted saying it was necessary for her to be present when Mr. Baker questioned the staff. Fighting a yawn, and wishing the afternoon over so she could rest, she listened as Mr. Baker cleared his throat and addressed Malcolm.
…
The following Monday, Charlotte tugged her kid gloves on and checked her appearance in the mirror. She moved her hat a bit to the right, and re-anchored the hatpin holding the lovely deep green confection that matched her pelisse firmly on her head. Mr. Baker would be arriving shortly to escort her to the card party at Lord and Lady Danford’s townhouse.
Her memories returned to the last time she’d seen Mr. Baker. After a few hours of awkwardness on the part of the servants, he’d dismissed the last one and looked up at her from his pad. “I wish I could tell you all
of this had some effect on our search for your nemesis, but unfortunately, nothing presented itself as important.”
“Except for Bones’s tattoo.” She’d felt the need to add that, since in her mind, Mr. Baker’s reaction to that had been excessive.
“Yes.”
He’d then went on to assure her it had been a necessary process, and there was a chance one of her servants would remember something that his questions prompted, and contact him. She had walked him to the front door where he’d hesitated for a moment, and then suggested she get some rest. Once again annoyed at his tendency to overstep his bounds, she merely nodded before he strode down the stairs and away from the house.
The sound of the front door opening and Thomas greeting Mr. Baker brought her back to the present and urged her to pick up her reticule and join him downstairs.
Once again, she was taken by the man’s looks. He certainly filled out his jacket quite well. His eyes studied her as she descended the stairs, something in their depths causing a light flutter in her middle. His slightly crooked grin only increased the sensation until she had to look away before her knees failed her.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pennyworth.” His deep voice undid her determination to calm her body. For goodness sake, the man was her employee. She was paying him to deal with her problem. Them being together was no more than a necessary part of his plan to discover who was tormenting her. There was absolutely no reason for her heart to be pounding, or for her breathing to hitch.
“Good afternoon to you, Mr. Baker.” She quickly looked away and smoothed out the front of her pelisse, then regarded him with a bright smile, telling herself she was now in control. As if he understood her inner turmoil, he grinned at her and extended his arm. “Shall we?”
Yes, we shall. And no, we shall not.
…
Elliot linked Charlotte’s arm in his, and they made their way down the stairs. The deep green of her pelisse and matching hat intensified the hazel in her eyes until they almost seemed the color of spring grass. He breathed deeply of the charming scent that always surrounded her. Why was it every time he laid eyes on her after an absence, she affected him in a manner he preferred not to admit?
The Pursuit of Mrs. Pennyworth Page 6
