The Pursuit of Mrs. Pennyworth

by Callie Hutton

  After giving instructions to Cook, she returned to the drawing room just as Bridget led General Norwich, Sir Michael Evans, and Lady Evans into the drawing room, as well. She hadn’t expected this many people, since her calling day usually saw no more than one or two visitors. But she was delighted to have guests, if for no other reason than to settle her mind.

  Elliot would be arriving sometime soon after his visit with Mr. Spencer, but there would be no opportunity to speak privately with him until the guests left.

  “Mary Anna, how very nice to see you. I hadn’t expected you back from Bath for some time.” The young woman, married to the much older Sir Michael, had also been a resident of the boarding house Charlotte had lived in when she’d first arrived in London. The two young women had formed a fast friendship.

  Mary Anna had been a shop girl who had caught the eye of her totally besotted husband. They had married a few months after Gabriel’s accident and had spent most of that time in Bath at his home there.

  “Sir Michael missed Town and wanted to be here for the holidays.” She gazed fondly at the man. “For some strange reason, he prefers the bustle of the city in the winter, when most everyone else is escaping to the country.”

  Once again Bridget appeared at the doorway, this time with Elliot. Charlotte’s stomach muscles tightened as she regarded him. Nothing in his demeanor answered any of the questions racing through her mind. It would be quite some time before they could speak in private, so she must push her anxiety away and be the perfect hostess.

  Thomas wheeled in the tea cart, and for the next twenty minutes, Charlotte poured tea, offered plates of small sandwiches and sweets, and made polite, hostess-like conversation. She tried to be discreet in glancing at the long clock in the corner, wishing the time to pass quickly so her guests would take their leave.

  “Mrs. Pennyworth, may I use the facilities, please?” Miss Garvey stood and smoothed her skirts.

  “Of course. I will have Bridget direct you.” Charlotte rang for Bridget, who accompanied Miss Garvey out of the room just as Sir Michael and Mary Anna stood to take their leave. Suddenly, it appeared everyone was departing. There was a flurry of retrieving pelisses, coats, and bonnets, along with hugs and promises of invitations to be issued, as well as plans for walks in the park.

  Mr. Talbot stood near the drawing room door, waiting patiently for Miss Garvey to return. “It was a pleasure, as always, to spend time with you, Mrs. Pennyworth.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Talbot. I enjoy your company, as well.”

  Elliot joined them, and they conversed until Miss Garvey returned. Charlotte walked the couple to the front door and bid them good day, and they were on their way. She breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed, and she returned to the drawing room, where Elliot paced.

  “What happened with Mr. Spencer?” No point in prevaricating. She wanted to know and had waited long enough.

  Elliot reached out and took her hand, leading her to the settee where they both sat. “Nothing, I’m afraid.”

  “Nothing?” She felt as though a lump of coal settled in her stomach. “He is not the one?”

  He shook his head and took her hand, lacing their fingers together. “I sincerely doubt it. Oh, he is a loathsome individual, and I am sure he is guilty of many of the sins that he waxes on so eloquently about from the pulpit, but he was genuinely puzzled when I asked him about the diamond bracelet.”

  “Could he have been pretending ignorance?”

  “That is always a possibility, but my years of experience say no.” He rubbed his thumb over her hand. “I’m sorry, Charlotte. It would have been easy had he given me any reason to suspect him. Aside from being an inadequate vicar, an obnoxious and arrogant man, he is blameless in this instance.”

  Charlotte stood, pulling her hand away from his. “I was so hoping…” Now she was back to wondering who among her friends and acquaintances was torturing her.

  She turned from the window where she had been gazing at the dying flowers in the garden. “Why was he asking so many questions about me, then?”

  Elliot grinned. “It seems the vicar saw you at St. Jerome’s before you even officially met, and had developed a fancy for you.”

  Charlotte grimaced. “Oh, no.”

  “He won’t be bothering you, or asking any more questions, I assure you.”

