by Jen Turano
“But you are planning on investigating Dot’s tip?” Francis pressed.
“Of course, but not in broad daylight. And I’ll be in disguise, as you will be, so there’s absolutely no need for your grouchy attitude.”
“Absolutely not,” Francis argued. “Being out here is bad enough, even with all of Theodore’s men following us, but going into a brothel knowing Mary and her girls might be there, well, that’s just too dangerous.”
Agatha craned her neck. “I didn’t know we had men following us.”
“You’re not supposed to.”
“Right,” Agatha said even as she scanned the crowded sidewalk again, but she couldn’t spot a single man she thought might work for Theodore. “I must admit that knowing we have extra eyes on us does make me feel better.”
“You’re nervous about being out here?” Francis asked slowly.
“I’m not completely oblivious to the danger I’m in,” Agatha admitted with a lift of her chin. “I know traveling about the city as myself might cause a, er, situation, but I can’t continue to hide for the rest of my life.” Her chin lifted another notch. “That’s why I’ve decided to inform my editor that, as of today, I’m no longer going to write under the name of Alfred Wallenstate.”
Drusilla narrowed her eyes. “You never told me that you were considering abandoning your pen name.”
“Well, now you know.” Agatha jerked forward as Matilda began scampering down the street again.
“You’ll be dead within a week, two at the most, if you begin writing under your name,” Francis said the moment he caught up with her.
“No, I won’t.”
“I have to agree with Francis on this,” Drusilla said, panting slightly when she reached Agatha’s side. “You have a very distinctive writing style, and everyone in the city will realize you’ve been writing as Alfred. Why, you’ll be mobbed by all the irate criminals you’ve written about in the past. Right now we’re probably only trying to find one irate person, maybe two, besides Mary and her girls, but if word gets out you’re behind all those articles, well, I don’t think we’ll be able to keep you alive.”
Agatha shook her head. “I’m going to respectfully disagree. If I write my articles penned under my real name, I believe all those shady characters I write about will simply disregard what I’ve written because I’m a woman. They’ll just assume I’m some flighty young miss bent on amusement, while others, those like Dot, will still be able to take comfort from the idea someone is writing about their plight in life.”
Drusilla sighed. “Strange as it seems, that almost makes sense.”
“Good, because we’re here, and I’m determined to move forward with my idea.” Agatha pulled Matilda to a stop in front of the New-York Tribune. Glancing up, she gave herself a moment to simply stand there and appreciate the building’s spire tower, a sight that never failed to move her. In the midst of the troubling situation with Zayne, she’d allowed herself to forget that she’d managed to make her way in a profession that catered to men—but no more. She was a journalist, a good journalist. When Zayne had left her two years before, she’d made the decision that she was not meant to live the life of a normal lady—she was meant to sniff out the injustices of the day.
Normal ladies were expected to remain safe inside a house with a brood of children tugging on their skirts while their big, strong husbands kept them safe. She’d never be satisfied living such a life—even if she had occasionally thought about what her children might look like if Zayne just happened to be their father.
She pushed that idea firmly aside and reminded herself that she needed to focus on her career, not a love life, and especially not a life with Zayne. This was the first step in reclaiming her life and her ambition.
Pulling Matilda away from the leg of a gentleman the little pig had taken to investigating, she edged off the sidewalk and moved to the front door of the New-York Tribune.
“Are you certain about this?” Drusilla asked.
“Fairly certain, and if nothing else, walking through this building with Matilda by my side will certainly draw notice. If we’re fortunate, someone will write a story about it, or at least a small posting in the society page.”
Francis rolled his eyes. “That’s reassuring.”
“You don’t really want to have to guard me forever, do you?”
“If it means keeping you alive, of course I do.”
“You really aren’t a horrible man after all.”
Before Francis had an opportunity to respond, someone opened the front door of the New-York Tribune and Matilda charged through it, leaving Agatha with no option but to follow. Tugging Matilda to a more manageable rate of speed, she nodded to a few of her fellow journalists who were milling around and continued forward.
