by Lynn Donovan
“Oh, I keep to myself, Mr. Gordon. I prefer the sanctity of my library to attending soirées or balls.” Her father’s bold words floated into her memory. Last month’s soirée, remember, my dear? “While people in the community know of me, no one actually could pick me out in a crowd.”
Mr. Gordon’s bushy ginger brow pressed together, causing a well-creased wrinkle to divide his forehead. “Well, your solitary lifestyle aids us in your going undercover here in the Denver area, but how, may I ask, do you suppose you would be eligible to interrogate a person of interest to subtly extract information if you are not accustomed to… talking with people?”
Laurel stiffened. She swallowed the offense and lifted her chin. “I’m not incapable of talking to people, nor do I have any trouble drawing information from an encounter with a ‘person of interest.’ I’m very observant and intuitive.” She licked her lower lip and scraped her upper teeth across it, calculating how far should she take this performance.
“For example, from your accent I know you are originally from Scotland…” She closed her eyes, recalling an envelope on his desk showing a return address from an Aunt Eilidh Gordon. “Near Ivercylde, I’m thinking, but you came to America… twenty or more years ago, I’d say by the honed down edges of your accent.” She stood to pace the length of his desk, as if she were thinking, but in truth, she scanned his work area more thoroughly from her peripheral. “Although your heart belongs to one special woman, you’re not married, unless you want to count your work… because you certainly spend more time in that chair than you do in your room… or with other people—” She lifted her eyes, recalling the three levels of windows she saw when she walked up to the mansion. “The top floor is reserved for the women closest to you who live here, for propriety’s sake your room is on the second. That way, on those rare occasions when you are in your room, you can protect the women from an intruder downstairs with ease.”
Mr. Gordon’s forehead-wrinkle deepened. He was hooked with fascination.
She continued. “Your sister… lives here.” Recalling the frilly curtains at the third level tied back with pink satin ribbons, but the windows were closed. Marianne would never decorate with such youthful feminine decor. It had to be the room of the young girl in the framed picture on his credenza behind his chair. The closed window confirmed overheard gossip at the haberdashery about Victoria Gordon’s lewd trickery, placing herself on assignment. If she were still present in the home, her windows would be open to fresh air on such a nice day as this. “Although she’s currently out on a case.”
Gordon’s jaw went lax. “How could you possib—”
Laurel spoke over him. “Miss Chapman, also a single woman, didn’t start out as your personal assistant…” She looked Mr. Gordon up and down. Her heart sped up with anxiety that she could be pushing her luck too far. But she had to convince him she had all the skills necessary to be a Pinkerton. Even with a wild guess such as she was about to make. “No, I quite think you hired her as a… cleaning woman.”
“How—” He tossed down a pen and leaned hard on his forearms.
Ah, she was right. She continued, elevating her chin slightly. “She’s a strong personality and extremely efficient. Dedicated to this agency… and you.” She fluttered her eyelashes, as if to entice a young gentleman caller. Not to flirt with Mr. Gordon, by any means, but to accentuate the simplicity of her deductions.
“You, being more concerned with the effective operation of this company than the tidiness of the household, you would have recognized those skills in her and she would have simply worked her way into taking care of matters you had no idea you needed help with. The two of you obviously have a comfortable… balance” —recalling the banter as Marianne left his office— “and work well together, although you feel the need to remind her who runs the office. Even though everyone knows who that really is, they all let you think… what you will.”
“Now see here!” Mr. Gordon stood abruptly, his face flushed to umber.
Uh-oh. Had she gone too far? The office door popped open and Marianne pushed a tray with tea into the room. “I thought a nice cuppa would be pleasant. I have some cookies freshly made, too.” She looked at Mr. Gordon’s defensive stance, darted her eyes to Laurel, and back to Mr. Gordon. “What?”
“Thinks she’s already a Pinkerton detective, she does.” His brogue heavier than it had been earlier.
Marianne rotated her amused gaze between them. “Well, good. That’s what she came here for and the Governor seems to agree. What’s the problem?”
“The problem! Well… the problem—”
“Who’s got a problem?” The man she’d seen duck into the kitchen traipsed into the room unannounced. She’d been warned this might happen. Now, here he stood. And even more handsome in a fresh suit and polished shoes.
