My Gentleman Spy (The Duke of Strathmore Book 5)

by Sasha Cottman

  “Now we've had a bit of a chat this afternoon, the missus and I. We think we can keep you hidden downstairs until you can find your way to fixing things with Mr. Edgar,” he said.

  He stood back and let her enter the house, then following behind her closed and locked the door. Instinctively Hattie headed for the stairs which led to the upper levels, but Mr. Little reached out and took hold of her arm.

  “Not that way Miss Hattie,” he said.

  She looked at the staircase. How many times had she climbed those stairs and never given it a second thought? Now she was a stranger in her own home.

  Somewhere upstairs the rightful tenant of forty- three Newport Street, was enjoying his first night in his new home. More than likely sitting in her father's favorite chair or perhaps writing a letter at his desk. While she, the daughter of the house was now relegated to living below stairs.

  With her schemes and plans now in tatters, Hattie followed Mr. Little down the servants' stairs and into the lower kitchen.

  Mrs. Little was seated by the hearth, Hattie's pet cat Brutus curled up asleep in her lap. She held out her arms and Hattie came quickly to her side. Seated by the warm hearthstone, staring into the flames, she held back the tears for as long as she could. As she began to sob, Mrs. Little put a comforting hand to her back and gave her a consoling rub.

  “It was always a slim chance the house would stay vacant for much longer. I’m sure you will be able to sort things out with your brother and everything will be set to right. He is a good man,” she said.

  If only it was that easy.

  “I was a fool,” muttered Hattie.

  That final day in London, as the ship pulled away from the quay, she had frantically hoped for her brother to appear on the dockside, climb the gangplank and spirit her away. But her knight in shining armor had not appeared.

  Edgar had a new family now, he did not need his old one.

  Brutus leapt down from Mrs. Little's lap and came purring to Hattie's side. A scratch under the chin had the cat rumbling with contentment.

  Hattie wiped away the last of the tears and smiled. Crying would not solve any of her problems.

  Brutus’ swishing tail brushed against Hattie’s leg. She strolled from the kitchen, and headed for the doorway. Hattie watched her go. Mesmerized by the cat’s swinging hips and tail, she felt her mood lighten.

  She was safe by the warmth of the fireside and she still had options.

  “It's a good thing the new master likes cats,” remarked Mrs. Little.

  She looked to the grey-haired family housekeeper. In all her self-pity she had quite forgotten that a stranger now lived upstairs.

  “So, what is the gentleman like, have you met him?” she asked.

  In her mind, she had an image of a silver bearded old man, retired to a quiet, solitary existence of reading books and going to bed early.

  Mrs. Little smiled a secret smile. “We were introduced this afternoon. Well bred, polite and he is...”.

  Her gaze drifted to the fireplace and Hattie heard her whisper “lovely.”

  “Pardon?” she asked.

  Mrs. Little stirred from her private thoughts.

  “He is handsome,” she said.

  Handsome? In all the many years she had known Mrs. Little she could not recall her ever referring to a gentleman as being handsome. Something about the new tenant had obviously struck a nerve with her.

  “You would say he was handsome would you not Mr. Little?” she asked her husband.

  Mr. Little who appeared to be taking very little notice of the conversation mumbled an incoherent response. From where Hattie sat, she could see he was attempting to add several layers of pickles and meat to the top of a thick slice of that morning's baked bread.

  “He looks a little like our middle lad. Doesn't he?” she pressed.

  Mr. Little frowned and turned to his wife. “Who?”

  Mrs. Little sucked air in through her teeth in frustration.

  “The young gentleman who has taken the house. Mr. Smith,” she replied.

  Hattie's fingers stopped in the middle of cracking her knuckles. A chill she had never felt before in her life slid down her spine. She forced herself to remain calm. There were plenty of people in London called Smith, but something had her nerves suddenly on edge.

  “Is that the name of the gentleman who has taken the lease on the house?” asked Hattie.

  Giving up on the notion of being allowed to eat his supper in peace, Mr. Little sat his sandwich down on the plate and turned to her.

  “Yes, Mr. William Smith. Lately of Paris, France. He is in the business of export and import whatever that is. And if you don't mind me saying so Miss Hattie, I would say he has more than two pennies in his pocket. His furniture arrived late this afternoon and he has some very nice pieces.”

  Hattie’s father had spent months trying to get someone to take a lease on the house, yet here was this Mr. Smith taking up a full five-year lease only a matter of days after she had returned to London. The chances of this occurring by sheer coincidence seemed too slim to believe.

  Which left her with one very large question to ponder. Who was Mr. Smith?

  While her mind grappled with a thousand possibilities, her senses were screaming only one.

  Upstairs in the Wright family’s formal drawing room Will stood and considered the arrangement of his beloved French furniture. It had cost him a small fortune to transport it from its place in storage in Paris all the way to London. He had tried to cull his collection of personal belongings before making the trip home, but he couldn't bring himself to part with a single piece. Every man had his soft spot, Will's was fine artisan furniture.

  A small furry body crossed the floor of the room and stopped mid stride.

  “Hello you, I take it you are Hattie’s beloved Brutus,” he said.

