A Match of Wits

by Jen Turano

  “Someone could have propelled down from the roof.”

  “In the middle of the afternoon, when anyone could see them?”

  Mr. Blackheart frowned. “That is a good point, but maybe someone shot at the window.”

  “A bullet would have shattered that glass,” Drusilla said as she moved to the tub and sent Agatha a look that had exasperation written all over it before she stepped up on the rim and peered out the window. “I can’t see much, but if I were to hazard a guess, I’d say the bird that’s currently wobbling around down there on the ground is responsible. Oh, and look at that—it’s flying away.”

  “It could have been Mary,” Mr. Blackheart argued.

  “While this is a riveting conversation,” Agatha said. “I can’t help but notice that my bubbles are beginning to dissipate, so perhaps you, Mr. Blackheart, should leave before things turn embarrassing for both of us.”

  Mr. Blackheart’s face began to turn an interesting shade of red. “That might be for the best.” Turning, he headed for the door, but he spun around again when Drusilla let out a small yelp as she lost her balance and began falling backward.

  Rushing to catch her, he managed to grab hold of her before she hit the floor, but then he slipped on the marble floor that was probably wet with bath water, and Agatha could only sit in the tub, at a loss for what to do as he fell. A mere second passed before he disappeared, and when Agatha pulled herself up and looked over the rim, she found the poor man lying on the floor as Drusilla stood over him, her eyes huge. “I say, Mr. Blackheart, are you all right?”

  “Now that’s an interesting question, and one I can’t answer at the moment.”

  “Well, you can’t stay there,” Drusilla said.

  “I wasn’t planning on moving in, Drusilla,” he snapped. “I just need a moment to catch my breath and to have the stars I’m currently seeing go away.”

  “Good heavens, what in the world is going on in here?”

  Sinking lower in the tub, Agatha summoned up her sunniest smile. “Hello, Mother, Father. What are you two doing in here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing,” Roger Watson said as he marched into the room, his wife, Cora, following a step behind. He moved to stand over Mr. Blackheart. “When Theodore and I hired you on to watch over my daughter, Mr. Blackheart, I certainly didn’t expect to find you watching her while she’s taking a bath.”

  Cora bent over to shake a finger in Mr. Blackheart’s face. “Honestly, sir, we have two other young ladies living under this roof, and finding you in my eldest daughter’s bathroom is certainly not setting a good example for them.”

  “Grace and Lily aren’t at home at the moment, Mother,” Agatha pointed out.

  “So that makes this acceptable, does it?” Cora shot back.

  “Well, no, but it’s really just another one of those little misunderstandings that I seem to become involved in on an alarmingly frequent basis.”

  “You think that being in the tub, inappropriately dressed, with a man who is not your husband lying on the floor is a little misunderstanding?” Roger demanded.

  “Since I’m in the tub, I’m really dressed—or not, as the case seems to be—appropriately, because who wears clothing while they’re taking a bath?”

  It soon became evident that her father was in no mood for her odd humor. He seemed to swell on the spot right before he exchanged a look with Cora and then headed for the door. “I’m going to go fetch Reverend Fraser.”

  Any hint of amusement she’d been feeling disappeared in a flash. “There’s no need to fetch Reverend Fraser, Father, because I swear to you, nothing untoward is going on at the moment. Mr. Blackheart was simply doing his job of protecting me.”

  Turning, Roger arched a brow and gestured around the room. “From what?”

  “Ah, well, we think a bird hit the window, but Mr. Blackheart at first thought someone was trying to break into this room.”

  “We’re on the third floor.”

  “True, and I do believe he finally came to the conclusion he was mistaken about the threat to me, but then he fell, you see, in the process of saving Drusilla, which is why he’s still languishing there.”

  “And have other occurrences of him trying to save you or Drusilla caused him to be a frequent visitor in your bathing chambers?”

  “Of course not. Mr. Blackheart has always behaved in a most gentlemanly fashion around me.”