  “I must admit I am disappointed that the problem has not been solved.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” Elliot rose and came up behind her as she stared out the window, placing his hands on her shoulder. “We will find this person, I swear it.”

  “Ma’am.” Bridget entered the room, carrying a box. “A delivery boy just brought this for you.”

  She turned and met Elliot’s eyes. He strode out the door. “Where is the delivery boy?”

  Bridget followed him out. “I asked him to stay on the front steps, just in case.”

  The three of them hurried to the front door, Elliot barreling down the steps, looking in both directions. The cloudy afternoon did little to light up the area as carriages rode up and down the street, and strollers moved about, some carrying packages from the stores on the next block.

  He climbed back up the steps and waved the two women into the house. “I have no idea what direction he went, nor if he had a carriage waiting.”

  “What about the box, ma’am?” Bridget held it out from her body as if it were poison. It could, of course, have been anything, but since she was not expecting any deliveries, they all knew something perverse was most likely inside.

  Charlotte viewed the box. “I don’t want to know. Throw it away.” She backed away and turned to hurry up the stairs to her bedchamber.

  “Charlotte!” Elliot’s voice carried with her, but she had no intention of returning.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Elliot followed Charlotte out of the drawing room and watched as she dashed up the stairs, and made a right turn into her bedchamber. With a thud that rattled the house, she slammed the door.

  “Mr. Baker, what should I do with the box?” Her face pale and eyes wide, Bridget held the container away from her body as if it would bite her.

  Perhaps it would.

  Although he was sure there was something unpleasant in the box, he preferred to talk Charlotte into viewing the contents with him when he opened it. “Place it on the low table in the front of the sofa in the drawing room, then you may return to your duties.”

  She gave a slight curtsy and with obvious relief, returned the box to the room.

  Elliot studied the steps for a minute, then decided propriety be damned, Charlotte needed him. He took the stairs two at a time and tapped on her bedchamber door. “Charlotte, open the door.”

  Expecting to be ignored, he was surprised when the door opened only a few inches. “You can’t come in here. It is not proper.”

  “Then come back downstairs so we can discuss this.”

  She shook her head and backed up, giving him the opportunity to join her. He closed the door gently since Charlotte looked fragile enough to shatter into pieces. Her knuckles were white, and the rapid rise and fall of her chest worried him that she would soon pass out.

  He held out his hand, giving her space, allowing her to make the decision to accept his comfort. “Come here.”

  Thankfully, she closed the few paces between them. He opened his arms, and she settled against him. She began to pant, and fidget, finally pushing him away. “I can’t get enough air. I can’t breathe.”

  “You are getting plenty of air. In fact, too much. Come.” With his arm around her shoulders, he led her to a blue and white striped settee in her sitting room. Anything to get her away from the sight of her bed, and lowered them both to the seat. “Stop breathing so hard.” He rubbed her back, but she continued to gasp. “Take slow breaths in through your nose and release them out your mouth.” He kept up the slow circles on her back. “Relax.”

  After a minute or so when things did not seem to be getting any better, he
said, “Stand up.”

  “Why?” She barely got the word out.

  “Just do as I say.” He pulled her to her feet, then turned her and began opening the back of her dress.

  “What are you doing?” Again, the words barely made it out of her mouth.

  “Don’t speak. Just try to relax.” Once enough buttons had been undone, he quickly undid the cord of her corset, pulling the sides of the garment apart. She immediately relaxed, taking in a deep breath.

  “Why women punish themselves with these things is beyond my comprehension.” He turned her to face him and pulled her into his arms, his hand still stroking the warm flesh of her back as she slowly grew limp against him, and her breathing eased.

  Elliot helped her back to the settee. He sat next to her, drawing her back to his chest. He leaned his chin on her head, the scent of wildflowers, honey, and Charlotte drifting from her hair. She was soft against him, and with his arm around her waist, he was sorely tempted to move his hand up to caress her breast.

