by Merry Farmer
Lawrence paused in his work to watch her. She was so beautiful, so pure and innocent. Taking her in and then bedding her had seemed like another pleasing action that fit into his carefree philosophy of life, but in a few short weeks she had come to mean more to him than that. She was in danger. She needed his protection.
“What?” she asked, glancing up from her work with a shy smile.
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “I was just admiring your beauty.”
She laughed. The sound sent shivers down his spine. How could a woman who laughed like that be guilty of murder?
She couldn’t be. That was the only answer. From everything he’d seen in Grasmere, it was far, far more likely that Hoag had done the killing and Matty had merely defended herself. But unless she regained her memory, there was no way to know for sure. He could only feel the truth.
He went back to working, hammering on the hinge with all his might. He hated not having the answers, not being able to trust what his heart was telling him. Mathilda Wright had pushed Trevor Hoag into a fire the night Matty’s mother was killed. Lawrence could easily believe it was self-defense on Matty’s part, but what must have happened for her to react so fiercely?
He brought his hammer smashing down a final time, and the flat of the hinge snapped. He blinked and hopped back. Had he been paying so little attention that he’d overworked the piece? Evidently so. With a sigh, he tossed the tongs that held the hinge aside. He’d have to melt the ruined work and start over.
“I’ll just be off to the Pycroft’s now,” Matty said as she put the broom away.
Lawrence had been so absorbed in his fruitless thoughts that he hadn’t noticed she’d finished sweeping.
“I’ll walk with you,” he said, marching away from the anvil and taking his leather apron off to hang on a hook.
“Lawrence,” Matty scolded with a laugh. “You don’t need to escort me wherever I go, you know. You walked me into town on Tuesday and on Wednesday, when all I was doing was shopping.”
“I like to be with you.” He shrugged, feigning a smile.
Evidently, it didn’t reach his eyes, where Matty was looking. She shook her head. “You’re worried about me, but I don’t know why.”
“Because I love you,” he said. It was more a gamble than a term of endearment.
Matty wasn’t fooled. “All right,” she said. “I’ll let you get away with it. This time.”
It would have to be good enough. Lawrence crossed to give her a quick kiss, then moved on to the bucket of wash water he kept under the shelter of the roof in the workshop. She splashed some on his face and shoulders, scrubbed himself with a washcloth, then donned his shirt. Matty waited for him by the path leading up to the main road, and when he reached her, she took his hand.
May had slipped into June without him noticing. The last vestiges of spring had unfurled into the warm greens of summer. Above them, the trees that lined the road to Brynthwaite were thick with leaves and birdsong. Thrushes and sparrows called to each other from the branches. In the undergrowth, squirrels and rabbits, and likely a few silent foxes, scrubbed for ready food. It was Lawrence’s favorite time of year, when Nature was at her fullest. Mother Grace would be preparing for Midsummer festivities. He should have been relaxed and at peace with the world, not bristling out of his skin with uncertainty.
“I know you will refuse to talk about what’s troubling you,” Matty said as they walked, “so I will tell you about what’s troubling me.”
“Something’s troubling you?” He cursed himself for not having noticed earlier.
Matty shrugged. “Not actually me. The Pycrofts are under a great deal of strain at the moment.”
“Oh?” He should have noticed what was going on with his friends too, for that matter. When was the last time he saw Marshall? Had his friend been upset?
“Mary tells me that her father has been far more prickly lately than usual,” Matty went on. “She thinks it might be due to the letters that her mother’s sister, Eileen, continues to send from London, but she also thinks there’s more to it than that.”
“What does she think it could be?” Lawrence asked.
Matty sighed. “She’s not sure. All she knows is that he has always gone to the hospital in a terrible mood and returned in a good one, but lately he’s gone to the hospital in a bad mood and returned in an even worse one.”
“Marshall has always been dour,” Lawrence said. He tried his best to think through what could be bothering his friend, but every thought he began ended with another concern about Matty. If Marshall was in a slump, should Matty be at the Pycroft’s less often? Perhaps more often?