Laurel pulled her mouth closed. “I’m Laurel Wel- uh, Robinson, and you are?”
“Ransom Williams, ma’am.” He shook her hand, but his inquisitive eyes flitted between Archie and Marianne.
“Yes.” Marianne poured three teas. “She’s our newest recruit.”
“Ah.” Ransom’s dissatisfaction with her answer evident in his knitted brow. “So Gordon, rumors in the field were accurate, we’re hiring women now?”
Mr. Gordon let go of a long, drawn out sigh. “Sit down, Williams. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
“Yes. Then, I’m going hunting! I’ve waited a long time for some vacation time, and I’ve got me a hankering for squirrel.”
Gordon turned to Laurel as if he’d nearly forgotten she was still in the room. “Oh, Miss Robinson. Could you excuse us… uh, Marianne, would you show Miss Robinson the women’s quarters?” He turned to Laurel. “That is, if you are still pursuing this as a career?”
She nodded, maintaining a confident smirk. Inside, she had a hundred emotions bouncing around in her head like a ricocheting bullet. He had no idea how few options she had in the matter.
“Good, then. Marianne, please show Miss Robinson” —his eyes jumped to Laurel— “but don’t get too settled. We’ve got a pressing matter that I’m going to assign as soon as I’ve received Ransom’s report.”
“Ah-alright.” Curiosity drew Laurel’s brow, but she forced it to relax and turned to Miss Chapman.
A satisfied smile curled at the corners of Miss Chapman’s mouth. “Miss Robinson, if you please.” She gestured for the door.
For the second time, Laurel handed Marianne her teacup with nary a lipcolor mark and followed her into another part of the mansion. “They won’t be too long. Would you like a sandwich or something? I have a feeling you’ll need the sustenance. Knowing Mr. Williams, this new case will probably sweep you two up into an investigation right away and then who knows when you’ll have a chance for a good meal.”
“Well, I—” Laurel had come here ready to be accepted into the agency’s employment, but she didn’t expect to begin on a case immediately. “I suppose I should put my things… somewhere.”
“Yes. But let’s wait until Mr. Williams receives his orders. Then we’ll know whether you’ll be staying here or… what.” Marianne turned to enter the kitchen, then turned back. “You are aware that as a condition of your employment and training, you will be married to your partner—for your protection and reputation. It’s required. An annulment will be offered after you two solve your case.” A twinkle glistened in Miss Chapman’s eye. “If you wish.”
A thrill shot through Laurel’s chest. Could it be true? Ransom Williams would be her partner? She lifted one eyebrow. “You mean to tell me—” She pointed with an upturned fist and thumb toward the office. “That man will be my… husband?”
Marianne’s pleasantness slid into a serious, almost secretive, tight lipped expression. “I wouldn’t know until Archie makes the decision. He matches the teams, not me.”
She turned with a slight lift to her toes and pushed through the swinging door.
Laurel sat staring at the door’s movement. Well,
she was in. And if Ransom Williams was to be her partner, at least he was very pleasant to look at. His dry personality suited her fine. She needed a partner who would be all business. She wasn’t here to retain a husband. She had a job to do. Two jobs, really. One for the agency and one for her father. Regardless of the duality in her mission, in the end, all she wanted was her own freedom.
Voices rumbled from Mr. Gordon’s office. Mr. Williams was not happy with whatever Gordon had told him. Great! Now, Laurel had an angry partner to deal with, too. Well, she’d distilled her father’s anger often enough. She could handle Mr. Ransom Williams’s temper. He was a Pinkerton agent, after all. They had an unbreakable code of honor and she knew she’d never be in any physical danger from Mr. Williams. Life was improving already.
CHAPTER THREE
“By the powers vested to me, I pronounce you Man and Wife. You may kiss your bride, or… shake hands.” Archibald Gordon swatted at the air above his head as if a fly tormented him, dismissing altogether what they chose to do to finalize the ceremony. He conducted the improvised wedding while standing in the entry with the large wooden front door as the altar. Laurel and Ransom stood facing him, Marianne and a Judge Hotchkiss flanked Mr. Gordon, and a woman from the kitchen, named Pearl Bolton, stood behind Laurel, sniffing occasionally as if this was a real wedding.