  Not now. He would not take advantage of her anxiety, although a good romp between the sheets would definitely release some stress, and take her mind off the package downstairs.

  “We must look in the box, and not just to see what he is up to now. There could very well be a clue.”

  She turned, the misery in her green eyes tearing at him. “I shall post someone at the door all hours of the night and day to catch whoever is leaving these packages.”

  “I had a man watching your house for weeks, but somehow he never saw anyone approach the front door. I am thinking whoever is doing this has hired another to watch the house and when no one is about, a box gets left. Although, this time, Bridget said a delivery boy walked right up the steps and knocked on the door.

  “Another reason to open the box is this might not be from our suspect. Remember you had those flowers from an admirer that we never identified—although given what I just learned about the vicar, it could very well have been him.” A true would-be beau complicated the entire mess.

  “Lord help me. Why can’t I be left alone? I don’t want admirers. I don’t want diamond bracelets, or flowers.”

  To his horror, she covered her face with her hands and dropped her head into her lap and sobbed as though her heart would break. He did what most men did in such circumstances. He mumbled stupid platitudes and stroked her arm. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a clean, white handkerchief. He handed it to her, and she took it with a mumbled, “Thank you.”

  After a few minutes, her sobs turned to slight hiccups. She took a deep breath and stood to adjust her gown. Raising her chin, she looked him in the eye. “Please fasten my gown, and then we shall see what’s in the blasted box.”

  He grinned at her change in demeanor. Charlotte, his fearless, independent woman was back. Perhaps she needed that cry to release some of the tension in her life recently. Women apparently handled such things in that way, while a man would go to one of the boxing clubs and pound away at something hard.

  Obviously, women were smarter than men, since the only result of their tears was a blotchy face that faded in a few hours, where a man could carry bruises for a week. They made their way back downstairs to the drawing room. The box sat exactly where Bridget had left it. He laughed at himself, wondering if he’d expected the container to have special powers, and leap from the table, or disappear in a puff of smoke.

  Charlotte took a deep breath. “Well, let’s have at it.” She knelt on the floor, next to the low table, gesturing for him to join her. “I don’t want to pick it up, so I’ll just undo the string and wrapping paper.” Once she’d decided to open the thing, her fingers worked quickly, as if she were afraid she would change her mind and run back upstairs.

  She drew away the paper, lifted the lid, fell back on her rump, and screamed, scrambling away from the table.

  …

  Two large brown spiders, the size of a man’s palm, rested in the bottom of the box. Their dark bodies were marked with creamy stripes. They began to move once the lid was removed.

  Charlotte jumped to her feet and backed up, her hand covering her mouth as she stared at the box. “What is that?”

  Elliot grabbed the box and stood. “I am not a spider expert, but they resemble a picture I saw once of a fen raft spider.” He quickly left the room.

  Once the weakness passed, her last meal began to rise from the back of her throat. Not being anywhere near a chamber pot, she swallowed profusely, attempting to get her stomach under control.

  “I asked Bridget to have a tisane made up for you,” Elliot said as he entered the room. “I think it is best if you lie down for a while. I will remain here so we can speak once you have recovered.”

  She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hands, trying desperately to rid herself of the sight of the nasty creatures crawling around in the box. “Spiders! I hate spiders. Whatever is wrong with this man? Why spiders? Were they poisonous?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  She shuddered as she dropped into a comfortable chair. Once settled, Elliot tucked a lap robe over her just as Bridget entered, still white-faced herself, and handed Charlotte a glass of liquid.

  “Drink, Charlotte,” Elliot said.

  Like a toddler with her nurse, Charlotte took the glass from Bridget’s hand and gulped the liquid down, hoping the tisane would help her disappear for a while. Perhaps for months. At least until the nightmare her life had become ended.

  Fleetingly, she thought again of moving from her house, or possibly London, altogether. But she would not do that. Whoever this horrible person was, she would not allow him to drive her from her home. “Perhaps I should get a pistol.”

  Elliot had the nerve to grin. “I don’t think that is a good idea.”