  “Wonderful,” Roger exclaimed, turning for the door again. “Then you won’t be opposed to marrying the man since you find him to be a true gentleman.”

  Gripping the side of the tub, Agatha looked at her mother, hoping for a bit of support, but when Cora let out a sniff and began inspecting the ceiling, she realized she was on her own. “Really, Father,” she called after Roger’s retreating back, “I can’t marry Mr. Blackheart. Why, I don’t even know his given name.”

  Roger spun on his heel and marched back to stand over Mr. Blackheart, who was lying perfectly still, as if he didn’t quite know what to do next. “That’s easily rectified. What is your name, Mr. Blackheart?”

  Raising a hand, Mr. Blackheart rubbed his face. “I don’t really care to give out my name, Mr. Watson.”

  “Your name,” Roger demanded between gritted teeth.

  Lowering his hand, Mr. Blackheart released a sigh. “Ah, well, what everyone needs to understand is that my mother believed I was going to be a girl. She’d found the perfect name for a girl—that being Francine—and when I showed up, she wasn’t exactly keen to abandon it.”

  “Your name is Francine?” Roger asked as his lips began quivering ever so slightly.

  “Well, no. My father did prevail in the end, convincing my mother I’d hardly enjoy living life as a Francine, but she was only willing to modify her preference so much, which is why she named me . . . Francis.”

  “I think that’s a lovely name,” Drusilla suddenly said, stepping up to peer down at Mr. Blackheart. “I always told my late husband that if we ever had a son, I’d name him Francis.”

  “You don’t have to humor me, Drusilla,” Francis said. “It’s a ridiculous name and hardly suits me, which is why I always encourage everyone to address me as Mr. Blackheart.”

  “I don’t humor people, Francis,” Drusilla said with a shake of her head. “I truly do adore your name. It’s honorable, and I think it suits you admirably . . . ”

  Agatha stared at Drusilla for a long moment, noticing that the lady had a very unusual expression on her face, one that looked quite sappy. It was telling, that sappiness, and also telling that Mr. Blackheart—or Francis, as he’d just disclosed—was looking up at Drusilla as if he’d never seen her before in his life. Or maybe he was looking at her that way because she was still gushing about his name.

  “ . . . and it has numerous meanings, free man being one, but my favorite is gentle giant, and that, my dear man, exactly describes you.”

  “It’ll be a good name for Agatha to pass along to her son after she and Francis get married and set up house,” Roger said, interrupting Drusilla’s speech.

  Having had quite enough, Agatha cleared her throat, having to do so twice in order to be heard over Francis’s protests. When everyone finally realized she was trying to get their attention and turned her way, she opened her mouth. “I’m not marrying anyone, Father—not Francis, not Zayne, and not some random gentleman who has nice teeth. Now then, if all of you would be so kind as to leave this room, I’d like to get out of the tub, since the water has turned chilly.”

  “But what about your honor?” Roger demanded.

  “My honor is perfectly intact, Father. Although, it might not be for much longer if Francis lingers.”

  Less than a minute later, Roger had helped Francis to his feet and they’d disappeared through the door—with Roger’s threats of continuing the conversation in the library drifting back to her.

  “I’d better go make certain Roger doesn’t take out his gun,” Cora said, making her way to the door. She l
ooked over her shoulder. “Although, maybe I should grab mine. After all the trouble you’ve caused of late, a shotgun wedding is looking almost appealing.” Not bothering to give Agatha an opportunity to respond to that piece of insanity, Cora disappeared, leaving only Drusilla in the bathroom.

  Accepting the towel Drusilla handed her after she’d closed the door, Agatha stepped from the tub and wrapped the towel around herself. “I hope you know that my father isn’t really considering forcing me to marry Francis,” she said when she noticed the frown marring Drusilla’s face.

  “Francis would make you a more than acceptable husband, and you could do far worse.”

  “True. I could marry Zayne.”

  Drusilla’s lips curved into a smile. “Zayne, no matter how annoyed you are with him right now, is perfect for you.”

  “He’s delusional.”

