“Gauche of me to even think it, of course, but the print alone cost a pretty sum. I can only imagine the cost to paper the entire room.” She smiled and took the sofa near the hearth. She indicated the one opposite. “Please, won’t you have a seat?”
He handed her the bouquet with a head bow and sat down. “Miss Hampton, you are looking the very picture of health. I trust you are recovering?”
“I am, quite. I’d have been up and about much sooner, if not for my doctor and protective aunt.” She lifted a shoulder. “Rather difficult to argue when faced with such formidable foes. Incidentally, sir, I must thank you for the lovely bouquets. They brightened each and every day of my solitary convalescence.”
He leaned forward, handsome face earnest and intense. “Miss Hampton, I wonder if you would do me the honor of . . . of addressing me familiarly? By my Christian name?”
She widened her eyes. “Oh, goodness, I . . . I do not know quite—”
He indicated the spot next to her on the sofa. “May I?”
“Yes, certainly.”
He moved next to her and held out his hand, which she took.
“Miss Hampton, I find I am quite taken with you, and I believe you share those feelings, if I am not mistaken?”
She nodded but didn’t trust herself to verbally confirm it. She felt heat rise unbidden in her cheeks.
“I pray you will understand the sincerity of my intentions when I say that I never expected to meet another woman who would pique my interest or stir my emotions as did my dear, departed Marie. Imagine my shock to have found such beautiful communion a second time.”
She swallowed. “Mr. Radcliffe, I am incredibly honored, but I am not accustomed to rushing into situations. I would ask to progress at a comfortable pace.”
“Of course, dear Miss Hampton! I hope I have not shocked you with my ardor. I should dearly love to hear my name on your lips, but if it is too soon, I do understand.” He placed his other hand atop hers, and she felt trapped.
She resisted the urge to pull free and said, “Harold, is it?”
He smiled broadly. “It is.” He ducked his head in what she assumed was a play at bashfulness. “And when you are comfortable, I welcome the liberty to address you by your Christian name.”
She was saved from comment by the arrival of the tea tray, carried in by Mrs. Burnette, herself. She arched a brow at the scene, and Amelie took advantage of the opportunity—as if embarrassed to be caught by the housekeeper—to withdraw her hand from Mr. Radcliffe’s.
Mrs. Burnette settled into the corner of the room with her embroidery, and Amelie served Mr. Radcliffe the tea. As she carefully went through the motions, experiencing only minor difficulty with her bruised arm, the man plied her with compliments. Everything from her hair, to her eyes, to her cheeks and lips—nothing escaped his notice, and he paid grand homage to what he described as her “splendid beauty.”
She sipped her tea and nodded and smiled, occasionally ducking her head bashfully, as he had done. She was chagrined to realize that less than a month ago, she would have fallen at the man’s feet for saying such things to her. She would have felt undeserving, and flattered, and completely overwhelmed. Now that she suspected him of possibly committing crimes, she felt as though blinders had been removed from her eyes, allowing her to see the truth all around her.
He reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I’ve taken the liberty to write a poem in your honor, if I may be so forward?”
“My goodness, yes, please. It is I who am honored, sir!”
He smiled and leaned closer. “Harold?”
“Harold.” She ducked her head again.
“Thy lips are like a red, red rose,
“Thy cheek as soft as dew,
“O, how I wish to ever look
“At you, and only you.”
She thought she heard a noise come from the corner, but she covered it by placing a hand over her heart and saying, “Oh, Harold, that was lovely! Simply lovely.”
She must have given the reaction he was hoping to see. He beamed and took her hand. She was holding her teacup in the other and felt silly at the awkward pose.
“May I call here again tomorrow? I know you’ll be returning to your work at the Gazette soon, but I shall happily save my evenings for you.”
Amelie wondered what he would say if she blurted out that she could probably bring little by way of a dowry to any man.
“I often attend events with my cousins on a moment’s notice, and therefore cannot guarantee I shall be here every evening for your visits.” She did her best to look crestfallen.
“Perhaps you might send word to me if you will be attending an event I may also enjoy?” He smiled, brows raised, and she nodded. “Excellent.” He patted her hand and gave it a squeeze. “I must be on my way—very busy afternoon at the Chancery.”
“Of course. How fascinating your work must be!”