“Poor Mary is at her wit’s end,” Matty went on. “She’s older than her years, but she doesn’t know what to make of Dr. Pycroft’s moods. Between you and me, I think it has something to do with Dr. Dyson and the guests from the house party.”
“Mmm,” Lawrence replied, rubbing his chin. Should he be looking for ways to shelter Matty from the troubles of her past or should he work to get her to regain her memory?
“That house party up at the Hall has the town buzzing with gossip,” Matty continued. “Half of the conversations I pass on the street are people discussing what activities they’ve been up to, what the ladies were wearing, which of the guests were seen out walking with the others. You’d think no one had anything better to discuss than the goings on of the rich.”
“The rich always invite comment,” Lawrence said.
They were at the edge of town, so he kept the rest of his thought so himself. Matty may have had a point. Usually, when he strode into town, at least half of the old biddies walking the streets eyed him, ready to be scandalized. Today, hardly a one of them took notice. He and Matty managed to sail right past them with no more than a stray glance.
That is, until they crossed the intersection between the train station and the post office.
“Smith!”
They were stopped by a shout from none other than Mayor Crimpley. Lawrence paused and pivoted to search him out. Top hat and cane at the ready, Mayor Crimpley huffed his way out of the post office and down the sidewalk toward them.
“Stop right there, Smith,” Crimpley ordered.
“I’ve already stopped,” Lawrence replied. He didn’t have time for this. Nothing about Crimpley betokened good news.
“I’ve been hearing some disturbing rumors, Smith,” Crimpley said, whiskers twitching, as he stopped a good five feet away from Lawrence and Matty. “Some very disturbing rumors indeed.”
No, there wasn’t a single part of Lawrence that had so much as a moment to spare for this kind of nonsense.
“What rumors?” he asked, voice flat.
His restless disinterestedness flared to warning when Crimpley said, “Rumors of a bloodthirsty murderess from Grasmere on the loose.”
Matty sucked in a breath and squeezed closer to Lawrence. Lawrence tensed. Was that a confession? Had hearing the report sparked some memory in her?
“What does that have to do with me?” Lawrence asked, sliding his hands into his pockets and continuing to appear disinterested.
Crimpley narrowed his eyes, darting a glance from Lawrence to Matty. “I heard tell that you made a trip up to Grasmere just last week.”
“I did.” Lawrence nodded. “I went to visit Curt Albright.”
“Hmm.” Crimpley’s eyes narrowed further. He rocked on his feet, suspicion dripping off of him. “Can you prove that?”
Lawrence huffed an irritated breath. “Write to Albright himself and ask, if you must. Now if you’ll excuse me, we have better things to do than stand here and exchange gory gossip.”
He turned to march away, sneaking an assessing look at Matty as he did. She’d gone quiet, her eyes downcast and her cheeks splashed with pink.
“You can’t hide the truth from me, Smith,” Crimpley called after him. “I know your kind. I know what you gypsy-types are capable of.”
“I’m not hiding anything,” Lawr
ence replied, raising his voice, but not bothering to turn and look at Crimpley. “Though maybe I should,” he finished in a murmur.
“Murderess,” Matty whispered. She breathed shallowly as they walked on toward the Pycroft’s street.
“I doubt it’s anything you need to be concerned about,” Lawrence told her. His words were not reassuring. He didn’t believe them himself. Matty was far too perceptive to believe them.
“Lawrence,” she spoke softly, dragging her eyes up to meet his. “What if—”
She stopped cold, her eyes flaring wide as she saw something beyond him. Lawrence turned to check what it was. At the other end of the street, a man was pushing himself to stand from where he’d been leaning casually against the side of a building. Not just any man. It was the man who had followed him from Grasmere, the spy. The man’s jaw dropped open as he removed the pick he’d been chewing. Recognition was sharp in his eyes. In Matty’s too.