Laurel had heard an interesting exchange between Marianne and Pearl about cake. Cake? As in wedding cake? Laurel and Ransom were matched as partners, and given an assignment—evident by the dossier in Mr. Williams’s left hand. They were halted at the mansion’s entrance for the ceremony to be performed—was Mr. Gordon even authorized to perform such a legal matter? She could only assume so.
They were married before being swept out the door to begin solving their case, whatever it was; Mr. Williams had not had a chance to brief her yet. So why on earth would they need a cake? But Pearl stood with a small fancy cake in hand, waiting for the right moment.
Mr. Williams pecked Laurel on the cheek with such speed, she barely felt it. Still the brief encounter seared her skin like a brand. She’d never had feelings for a gentleman, nor had she ever been kissed by a man before. Although this was hardly a show of affection, it sealed the deal, and sparked something deep inside Laurel that she needed to analyze later, when she had a moment to herself. Assuming she’d have such a sacred moment anytime soon.
Pearl shoved the token cake into Laurel’s hands and kissed her cheek. Marianne congratulated her then turned to wait for Mr. Williams. He shook the judge’s hand and then Mr. Gordon’s, nodded toward Marianne, and kissed Pearl on the cheek. That kiss seemed much more sincere than the one Laurel had received, but she bet herself it didn’t have the same effect. Pearl wiped a hanky to her tear-filled eyes and blew her nose. “Ya’ll be careful, now.”
“Always, Pearl. I gotta come home to your good vittles.”
Pearl blushed and waved Mr. Williams’s teasing away. “You gotta wife now to cook for ya.”
His eyes swept the small party as if to check that he’d addressed everyone, then he spotted Laurel. An awkward moment lingered between them. They were married. What now? Lifting the dossier as if to say, “Here’s what’s next.” He sauntered up to her and placed his hand on the back of her waist, “Let’s go somewhere quiet where we can discuss our case, Mrs. Williams.”
She stiffened. That was her name now! Mrs. Ransom Williams! Laurel Williams! He applied pressure on her back, causing her to move. Her feet tangled and she stumbled forward. Mr. Williams grabbed her elbow to steady her. She nodded appreciation and let him guide her out of the building. “Wh-where are we going, Mr. Williams?”
He held up the dossier as if it answered her question. “We’ve got a case, and we are partners.” He hesitated as if he too suddenly stiffened beyond being able to walk or move. Was he just now realizing the situation they had placed themselves in?
“We’re more than partners, Mr. Williams.” A flood of heat filled her cheeks. They were married! Not in the true sense of the institution by any means, but married all the same. Laurel really needed to be alone. She needed to adjust. So much had just happened. Marianne mentioned something about adding to her suitcase… a traveling dress, standard wardrobe allowance. Perks for becoming a Lady Pinkerton.
“Where are you taking me?” She hated the panic in her voice. Her heart pounded in her ears and her breath sped up as if she had run up three flights of stairs. She needed to calm herself. She wasn’t in any danger. He was a Pinkerton agent, bound by a code of ethics and responsibilities. No danger! Closing her eyes, she tried to still her breathing the way she always did, but Mr. Williams pulled at her elbow, moving her forward toward a horse and buggy. He wanted her to get in the vehicle. The toe of her boot caught the small step and she fell unceremoniously into the buggy landing on one knee. The cake slid from her hands, smeared across the wooden floor, and smashed against the opposite side. Blue sugar blossoms and white icing splattered the leather inlay door. The cake split into thirds, exposing the soft sweet interior which lay in large crumbled pieces.
Ruined was Pearl’s kind gesture for celebration. Scrambling to recover her grace and humility, Laurel struggled to lift herself into the seat and brush off the dirty smear on her skirt from the previous patrons muddy boots against the floor.
Mr. Williams grappled to help her, but was in no position to assist without touching her inappropriately. He climbed in looking first at the cake mess and then at her. “Are you alright?”
