Her gaze snagged on the detective, who was observing the group with an unreadable expression. She would never have believed his purpose there was anything other than what he claimed it to be. His attention traveled from Mr. Radcliffe to Miss Trunsteel, who hovered near Mr. Radcliffe’s side, to the elderly twins making subtle but ribald remarks about their unsuitability as chaperones, then to Amelie’s cousins, and then to her. She had the distinct impression that he’d sized them all up and categorized them neatly in his brain. She wondered where he had put her. Probably somewhere between “socially convenient” and “meddlesome.”
“I suggest an omnibus,” Mr. Radcliffe said. “We shall all ride together to the theatre.”
The detective offered Amelie his arm, and when she saw Mr. Radcliffe do the same for Miss Trunsteel, she accepted Baker’s. Mr. Baker’s lips twitched, and she narrowed her eyes at him. He didn’t say anything, and for that she was grateful. He was a detective, so naturally he would have detected she held a tendre for Mr. Radcliffe. She wasn’t exactly secretive, and she knew her emotions were usually on full display across her face.
The group thanked their hosts and bid farewell to other book club members as they made their way from the Forresters’ residence. When the word spread that a small entourage was headed for Drury Lane, a few more gentlemen joined the group. By the time they had all strolled from the Forresters’ neighborhood to the nearest omnibus, they were an impressive gathering.
Amelie felt herself finally beginning to enjoy the evening. She relaxed by degrees, and even her irritation with the detective began to fade. He was simply doing his job, and soon he would learn that Mr. Radcliffe was no criminal. As it was, Mr. Radcliffe now stood between the elderly Van Horne sisters, one on each arm. He had them laughing and blushing like schoolgirls.
She climbed onto the omnibus and settled toward the rear beside her friends, with the detective finding a seat just behind them, and Mr. Radcliffe and the rest of the group in front of them. The carriage dipped as a few extras climbed atop and settled onto the long seat that ran the length of the conveyance. As they made their way to the theatre district, Mr. Radcliffe finally did what she’d been hoping for those last two months—he engaged them in conversation. She was tongue-tied and wished she hadn’t eaten even the couple bites of tea cake she’d managed to choke down.
“This is Miss Amelie Hampton,” Charlotte said with a smile and held her hand out to Amelie. “We reside at Hampton House in Bloomsbury.”
“Ah, lovely!” Mr. Radcliffe’s expressive eyebrows rose as his attention lingered on Amelie before turning to the others. “I am to understand you are all ‘working women,’ is this correct?”
A feeling of unease found its way to the base of Amelie’s spine. She did not want to admit they worked for the very publication he’d solicited.
“Indeed,” Charlotte told him. “We are each employed at—”
The detective sneezed behind them, close enough to Amelie and Charlotte that they both jumped reflexively. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and offered a wry smile. “Apologies, ladies, to be sure.”
Charlotte’s mouth had gone lax, and now she closed it, raising one brow. Amelie was aware of his motives, however. He’d stopped Charlotte from revealing their place of employment. She knew a moment’s frustration, thinking it would have been better to have taken Charlotte and Eva into their confidence.
“Hay fever again, is it, Mr. Baker?” Amelie asked politely. “I do remember you suffering from it when you visited last year.”
He nodded and wiped carefully at his nose. “I do beg your pardon, Miss Hampton, Miss Duvall. Absolutely inexcusable.”
“How, again, are you acquainted with one another?” Mr. Radcliffe asked.
Amelie swallowed as Radcliffe turned his ice-blue eyes on her. She tried to speak but was unable to form a response. Heat rose to her cheeks, just as the detective answered the question.
“I tutored Miss Hampton’s brother, Stephen. I was fortunate to spend time with the family, as well.”
“A jack-of-all-trades, then! What subject did you tutor?”
“Humanities.”
Mr. Radcliffe smiled. “That accounts for your deeply held convictions regarding Juliet and her Romeo.”