  The cat gave him a brief look up and down before heading toward one of the priceless George Jacob chairs. When she reached the leg of the chair, Brutus stretched out her leg. Will saw a set of claws appear and his heart sank.

  “Oh no you don't, you furry overgrown rat,” he declared.

  Before the cat had the opportunity to sink her claws into the plush silk covered cushions, Will had scooped Brutus up into his arms. He waved a finger in the cat's face.

  “None of the Jacob chairs if you intend to keep living. You can claw that horrible brown leather couch over there if you need to attack anything. From the look of it you have already had quite a go at it over the years. Am I understood?”

  The cat began to purr. Will relaxed. They had reached an accord and all would be well.

  A piercing shot of pain stabbed into Will's hand. Sharp, unforgiving teeth drew blood.

  “You bloody menace!” he bellowed. The cat dropped effortlessly to the floor as Will released her. She sped from the room.

  Will looked down at his hand as blood seeped out of two puncture wounds. Pulling a handkerchief quickly from his jacket pocket, he wrapped it around his injured hand.

  “First night in my new home and I'm assaulted by a feline fiend,” he muttered.

  He started for the door, intent on hunting down the cat and having it removed from the house. He headed slowly down the main staircase. Having been around cats all his childhood, he knew you got nowhere by chasing after them.

  At the bottom of the stairs, he saw the tip of a tail as it disappeared down the servants' staircase and into the kitchen below. His hand was on the banister, ready to descend downstairs and face down his assailant, when voices drifted up from the kitchen. He stopped mid stride.

  “Where am I going to sleep?”

  His brow furrowed. It had been more days than he cared to remember since he had last heard that voice. A voice he once thought he would never hear again.

  He whispered. “And hello to you too.”

  As the rightful tenant of the house there was nothing to stop him from marching down the stairs and confronting her. But that time was not yet right.
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  Soon enough he would make her understand that there were real repercussions to her behavior. That you didn’t simply pen notes to people, and then walk out of their lives leaving them to deal with the remains of their shattered hearts. When he did finally confront her, Will fully intended that Hattie would beg for his forgiveness.

  Hattie would prove to him that he meant something more in her life than a mere fool. That she too had been moved by the events of their time together. She could try and tell herself that her heart was set in stone against love, but she was not that accomplished a liar.

  Will turned and headed back upstairs. It was time to come up with the next part of his plan.

  As he stepped back into the warmth of the drawing room, he recalled Hattie's words. She was worried as to where she would be sleeping this night, which meant that until today she had been sleeping upstairs. Somewhere in this many roomed house were her things. Possessions which no doubt held the key to her secrets.

  He rang the bell, summoning the Littles to come and clear away the remainder of the supper plates. His stomach was full, but his mind still required sating.

  After citing fatigue after a long and tiresome day, he dismissed the servants and bade them both a goodnight. As soon as they were gone, he took a lighted candle from the table and began to search the upper floor.

  Four doors along the hallway from his room, he found what he was seeking. The door of the room he had stood outside of the previous night now had a key in the lock. As soon as he opened the door to the room, he saw the tell-tale signs of habitation.

  On the bed a clean, freshly pressed white linen gown was draped. A pale blue ribbon placed next to it. On the floor by the bed sat a matching pair of slippers.

  Quickly entering the room, he closed the door quietly behind him. Confident that only she and the Littles would be in residence, Hattie had left the key in the door when she left earlier that morning.

  “Careless girl,” remarked Will.

  At times he fancied she had the makings of a half decent spy. With training and time, she could have been a good agent.

  He smiled. His plans now included taking his time to further her sexual education. As his wife she would be mistress of the house, but she would learn that he would always be master of their bed.

  He locked the door behind him, but left the key in the lock. If Hattie did chance a visit upstairs, she would not only find the door locked, but her vision at the keyhole blocked by the key.

  Will crossed the floor to the dressing table and set the candle down. He was in search of clues, anything which would reveal something of Hattie. Apart from a few simple personal items such as a hairbrush and a hand mirror there was little of note. He opened the drawers, only to discover they were all empty. The wardrobe and tall boy held but a few items of clothing and some old books. He considered the situation.

  “Of course, she has few possessions here in London, the rest of her things are still on-board the ship bound for Africa,” he said.

  He was two steps short of the doorway when his sixth sense kicked in. Turning on his heel he headed back to the bed and dropping to his knees peered under it.

  “There you are my lovely.”

  Under the bed, was a pink painted wooden box. Will shuffled further under the bed, finally getting his fingertips on the box, and slowing inching it toward him.

  Satisfied with his efforts, he sat back on the floor and considered the box. What treasure would he find inside? He flipped the handle on the side but the lid remained shut. He spun the box around and saw the lock. True to form Hattie had locked it.

  “Time for the tools of the trade,” he said.

  Reaching into his jacket pocket he pulled out a small knife and set to work picking the lock. In under a minute he had the box open. Page after page of half written letters filled the top of the box. He picked the first one up.