“You’re definitely drawing attention,” Drusilla exclaimed when she caught up to her. “And just out of curiosity, how many of these gentlemen actually know who you are?”
“Quite a few.”
“What do you mean, quite a few?” Francis demanded.
Agatha pulled Matilda to a stop. “While the public knows me only as Alfred Wallenstate—except for that scoundrel, or two, or maybe three, who wants me dead—there are numerous journalists here who have seen me meeting with my editor from time to time, and . . . because they’re journalists, a few of them figured out who I am.”
“Why wasn’t Theodore or I ever informed of this?”
“I highly doubt someone at the New-York Tribune is trying to do me in. They’d have little incentive to do so, since I’ve never written about them, and—”
“Pigs are not allowed in this establishment,” a voice suddenly proclaimed, causing Agatha to stop mid-word and glance up. She found herself pinned under the glare of a thin gentleman who looked somewhat familiar. He blinked and then blinked again. “I say, is that you, Miss Watson?”
Before Agatha could speak, let alone remember the gentleman’s name, Matilda lurched forward, pulling the leash out of Agatha’s hand as she charged directly at the gentleman standing in front of them. The poor man’s eyes bulged, he let out a remarkably high shriek, and then spun around and raced away in the opposite direction with Matilda in hot pursuit, Francis a step behind the pig.
Agatha rushed forward but was forced to a stop a second later when a man stepped directly in her path.
“Why am I not surprised to find you responsible for this latest fiasco, Miss Watson?” Mr. George Chambers, her editor at the newspaper, asked, tugging his jacket over his large frame even as he shook his head at her.
Smiling, she shook her head back at him. “Everyone knows it’s the mark of a great journalist to be in the midst of fiascos on a regular basis.”
“Very prettily said, but tell me, what have you brought for me today? And I’m warning you, it’d better be good.”
“My articles are always good, but I don’t have a story for you, since I just sent you an entire feature last week regarding gold mines.”
Mr. Chambers waved that away with a beefy hand. “Yes, yes, the feature you gave me on the gold mines was fascinating, but I need something new, and I need something now. Mr. Reid has gone off and done the unthinkable, and I’m short a feature story for this weekend.”
“What was so unthinkable?”
“He got married. The new wife wanted a honeymoon. He obliged her against his better judgment.” He sent her a glare. “That your suitor?”
Agatha turned her attention to where Mr. Chambers had switched his glare to Francis’s retreating back. “That’s Mr. Blackheart, my bodyguard, remember?”
“Ah, yes, now I do, but you’re not planning on marrying the man in the near future, are you?”
“I don’t think Mr. Blackheart would have me, Mr. Chambers.”
“Excellent. Well, not that the man doesn’t return your affections, but that you won’t be getting married to him soon.”
“I don’t hold Mr. Blackheart in affection,” she said slowly.
“T
hen why did you tell me you did?”
“I’m fairly certain I never mentioned anything about affection, but really, sir, my personal life is not actually any of your concern.”
“It is if you’re planning on abandoning your writing to settle down and bring up a pack of youngsters. I need warning of such events, since I have to make certain I have enough writers. Our readers demand their stories, don’t you know?”
“I have no intention of abandoning my writing, nor am I planning on marrying in the foreseeable future. But I must tell you, Mr. Chambers, I find it somewhat offensive you would make such a statement. Do you badger your male writers regarding their marital aspirations?”
At that moment a high-pitched scream split the air. “Good heavens, I completely forgot Matilda is chasing some poor gentleman, and evidently, Mr. Blackheart hasn’t met with much success in catching her.”
Mr. Chambers’ ruddy complexion suddenly wasn’t all that ruddy. “Who is Matilda?”
“She’s my pig,” Agatha said before she dashed in the direction of the scream and caught sight of Drusilla charging down a different aisle. To her amazement, something came huffing up behind her, and that something turned out to be none other than Mr. Chambers. “Run faster, Miss Watson. That’s Mr. Horace Pitkin your pig is chasing, and if you’ve forgotten, he’s a nervous sort. The slightest drama sends him into a tizzy, and he has a deadline to meet.”