Detective Baker chuckled. “Indeed. But once I realized my true calling was in police service, my path became clear.”
One of the Misses Van Horne said something in an undertone that sounded to Amelie like a commentary on the benefits of placing a man under arrest, and she exchanged a wide-eyed glance with her cousins; Charlotte choked back a horrified laugh. To the elderly women’s credit, they’d not lied—to refer to them as suitable chaperones was true only in the loosest of terms.
When the omnibus turned a corner and the theatre came into view, Amelie felt a moment of genuine delight. She loved the theatre, which was no surprise, given her affection for stories.
Mr. Radcliffe turned around and said, “Now, Miss Hampton, what is it that occupies your daylight hours?” His expression suggested he knew of her bashfulness with him, and he kindly paid her attention.
She swallowed again, and when the conveyance lurched to a rather jerky stop, gave a silent prayer of thanks. In the general ruckus of passengers rising and exiting the bus, she breathed a shaky sigh.
She needed time to collect her thoughts about admitting to her work for The Marriage Gazette. It might be that he would think nothing of it, but what were the odds that she would work for one of the hundreds of weekly periodicals published in London where he happened to send his personal ads?
It truly had been only a coincidence, but bringing the detective into the mix was another thread tying them all together in a way that could become suspect if they weren’t careful. Mr. Radcliffe was intelligent, and were he to discover that the detective was not actually a longtime friend of Amelie’s family, he would smell the deception.
Charlotte caught Amelie’s eye as they exited, her gaze both confused and suspicious. She flicked a look from Amelie to the detective and back again.
Amelie’s heart thumped. Charlotte, she knew, was also intelligent.
Witty conversation may be helpful in establishing rapport with a debutante, but do not expect the same depth of discourse with her as you would with a male friend or fellow gentleman. The female brain is delicate and must not be overtaxed. Women who pursue education or read excessively develop male characteristics in their facial features. Reserve your complex debates for other men.
—The Gentleman’s Guide to Efficient and
Profitable Courtship by Sir Percival Prancey
Michael caught Amelie’s arm as they followed the rest of the Cheery Society Book Group members into the theatre. He held her back from the others and whispered, “You cannot reveal to him your place of employment!”
Her eyes flashed. “I know that, thank you very much, Mr. Baker!”
“Inform your cousins—”
“They also know that,” she hissed. Her nostrils flared, and she yanked her arm free.
“You told them about this though I expressly swore you to secrecy?”
“Of course not!” She exhaled through her nose. “They know that he is the man who wrote to the paper. I swore them to secrecy that we all happen to work at the very place he contacted. Entirely coincidental, but suspicious on the face of it.”
He paused. “Well . . . Miss Duvall seemed ready to divulge—”
“Miss Duvall is the cleverest person I know and would have told him an outright lie before betraying a confidence. Your ‘sneezing’ act was completely wasted. And quite unpleasant, I might add.”
He cleared his throat, poised to apologize, but then was irritated that he felt chastised for simply making certain the charade continued without a hitch. His brows knit together. “What will you say when he asks again where you work?”
“I shall te
ll him as much of the truth as possible—was that not your counsel?” She glanced down the aisle and waved at her cousins with a smile. “Come, we are causing more curiosity than is wise. I cannot begin to imagine what sort of tale I shall be forced to spin for them later.”
He followed her down the aisle, bemused to see that her cousins had arranged the seating so Amelie would be next to Radcliffe. Her step faltered, and he touched her elbow, nudging her forward. He took the seat on the other side of her, and the lights went down.
Radcliffe murmured something to her, and Amelie nodded with a quick smile.
Tension fairly radiated from her, and he couldn’t for the life of him imagine what it was about Radcliffe that had women in such knots. Actually conversing with the man and spending time in close proximity to him served only to solidify Michael’s prior opinion. The man was as slippery as an eel.
He noted the moment when Miss Hampton relaxed and lost herself in the play. She was an enigma to him, an odd combination of visible emotion and common sense. He’d underestimated her and, apparently, her family. He wished that newfound knowledge would put him at ease. From the moment he’d involved Miss Hampton in his scheme, he’d felt things subtly shift from his control.