  Dear William, I am so very sorry

  Hattie had crossed out his name and changed it to Will, then crossed that out and made it Mr. Saunders. Repeatedly she had tried to write him a letter of apology. At the bottom of the pile on top of a large wrapped parcel was a folded and sealed letter. Will skillfully slid the knife under the seal and separated it from the paper.

  He licked his lips, surprised to find that they were dry, as was the rest of his mouth. He could not remember the last time he had been this unsure of himself.

  If he opened the letter and read it, then he would have crossed some invisible line. Breached her trust.

  “You have taken over her home and are rummaging through her things Mr. Saunders. I think we can forget about any moral arguments at this point,” he chided himself.

  He unfolded the letter.

  Minutes later he folded it back up and sat eyes closed, wondering just how much it had taken for her to pen the words.

  He put the letter to one side, he would reseal it before putting it back. From the bottom of the box he withdrew the brown paper parcel.

  On the top in neat, clear writing was a card penned, Mr. William Saunders Esq London.

  He did not need to open the soft parcel to know what lay inside. Hattie had wrapped his greatcoat intending to return it to him.

  Unexpected relief trickled through his veins. He had doubted himself over her more than once, but now Hattie had finally begun to show her true colors.

  Will opened the letter once more. Her apology was sincere, but it was the rest of the missing details which worried him. Not once in the letter had she mentioned her brother Edgar.

  Something was holding her back from seeking help from her family. What had happened within the Wright family for her not to approach her brother for assistance?

  The look on her face as she had watched Edgar and his wife at St. Paul’s had been heartbreaking.

  Edgar Wright had not struck Will as any sort of cad during the short time Will had spoken with him. Instead, he appeared to be a friendly, decent man who felt comfortable in making a fuss over his wife and newborn child in public.

  He was the man whom Will would need to deal with when it came to the plan he had for a future with Hattie.

  “First things Will. Find a way to talk to her without scaring her off. Then you can deal with the brother.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Hattie slept in fits and starts. More than once she woke in the night and fumbled around for the candlestick she kept by her bedside. Instead she found only a solid brick wall.

  Just before the dawn she woke and sat up. Squinting through sleep crusted eyes she could make out the shape of the kitchen window. The growing morning light through the window gave her a sharp reminder that she had spent the night downstairs in a makeshift cot.

  “Good morning Miss Hattie,” said Mrs. Little.

  The family housekeeper placed a large kettle on the fireplace, while her husband stoked the stove with wood. Hattie poked a toe out from under the blankets but thought better of getting out of bed.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  Mrs. Little chortled. “It's late. A little after five if you don't mind. All that cleaning and washing for Mr. Smith yesterday had me sleeping soundly. Mr. Little had to shake me something terrible to rouse me this morning.”

  Mr. Smith. Hattie had done her best to forget about the new master of the house, but visions of handsome dark-haired men chasing her through the streets of Gibraltar had filled her dreams.

  “I was thinking. And I know you may think this rather strange, but what do you think about me pretending to be your daughter?” she ventured.

  Mr. and Mrs. Little exchanged a knowing look. She was not the first to have considered the notion.

  “We are not opposed to the idea if it will buy you a little time,” replied Mrs. Little. Hattie knew what they really meant was that they still expected her to go and talk to Edgar.

  “Thank you,” replied Hattie.

  The arrival of the mysterious Mr. Smith had thrown all her plans into disarray.

  “Well t
hen, you had better be up and about quickly, Mr. Smith will no doubt be looking for his breakfast within the hour,” Mr. Little added with a wink.

  Hattie dressed and set about helping Mrs. Little in the kitchen. She did not mind staying below stairs. The kitchen was warm and being kept busy stopped her from worrying about her situation.

  A little after seven Mr. Little came downstairs, the morning newspaper tucked under his arm.

  “Says he never takes breakfast earlier than just before nine. Also asked for coffee if you don't mind. Said if we didn't have any decent coffee beans, he knows an excellent shop up on Oxford Street which he could recommend. Bloody cheek. I’ve lived in this city all my life, I know where all the good shops are,” he grumbled.

  He caught sight of Hattie busily wiping down the table and sighed. Gentlemen who kept odd times was one thing, but the daughter of the family working as a housemaid was another thing entirely.

  “Beg your pardon Miss Hattie, below stairs language can be a little more colorful than in your mother's sitting room.

  “Oh, and Mr. Smith is due to go out later this morning, so you will be able to go upstairs and collect your things.”

  Relief flooded her mind. As she worked she had brooded over the question of being able to remove all evidence of her presence in the house. Upstairs in her old bedroom, her clothes and possessions lay in plain sight. Anyone who entered her bedroom would think the occupant had just stepped out for a moment. It most certainly did not look like the room of someone who had left a matter of weeks ago for a long stint in Africa.

  There was also the problem of getting a hold of the box under her bed and finally sending Will’s greatcoat onto him.

  As soon as Mr. Smith left the house this morning, she would clear out her room.

  Chapter Thirty

  The sound of something falling to the floor and smashing to pieces, followed by the loud mewling of a cat roused Will from his late evening doze by the fire. He stretched his arms above his head before languidly rising from the comfort of the overstuffed chair.