“Do you know him?” Lawrence asked.
Matty didn’t answer, she only gaped. The spy came to his senses. He shook his head and slammed his mouth shut as color filled his face. Then he turned and ran.
The moment he was gone, Matty blew out a shaky breath. She swayed closer to Lawrence, trembling.
“You do know him,” Lawrence said, closing his arms around her.
“I…I don’t know,” Matty squeaked. “I do, but….”
Lawrence grappled with the burst of fear that flooded him. The man had started following him after he’d spoken to Trevor Hoag. The recognition between him and Matty now could only mean one thing. Matty was Mathilda Wright. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. That meant she was in grave danger, danger he’d put her in. Well, if he could land her in danger, he could take her out of it.
“Come on,” he said, gripping her hand tightly and changing direction to rush down the street and out of town.
Matty went with him, but after the initial shock wore off, she resisted. “Where are we going? I have to go to the Pycroft’s.”
“Not today, you don’t,” he told her.
“But—”
“Matty, the stakes are too high for you to argue with me,” he said. The dam of secrets within him burst. He couldn’t hide what he knew any longer. “Something bad happened in Grasmere that led to your coming to me. The man who we saw back there, I suspect, is working for a much deadlier man. I saw him on my trip. I believe he is looking for you.”
“Oh no.” Matty’s hand trembled in his and she picked up her pace to jog alongside him. “What do I do?”
Lawrence had been asking himself that same question for days, and now he had an answer.
“I’m taking you somewhere where you’ll be safe,” he said. “Somewhere no one will find you until we sort this thing through. We have to discover what really happened to you before you showed up at my doorstep.”
“But how?” she pleaded, near tears. “How can we find that out? And where could you possibly take me where no one could find me?”
A grim smile touched Lawrence’s lips. “To the same place where they have never been able to find me.”
Flossie
“And you’re certain a dozen boats will be enough?” Jason asked, watching himself in his full-length mirror as Flossie straightened his waistcoat and made certain his tie was in order. She still couldn’t look at certain of his ties without blushing after the use they’d been put to last week.
“A dozen for the house party guests,” she confirmed, “plus two for staff. Yes, that should be more than enough.”
She arched a brow at him as he studied his reflection, uncertain about what he saw, if his frown was any indication. Flossie didn’t know what he was fussing about. He was a fine, handsome man in an expertly tailored suit. His hair was carefully brushed and he’d only just shaved. The surge of pride she felt in his appearance was matched only by the complete bafflement in his reluctance to approve of himself. Although since the incident with the ties, they were finding odd ways around that.
“I believe we may have observers to our game this afternoon,” he said, catching her eye in the mirror. “After Bronson came back from setting the buoys for the prizes this morning, he reported that word was spreading about the competition.”
“As well it should,” Flossie grinned. “It’s an excellent idea for an afternoon’s diversion, if I do say so myself.”
He returned her bold comment with a saucy smirk and a spark in his eyes. “It was your idea.”
“Precisely.” She grinned from ear to ear.
It had indeed been her idea to lure the house party guests to the hotel with a boating competition. A dozen rowboats had been commandeered for teams of guests to man as they raced through a roped-off area of the lake at the bottom of the hill from the hotel, collecting tokens that would earn them prizes. She had initiated the idea and Jason had run with it. Between the two of them, it had grown into an entertainment that had the house party and half of Brynthwaite buzzing. It was exactly the sort of collaboration that sent Flossie’s heart soaring.
“Coat,” Jason ordered, standing straighter and holding his arms out to his sides.
“Coat?” Flossie fetched Jason’s ever-present coat from its hanger on the wardrobe door, but she hesitated. “Sir, it’s quite warm outside today, and you’ll be on the lake. Are you certain you want to wear this old thing?”
He fixed her with a look that was equal parts scolding and sheepishness. “Flossie. In the entire time that you’ve known me, have you ever known me to leave this apartment without that coat?”