The play was a light romantic comedy of errors and might be one his sister, Clarissa, would enjoy. He would have to make arrangements to accompany her for a night away from the baby for a time. He wondered if she would be comfortable leaving her baby with their brother, Alexander, who, although responsible and earnest, had the mind of a child. The familiar stab of worry about his family hit like clockwork, and he reminded himself he was doing everything in his power to see to their support and safety.
As the actors on stage wove their story, his mind drifted to the year before, when Stanley and Clarissa had married, and he’d first begun to feel tendrils of contentment replacing his constant worry. With Stanley to see to Clarissa’s well-being, he had removed one responsibility; although Clarissa would have harsh words for him if she knew he’d ever considered her as such. Michael and Alexander had stayed in Michael’s small flat, and Clarissa and Stanley had moved a short distance away to a quiet street and had begun establishing a family of their own.
Seeing his sister’s grief had altered the way Michael viewed his own future. He could never imagine juggling the responsibilities of both his siblings and a wife of his own, to say nothing of the irresponsibility he felt it would be to expose a woman to such potential heartache. His job involved a high amount of risk, and he wouldn’t make a widow of someone he cared for.
Miss Hampton chuckled softly at the antics playing out onstage, and he glanced to his left. Radcliffe was sharing a smile with her, and when she focused again on the play, Radcliffe’s eyes lingered on her face. He then made eye contact with Michael, raised one brow and cocked the side of his mouth upward.
Michael returned the smile and sat back, the false gesture feeling distasteful. He glanced again at Miss Hampton, taking note of how the delicate line of her neck disappeared beneath a lace collar of pale blue. She blinked, the long sweep of her lashes visible in profile. His jaw tightened at the thought of Radcliffe, seated on her other side and leering at her.
He wondered if he’d led Miss Hampton into a lion’s den. But then he remembered how she had spied on Radcliffe outside the restaurant. She was clearly smitten with the man, and certainly with Miss Duvall’s clever help, she’d have found herself associating with Radcliffe sooner or later.
At intermission, the lights went up, and the audience shifted, conversations began, and people left their seats for refreshments or to use the necessary. He heard Radcliffe’s voice and turned his attention to him.
“I still have not learned of your vocation, Miss Hampton, and I am most curious. But wait, allow me to guess. Perhaps with your trim frame and lovely complexion you pose as a model for artists or photographers? Clothing designers?”
Michael fought to keep his expression neutral. Surely she would not fall prey to such ridiculous flattery.
Miss Hampton’s cheeks blushed a lovely pink, and she smiled. “No, nothing of that sort.”
“Ah. Hmm, as a member of our book club, you are clearly well-read. Perhaps you have joined the ranks of intrepid females who work for daily newspapers?”
“No.” Her smile slipped, but then righted itself. “That does sound exciting, however.”
Michael realized he was watching Radcliffe disarm the young woman before his eyes. Gradually fading away was the girl incapable of speaking to Radcliffe without stammering or looking faint. Only a light blush remained, and it served to enhance her appearance, rather than detract.
“A shopgirl, then? You are employed in a respectable boutique where you sell women of quality the finest gloves and linens, and you exhibit long-suffering patience for the haughtiest of customers.”
“No.” Still the smile remained in place. “Shall I tell you?”
“Please, you must. My curiosity is unbearable.” Radcliffe winked at her, his attention completely focused on Miss Hampton, as if she were the only person in the world.
“I am simply an office worker for a small business that provides social services.”
Michael tipped his head. All things considered, she’d handled herself well. Miss Hampton was probably free of further scrutiny as long as Radcliffe never asked what kinds of services were provided.
“What kinds of services does the company provide?”
Michael sighed.
“Oh, many things,” Miss Hampton said, her fingers clenched in her lap. “Courtship advice, and such. I mostly answer correspondence.” She smiled, and Michael wondered if Radcliffe noted the strain in it.