  “Why not? I could obtain a derringer and keep it by my side for protection.”

  “Against spiders? Would you shoot the entire box of them? Or perhaps the dead animals left here?” He leaned forward, a frown on his face. “The biggest danger from an unskilled person owning a gun is shooting oneself, or a servant. A person must be well-trained in firearms to have a gun.”

  “I know of several ladies who carry guns in their reticules.”

  Elliot groaned and shook his head. “Please do not even think of doing such a thing. It is too bad the government has not taken steps to ascertain that those individuals who are purchasing pistols have the proper set of mind, and the ability to own such a dangerous weapon.”

  Charlotte’s eyes grew heavy as he continued to speak on the ills of uninformed and untrained owners of guns. The tisane was working. As if from a distance, she heard Elliot’s voice, now close to her ear. “I will carry you upstairs and tuck you in. We will discuss the ridiculous idea of you running about London with the pistol in your reticule, ready to shoot yourself in the foot, another time.”

  She nodded and was soon lifted, carried, and tucked in as promised. It was the last thing she remembered until she awoke the next morning.

  …

  Three days after the spider debacle, Elliot held out Miss Garvey’s chair as she sat at the dining table. She was to be his partner at the dinner party hosted by Mrs. Alice Banberry, a friend of Charlotte who he had met at a few social events. Charlotte took her seat several guests down, on the same side of the table, which made it near impossible for them to communicate. It also impeded his opportunity to study the men who spoke with her. But, nevertheless, it gave him the opportunity to possibly gain more information about Mr. Talbot, since the man and Miss Garvey seemed quite fond of each other.

  Tonight, the woman was dressed in a gray gown, with no adornments, almost to the point of plainness. The sleeves came almost to her fingers, and the neckline hugged her chin. Elliot did not pretend to be a master of fashion, but it was obvious to him that Miss Garvey’s outfit, while exceedingly unflattering to her, was still well-made, and of an expensive fabric.

  Her silver-streaked black hair had been pulled into a bun so severe i
t made his own head hurt. “How are you this evening, Miss Garvey?”

  “I am well, thank you.” She gave her attention to her soup.

  So much for pleasant social chatter with his dinner partner.

  Mrs. Tilton, on his other side, drew his attention with lively repartee about her three grandsons who, apparently, kept her daughter either brimming with love and laughter, or in the bowels of parental hell.

  Mr. Nelson, on Mrs. Tilton’s other side asked her a question, and Elliot used that opportunity to address Miss Garvey once more. “I see Mr. Talbot is not with us this evening. He is not ill, I hope.”

  “No.” She took care to cut her well-cooked lamb into small pieces and chewed each piece long enough to keep her stomach from having to do any work in digestion. “He will be joining us later for the musicale. He had matters to see to that needed his attention.”

  He leaned to one side to allow the footman to refill his wine glass. “I understand Mr. Talbot was friends with Mr. Pennyworth before his unfortunate death. Were you acquainted then?”

  “No.” She placed her hand over her wine glass when the footman attempted to refill it, then continued to masticate her lamb.

  Well, hell and damn, he was not going to allow her to ignore him this way. Now it had become a contest of wills. He would get information from her if he had to shake it out of her. “How long have you been in London, Miss Garvey?”

  She turned her unusual silver eyes on him for the first time since they’d been seated. “Six months.”

  Fortunately, Mrs. Tilton once again regaled him with stories of the three young boys who sounded like the devil’s spawns. But, as a true grandmother, interspersed with her tales of woe, were constant references to the “little angels.”

  Sounded more like “little devils” to him.

  The fruit and cheese had been enjoyed by the guests when Mrs. Banberry stood. “If you will all join me in the drawing room, the musical part of our evening’s entertainment will begin.

  Unable to let Miss Garvey go without at least one more attempt to garner information, Elliot leaned toward her before standing to pull out her chair. “Tell me, Miss Garvey, is Mr. Talbot fond of spiders?”