  “Perhaps, but in a very charming way.”

  “There you go again, up to your old matchmaking tricks, but . . .” Agatha moved out of the bathroom and into her dressing room, waiting until Drusilla joined her before she continued. “Speaking of matchmaking, what in the world is going on between you and Francis?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why then were you so bothered by the idea my father threatened to make me marry him?”

  “I wasn’t bothered by that, although I was concerned you would do something rash if your hand was forced, such as run off to investigate some brothel or tenement slum.”

  “It seems that Zayne’s not the only delusional person around at the moment, but since you obviously don’t care to delve into your true feelings for Francis, let me distract you by telling you what my intentions are for the rest of the day.”

  “I knew I shouldn’t have brought up the whole brothel idea,” Drusilla muttered. “You’re planning on doing some investigating, aren’t you. And . . . I don’t have any feelings for Francis.”

  “You do, but again, you’re delusional, so back to my plan.” She opened her wardrobe but jumped back when Matilda barreled out of it. “What are you doing in my closet, darling?”

  Sending her a look that had accusation written all over it, Matilda scampered to Drusilla’s side and let out a pitiful whine. Bending over, Drusilla gave her a good scratch behind the ears. “You must have shut her in there before you took your bath.”

  “I think you’re right. But in my defense, I’ve been somewhat distracted of late.” Sending Matilda a smile that the pig didn’t see since she was now burrowing under Drusilla’s skirt, Agatha turned back to her wardrobe and pulled out a pair of trousers.

  “Do you honestly believe it’s advisable for you to dress as a man when you know full well your father is waiting for you in the library with thoughts of marrying you off to someone on his mind? Why, if he thinks you’re up to something impulsive, he really will send for Reverend Fraser.”

  “Hmm . . . I didn’t think about that,” Agatha said, stuffing her trousers back into the wardrobe and pulling out the first available gown, a delightful frock of emerald green. “We’ll make plans to go tomorrow.”

  “Go where exactly?”

  Taking a moment to slip into undergarments and then the gown, Agatha turned around and waited while Drusilla buttoned her up before replying. “I’ve decided I need to take a more active role in the investigation of the threats against me.”

  “That’s a horrible idea.”

  “No, it’s not,” Agatha said firmly. “What everyone, myself included, has apparently forgotten is that I’m an investigative journalist. I spend my time snooping out stories, and yet, here’s the biggest story of my life and I’ve been content to sit back and allow everyone else to try and puzzle it out.”

  “Because someone’s trying to kill you.”

  “Which gives me a hefty dose of incentive to locate this person.”

  “Francis will never agree to this.”

  “While it’s quite interesting to me how quickly you’ve adopted using his given name, that’s a conversation for another time.” She moved to the vanity and began twisting her wet hair into a knot. “Francis, being an intelligent gentleman, will realize he has no choice but to agree to help me. He knows full well I’m capable of slipping away from him if I put my mind to it, which means he’ll reluctantly offer me his assistance, which I will admit I have come to rely on.”

  “Francis might eventually agree to help you, knowing he really has no choice, but Zayne will never agree.”

  “Zayne has no business even being mentioned in this conversation.” Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Agatha nodded. “There, now I’m ready to face my father.”

  “I do hope we won’t find him holding Francis at gunpoint.”

  “My father would never resort to that. My mother on the other hand . . . We should hurry.”

  Taking Drusilla’s arm, Agatha exchanged a grin with her before they walked out of the room and down the staircase. Reaching the first floor, she turned toward the library, but her steps slowed when she heard a laugh she knew far too well drift out of the room.

  “One would think I’d know better than to continue using Charlotte’s invention, especially since those silly wheels keep falling off.” Agatha came to a complete stop and began lurking right outside the door, refusing to budge even when Drusilla tried to nudge her forward, and listened as Zayne continued, “I have no idea why I can’t seem to fix that little problem, but I do thank you and Mr. Blackheart for coming to my rescue a few minutes ago when I lost a wheel right in the middle of the street. Without your assistance, I might have been run over by a fast-moving carriage.”