“I cannot help but assume you are the loveliest part of the establishment. One hopes you sit near the entrance as the company’s face. Business would certainly become very brisk with you drawing in the customers.”
“You’re very kind.” Her strained smile nearly cracked, but she saved it. Michael did not know much about Miss Hampton’s moral compass, but he suspected she was pushing it to its limit.
Miss Hampton’s friends rose from their seats, and Radcliffe stood to let them pass.
“We thought to go for some punch, Amelie,” Miss Caldwell said.
“I’ll join you,” Miss Hampton said quickly, and the three of them left the row and made their way up the aisle to the lobby.
Michael stood and watched them leave, hands in his pockets and leaning on the seat back of the chair in front of him. Once they had disappeared, he turned his attention back to Radcliffe, who was watching him with a grin.
“Which one has caught your fancy? You seem particularly familiar with Miss Hampton,” Radcliffe said, stretching.
Michael nodded. “I imagine long hours at the Chancery must grow monotonous.”
“Not at all. I like to vary my routine, keep busy.” He smiled again. “You’ve sidestepped the question about our three little cousins.”
Michael shrugged. “All three are beautiful. I know Miss Hampton well enough, but not her cousins. I do not suppose I have designs on any of them. You have been a member of the Cheery Society Book Group for some months, yes? I suppose you must have a preference.”
Radcliffe chuckled. “Miss Trunsteel is a bit more willing to engage,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb to where Miss Trunsteel was in animated conversation with the elderly twin sisters and the two other gentlemen who had joined the party at the last minute. “I am afraid Miss Hampton and her friends are more skittish than colts. This evening marks the first time any of us have actually conversed about anything personal. The younger ones always require more coaxing.”
“I should hate to believe that one of those young ladies will end up with a broken heart.”
“Ah, a sentimentalist! No doubt you are concerned for the delicate feelings of your Miss Hampton. It is good to know, howev
er, that should my interests fall in her direction, I would have the blessing of a family friend. I mean, you do not carry a torch for her yourself, correct?”
The words suddenly stuck in his throat, and Michael had to force them out. “I do not,” Michael said. “You’ve no cause for concern on my account. I should hope your intentions are honorable, though; I do have a sense of responsibility for her well-being.”
“Of course. You of all people are aware that I am a widower, and I never believed I would find an interest in courting someone new. As I said before, I cannot help but feel that my angel wife is encouraging me to live life to its fullest.” Radcliffe smiled, the expression a mixture of sadness and self-deprecation.
Michael wished he could ask if Radcliffe had perhaps hastened his angel wife prematurely into the eternities. “Having never married, I can only imagine the difficulty.”
“Painful.” Radcliffe nodded. “Loneliness, however, is its own kind of hell. As the Lord said, ‘It is not good for the man to be alone.’”
“Indeed.”
“Do you have no intention to marry? I would imagine the company of a compassionate wife would be a comfort at the end of a long day chasing criminals.”
“I find the prospect of creating a widow out of a good woman to be unappealing. The wife of an officer of the law does not have an easy life.”
Radcliffe nodded, and his brow wrinkled in sympathy. “Ah, of course. You’ve lost a friend and partner to the dangers of the career. Your sister’s husband, was he not? Of course you would see her pain more keenly than others. Little wonder you seek to avoid that predicament for yourself.”
Michael stilled. He kept his expression smooth, open, despite his rising temper and thumping heart. “How do you know of my circumstances?”
“Oh, I must sound horribly invasive. I happened across an old newspaper article a colleague had in a stack of rubbish to be hauled away. Imagine my surprise when I read about the unfortunate turn of events that befell the very detective who later crossed my path. A shame it is, truly a shame, to lose loved ones. So very painful. Perhaps the human animal would benefit substantially from an absence of emotion. What would our friend Darwin think of such a principle?”
The Matchmaker's Lonely Heart Page 7