“Of course.” She brushed one more swipe at the spot where her knee had ground her skirt into the dirty floor and sat back stiffly, staring out the opposite window and willing the tears to recede. How could she clean up that cake? Her handkerchief was too small. She turned her gaze toward the mansion, looking past Mr. Williams, but dismissed the idea of asking anyone inside to assist. She turned her knees toward him to avoid the confections getting on her hem and returned to stare out the opposite window.
The buggy rocked forward. The horse whinnied. It seemed far away in a fog. The motion of the buggy caused her tummy to churn. A dizzying sensation swirled in her head. Biting down on her lower lip, she stayed the nausea. Where were they going? She had no idea, but didn’t dare loosen her grip on the nausea lapping at the back of her throat to ask. Finally, the buggy rocked to a halt and Mr. Williams leapt down, turned gallantly, and extended his hand to her.
She was supposed to go with him… to discuss their case… she was a Pinkerton trainee… and his wife. A black veil drew at her peripheral. She placed her gloved hand into his and let him pull her from the vehicle. Carefully stepping out, she straightened at his side.
“Welcome home, Mrs. Williams.” His smile reflected in his voice. “You’re in for a challenge.”
She lifted her eyes to the four story red brick apartment building. This was their home. He was her husband and partner. “A-a challenge?” She stammered, fighting the blackness that threatened to overtake her.
“Archie has finally assigned the very case I’ve been itching to solve.”
“Uh huh.” She licked her dry lips and tried to swallow against an arid throat.
Williams informed the driver of the cake mishap and paid him extra for the cleanup, then returned to her side. Holding up the dossier again, as if it answered her question, “We, Mrs. Williams, get to solve the Ghost Thief mystery!”
Her knees turned to water. A momentum swept over her as she crumpled to the ground. She slid from his grip as he tried to catch her suddenly limp body. Words jumbled against her tongue which felt too fat to move properly as she tried to say something, anything. A loud buzz filled her ears, growing louder and louder. Then nothing. The black curtain slammed shut.
Ransom anxiously paced his small apartment. He was a company man. A Pinkerton company man. That meant something. Something about his character. He lived by a code. It wasn’t always easy, but it was a solid guiding light when things got… complicated. Like now. A sinful element of pride filled his chest. Not
every man in these difficult times after the War could truthfully claim such an honorable stance in life. He turned to the woman he had brought to his apartment.
Laurel Robinson’s unconscious body draped across his small bed. When she fainted, he had gathered her into his arms. Most grooms carried their new brides across the threshold of their new home, but how many of the brides were unconscious when their grooms performed this ritual? Did the passers-by think this was simply that—a post wedding ritual?
No one seemed concerned that Ransom’s bride had collapsed into his arms as she exited the buggy. People strolled past without so much as a glance. Not even the driver atop the small carriage seemed to notice anything was amiss. Ransom did what he thought was best. He carried her in his arms, with her head against his shoulder, up three flights of stairs, and managed to unlock the door without dropping her or standing her against the wall.
The strenuous efforts increased his breathing and the aroma of honey and vanilla from her hair increased his heartbeat. It reminded him of sunshine and an open field of wildflowers, bees and butterflies, a picnic for two. He looked into her sleeping face. But she wasn’t just sleeping. She had fainted. A wave of guilt shot through his chest. What had he done to cause so much strain on her constitution?
His eyes roved over her dark hair, contrasting pale porcelain skin, long curved eyelashes, the slight upturn of her nose, and the fullness of her oh-so-kissable lips. He should have kissed them when he had the chance. When Archie said, “you may kiss your bride, or shake hands.” Ransom missed the single opportunity to touch her lips with his. A thrill rushed through him. To kiss her now would be… wrong.
She was beautiful—even in her current state, she was such a beautiful woman. Women like her were not a part of his life. As a Pinkerton agent, he mingled with the riff-raff of society in order to learn information and solve crimes. The women he interacted with were not attractive. They hid behind thick makeup and gaudy costumes. Work had been his mistress, his social life. He never took time off between cases. Archie always had an urgent case that needed Ransom’s attention. Leisure time was a fantasy for the lazy. But this assignment came with a partner. A female trainee. Only she had fainted as soon as they stood before his apartment building.