“No, sir.” She met him sass for sass. “And in the entire time I have known you, I have never seen you as relaxed and in control of yourself as you’ve been lately.”
His confidence slipped. “For now,” he said. “But if that confidence should fail….”
Flossie sighed and shook her head. Honestly. If Jason didn’t start trusting himself soon, she wouldn’t be responsible for what she would do about it.
She shook out the coat and crossed behind him, holding it up so that he could slip his hands into the armholes. Then she lifted it and settled the heavy garment on his shoulders. Jason stood where he was, strangely content, as she circled in front of him to straighten the shoulders and do up the buttons, starting from the top. When she fastened the last one, she brushed the lapels. Her hands stayed where they were, splayed over his chest. The firm, steady beat of his heart under her hands filled her with a warmth that she dare not put a name to, even though she knew what it was.
“Now,” he said, glancing down at her with utmost seriousness. “What is my charge for today?”
A pinch of guilt pricked at Flossie’s stomach. She swallowed, chewed her lip.
“You must not look at Lady Stratton,” she said. Her stomach fluttered at the order.
“At all?” he asked.
“No, not at all. Not even if you are addressing her directly.”
“Understood.” He nodded.
She chewed her lip.
Since the ties, Jason had seized on the notion that he could fight his natural inclinations and maintain his serenity if Flossie issued him a daily order. The moment he had suggested the idea to her—the morning after the extraordinary night of love-making that had happened post-ties—a vast and complex set of rules to the game had been established. Flossie issued orders, Jason followed them to the letter. The orders could not be too trivial or easy to follow. They had to present a challenge, something that he would be forced to think about, to keep in the back of his mind at all times as he went about his work. They had to be something risky, something that could have attention drawn to it, almost as if Jason wanted someone to stop him during the day to ask him what in heaven’s name he was doing. One day his challenge had been not to leave the lobby for an entire morning. Another it had been not to touch any blue objects. Still another, he had been forbidden to take the main staircase and only to use the staff stairs.
Flossie approached the whole thing with a hefty dose of ske
pticism. The whole thing felt uncommonly bizarre to her. Giving the orders and then policing them filled her with a rush of power that wasn’t entirely welcome. But she couldn’t argue with results. Jason was as happy as she’d ever seen him. She would never understand the man.
He placed his hands over hers, clasping her to him, then bent forward to kiss her. Their lips touched in a tender communion. Whatever strangeness Jason needed to embrace to feel normal, she cared for him deeply enough to commit to it. Lord help the both of them if they were ever discovered.
“The guests should be arriving around noon for luncheon before the competition,” Jason said, switching to a tone that suggested he was her superior and it was her job to obey. “Some of them hinted they may arrive early to tour the gardens and play croquet.”
“Lady Elizabeth?” Flossie asked, lips twitching to a grin.
“Very likely.”
“We will prepare accordingly.”
She winked at him, then took a step back to tug the sheets off his bed. They were a mess, of course. Last night had been particularly adventurous, as were all nights when Jason was in a good mood.
“I’ll consult with Cook about the menus and see if she can’t have something ready by way of a light snack in case they’re hungry when they get here,” Jason finished. He took one last look at himself in his mirror, tugged on his coat a final time, then turned to march out of the room with a, “Let the games begin.”
As soon as he was gone, Flossie chuckled to herself. Who would have thought that such a topsy-turvy life could make her so happy?
She rushed through stripping Jason’s bed, conscious of the time, then took the wadded armful of sheets with her out through the apartment, stopping to collect the towels they’d each used after bathing that morning. The hotel was already buzzing, in spite of the early hour, as she made her way out to the hall. They had a full complement of guests once again, which filled Flossie with pride. There was nothing like a successful business to make one feel good about life. Except, perhaps, an exciting relationship. She deposited the sheets in the chute that would take them to the laundry room downstairs, then headed on down the main stairs herself, a spring in her step.