  “Since Mr. Watson was just about to send for Reverend Fraser,” Francis said, “if you had been run over, well, at least some last prayers would have been said in a timely manner.”

  “Why was Reverend Fraser going to be fetched?” Zayne asked slowly.

  “He wants the good reverend to marry me to Agatha.”

  “Oh . . . dear,” Drusilla whispered. “Francis has turned ornery.”

  “And isn’t it interesting how well you really do understand that man, although, I just might be able to use that orneriness to my benefit,” Agatha said, releasing her hold on Drusilla’s arm to breeze into the room.

  She glanced around and found Francis casually inspecting his nails, Zayne glaring back at him, and her father sitting in a chair by the fireplace with a clear expression of wariness on his face.

  “See what you’ve done now, Father?” she asked before she pulled up a chair next to Francis and sat down, resisting the urge to lean over and take his hand. “I take it you’ve told Zayne we’re soon to marry?”

  Francis stopped inspecting his nails and arched a brow even as the right corner of his mouth curled. “Yes, and he has yet to offer his congratulations.”

  “He should be offering you his heartfelt thanks since you were one of the gentlemen at the very top of that list he made. Although . . . you might want to show him your teeth.”

  Francis blinked. “What?”

  “He was very concerned about the state of teeth, but if you prove to him yours are in good standing, well, I’m sure he’ll give us his blessing.”

  “What has gotten into the two of you?” Cora asked, stepping away from where she’d been hidden from view by the window, carrying, of all things, a shotgun.

  Agatha wasn’t certain if she should laugh or make a dash for the door.

  “They’re just being ornery,” Drusilla said, walking up to take the shotgun firmly out of Cora’s hand. “And this can kill or seriously maim a person, Mrs. Watson, which is why I’m going to go hide it now.”

  “Are you coming back?” Agatha called as Drusilla began marching out of the room.

  “Not in a million years.”

  “What’s wrong with her?” Francis asked after Drusilla disappeared from sight.

  “I think she’s lost patience with us, or . . . she might be annoyed that I’m sitting so close to you.”

  “I’m sorry?”


  Waving Francis’s question away with a flick of her wrist, Agatha turned her attention to Zayne, who was sitting in a chair directly across from her, watching her with blazing eyes. “Well, aren’t you going to offer us your congratulations?”

  “You’re not marrying Mr. Blackheart.”

  “I’m not?”

  “After careful deliberation over the past two days, I came to the conclusion that Mr. Blackheart should never have been included on my list. He’s much too stodgy for you.”

  Francis let out a grunt. “I can be stodgy.”

  “I adore stodgy gentlemen,” Agatha said, unwilling to part with her charade just yet. “Why, I find stodgy gentlemen absolutely delightful.”

  “I meant to say dodgy,” Zayne said, through lips that were barely moving.

  “Dodgy gentlemen are even more delicious to me.”

  “I can be dodgy,” Zayne said.

  “Indeed,” Agatha agreed, “but I find you less than delicious.”

  “I asked you to marry me, and you know perfectly well that you and I are more suited for each other than you and Mr. Blackheart.”

  “What you did can in no way be considered a marriage proposal.” She lifted her chin. “Besides, Francis was discovered by my father in my bathroom while I bathed, which means we have no choice but to get married.”

  Zayne frowned. “Who in the world is Francis?”

  “Mr. Blackheart, of course. And you must realize, since we’ve taken to addressing each other by our given names, and again, he was in my bathroom, that we truly are considering marriage . . . to each other,” she clarified.

  Zayne had the nerve to laugh. “Knowing Mr. Blackheart—or Francis rather—he was probably just doing his job. He most likely thought someone had broken in to your bathroom, which means there’s absolutely no need for the two of you to get married. As for using his given name, well, he doesn’t exactly look pleased with that turn of events, which means he was coerced into telling you his name is Francis. Besides, you’re not going to marry him, because you’re going to marry me.”