Increasing her speed, she rushed past a row of desks, nodding to writers she knew as she dashed onward and turned down a long hallway only to stop in her tracks at the sight that met her eyes.
Matilda was head-butting a chair Mr. Pitkin was standing on, and with each butt of her head, another high-pitched scream launched out of Mr. Pitkin’s mouth. Francis seemed to be trying to talk in a soothing manner to the pig, although why he wasn’t trying to grab her leash was a bit of a mystery.
“Get her leash,” she called as she started forward again.
“She tried to bite me when I did that.”
Agatha skidded to a stop. “Matilda doesn’t bite.”
“You might want to remind her of that, because she’s been trying to get to this gentleman’s leg ever since he jumped on that chair.”
Prodded into motion when Matilda let out a rather disturbing grunt, Agatha snapped her fingers. “Matilda, enough, you will cease attacking Mr. Pitkin at once.”
To her amazement, Matilda didn’t stop but continued knocking into the chair as Mr. Pitkin continued screaming.
“Get this demented pig away from me,” he shrieked.
“She doesn’t like the word P-I-G,” Agatha yelled, then snapped her mouth shut when she remembered Matilda had figured out what those letters meant. To her relief, Matilda was grunting so loudly that she didn’t seem to hear her. “Try calling her Princess. She adores that word.”
Mr. Pitkin sent her a look of utter disbelief, but his disbelief turned to relief when Francis stole up behind Matilda, snatched the leash from the ground, and gave it a firm tug, hauling Matilda over to his side. “Don’t even think about biting me,” he warned the pig.
Matilda’s ears drooped. She let out a whine, sat down, and promptly turned her head toward the wall.
Agatha moved to help Mr. Pitkin, who was trembling, down from the chair. “I must beg your pardon, Mr. Pitkin. I don’t know what got into her.”
“Apology not accepted, Miss Watson,” Mr. Pitkin snapped.
Looking Mr. Pitkin up and down, Agatha was surprised to discover he’d changed his look since the last time she’d seen him, which was probably why she hadn’t immediately recognized him. Instead of having incredibly short hair, as he had had before she’d headed out west, his hair brushed against the collar of his shirt. And he was no longer dressing in baggy clothing, but in a jacket that was neatly tailored to his thin frame and trousers that didn’t sag over his shoes. The ugly black spectacles she vaguely remembered him wearing had been replaced with a more fashionable style, and overall, he looked better kept than he had the last time they’d seen each other.
“You’re looking well,” she finally said.
“I looked better before your pig got ahold of me.”
“And again, I’m very sorry she chased you, but I—”
“I have no desire to hear your excuses for her behavior. This is the New-York Tribune, a reputable establishment and one not meant for farm animals.”
Thankfully, Agatha was spared a response to that bit of snippiness when Mr. Chambers finally lumbered up next to them, bent over, and began wheezing.
“Are you all right, Mr. Chambers?”
“I’m fine,” he said before he gave another wheeze and straightened. “I think a more important question would be how Mr. Pitkin is doing?”
“I was just attacked by a pig. How do you imagine I am?” Mr. Pitkin returned.
“At least Miss Watson hasn’t acquired a tiger for a pet,” Mr. Chambers said with a hearty laugh, that laugh dying a rapid death when Mr. Pitkin let out a sniff. “Don’t you have a deadline looming, Pitkin?”
Mr. Pitkin released another sniff and then, without a single word, marched away.
“Writers are such a needy lot,” Mr. Chambers muttered. “He doesn’t mingle well with the rest of the staff, so don’t take offense over his behavior, but he’s a harmless sort.” Mr. Chambers looked over Agatha’s shoulder and winced. “Unlike Mr. Jenkins, who, unfortunately, seems to be walking this way.”
“So the rumors are true. The prodigal daughter has returned.”
Agatha suddenly found herself the recipient of a daunting glare cast her way by a handsome gentleman standing a few feet away from her.
“Do I know you?” she asked.
“I don’t believe you’ve been given that pleasure.” The gentleman stepped forward and held out his hand. “Mr. Nicolas Jenkins, reporter extraordinaire and a huge fan of your work, Miss Watson.”
Agatha took the offered hand, forcing a smile instead of grimacing when the infuriating gentleman squeezed her hand a bit harder than was strictly necessary. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jenkins, but I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with your work. What is it that you write?”
Mr. Jenkins’s hand tightened again, and Agatha knew she would probably have bruises, but then Francis stepped forward and let out a growl that had Mr. Jenkins immediately releasing his hold on her. He eyed Francis for a moment, then returned his attention to her, his expression less than friendly. “I took up where you left off, Miss Watson. In fact, Mr. Chambers brought me on from a rival paper right after you departed the city.” His eyes narrowed. “And just so we’re clear, I cover the tenement slums, the factories, the shipyards, and everything else of a nasty nature, and I intend to continue doing so. However, do feel free to snoop out stories in all those brothels you seem so fond of. I don’t actually care to delve into that particular nastiness.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Agatha said. “But do know that I have no intention of only writing about brothels. This city is swarming with unpleasantness, and I, for one, enjoy sifting through that unpleasantness to find the perfect story.”
“Stick to the brothels, or your bodyguard over there just might find himself out of a job. . . .” With that, Mr. Jenkins sent her another smile, nodded to Francis, who was watching him intently, winked at Drusilla, and stalked away.
Turning to Mr. Chambers, who’d not spoken a single word during the exchange, Agatha arched a brow. “That’s who you brought on to replace me? You couldn’t find someone a bit nicer?”
Mr. Chambers dug a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his perspiring brow. “He’s a difficult man, Miss Watson, but he writes well. You should probably stay out of his way.”
“I think I should go speak further with the man,” Francis said before he nodded to Drusilla. “You’ll watch over Agatha?”
“I think I’d be more effective with Mr. Jenkins,” Drusilla said, her eyes glittering. “He’s one of those charmingly chauvinistic types, and he might le
t something slip. After all, he winked at me.”
“Which is why I’ll deal with him,” Francis argued, holding out Matilda’s leash to Drusilla.
“You may stay with Agatha,” Drusilla said before she strode away, leaving behind a glaring Francis with leash in hand.
Mr. Chambers’ brow furrowed. “What in the world was that about?”
“It’s nothing for you to worry about, sir,” Francis explained. “We’ll handle it.”
“Handle what?”
Moving closer to her editor, Agatha summoned up another smile. “Did I mention that I actually have a reason for visiting the paper today?”
“I’m hoping you’re going to tell me you were just teasing me about not having a new story ready.”
“I rarely tease, Mr. Chambers, and no, I don’t have a new story, not just yet. I do have some ideas, but that’s not what I wanted to speak with you about.”
“Am I going to like what you have to say?”
“I guess we’ll soon find out.”
Strolling out of Mr. Chambers’ office fifteen minutes later, Agatha spotted Francis leaning against the wall, Matilda sound asleep by his feet. She glanced to the left and found Drusilla pacing back and forth, her posture perfect as always even though she was practically sizzling with annoyance.
“May I assume your conversation with Mr. Jenkins didn’t go well?” she asked as Drusilla stopped pacing and seemed to be gritting her teeth.
“He’s an insufferable man, insulted me at least fifty times, didn’t let anything of interest slip, and then, had the audacity to ask me out to dinner. He’s lucky I didn’t shoot him.”
“He asked you out to dinner?” Francis growled, moving forward so quickly he jerked poor Matilda’s leash, and the little pig woke up in a flash right before she was pulled a good few feet across the hard floor. She let out a pitiful whine, which had Francis stopping even as he winced. “I do apologize, Matilda. What a rude awakening that must have been for you.”
Drusilla grinned. “Nice to see you’re still immune to the little darling’s charm.”
“She has grown on me,” Francis admitted. “But getting back to Mr. Jenkins. Shall I go track him down and demand satisfaction from him?”