“Perhaps more tedious than working on criminal cases, but infinitely more lucrative.”
She set her teacup aside and stood as he rose, accepting a kiss on the hand. “Thank you again, Harold,” she said, placing emphasis on his name, “for all the flowers and cards and notes of well-wishes. I have been overwhelmed with your generosity and your attention.”
He smiled broadly. “It was my pleasure, my dear. I only hope to be the one in your life who knows the pleasure of giving you flowers for eternity.”
Her smile faltered, but she quickly ducked her head in what she hoped was perceived as modesty. She couldn’t help but imagine him at a graveside, placing flowers on his dead wife’s headstone. Eternally.
“Until tomorrow,” he murmured, and left.
It is highly improper for a woman to accept gifts from a gentleman for whom she holds no affection. He should be graciously thanked, and the gift gently refused, lest the gentleman be led along a primrose path of unrequited affection.
—Miss Wilson’s Rules of Etiquette
for Girls and Young Women
Amelie finished her workday, more tired than she’d imagined she would be after spending the day at a typing machine answering letters for the advice column. As she finished tidying her area, Charlotte, whose desk faced hers, let out a sigh.
“Do you remember the carpetbag portmanteau I ordered?” Charlotte asked. “The one best suited for art materials?”
“The one from Poodles and Company?” Amelie rubbed at an ink stain on her finger, wondering if she’d ever be able to keep her hands clean for more than a day at a time.
“Yes. I’m beginning to believe the ‘Poodles’ are, in fact, little more effective than the canines with whom they share a name.” Charlotte frowned.
Amelie set down the handkerchief and looked at her cousin. “What is it, really? You are not often undone by misplaced or delayed orders. I presume there is another problem?”
“Yes, there is another problem. I have been planning a day trip home to paint the fall colors, and if I must keep postponing it for lack of a decent carrying case, the leaves will be gone.”
“Why not simply use your old art case?”
“The handle is broken. Which is why I ordered a new one. I am frustrated because I ordered it ages ago. I planned well in advance, and it has come to naught.” Charlotte rested her elbow on the desk and cupped her chin in her hand. “Aggravating, I tell you. To plan on something and have it continually run off the rails.”
Amelie’s brow knit as she studied Charlotte. “Again, you seem as though something else might be bothering you.”
Charlotte’s eyes moved from the groove in the desk she traced with her fingertip to Amelie’s face. “I am unsettled.”
“How so?”
She sighed. “I do not know how to . . . I cannot decide the best course of action for my life. I enjoy working here, but I do not wis
h to edit personals and society columns forever. What I think I might enjoy seems incredibly far-fetched and out of reach.”
“You would like to attend medical school.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened. “I have never said it aloud.”
Amelie smiled. “You’ve not needed to say it aloud. Eva and I have guessed as much for months.”
“You never said a word!”
“You deflect the conversation every time we come near it.” Amelie paused. “Probably because you are afraid?”
Charlotte’s shoulders drooped, and Amelie found it unsettling. Charlotte was the firebrand, the boldest and bravest of the cousins. “I am afraid,” she muttered. “I do not have the luxury of even imagining myself in such a profession.”
“It may be difficult, but certainly it is something you could do, if you wanted to.”
Charlotte shrugged. “School is so expensive, and I haven’t the money to go. Women have been allowed into those hallowed halls for the past three decades; yet I hear tales of poor treatment still. I could never face my family as a failure. My brothers would have no end of teasing at my expense.”
“Charlotte, you are one of the smartest people I know,” Amelie told her honestly. “I believe that if you want this, you should do it. Can you imagine anything worse than regret?”
“To live with regrets would be horrible.” She again traced circles on the desktop. After a moment, she said, “There is a gentleman at home, an old friend of my father’s, who has ties to a university. He has offered help and advice to my brothers, and I think he may do the same for me. Even though I am not a boy.”
“Ah. This doubles your disappointment at not having the new portmanteau for your trip home. Well,” Amelie said, slapping her hands down on her desk, “I suggest you go anyway. See what you can learn from this old friend! And if he refuses to help, well then, the pox take him.”
Charlotte’s mouth slid into a grin. “You’re sounding quite recovered and bold today.”
“I suppose I am feeling bold. Staring death in the face has a way of changing one’s perspective.” She paused. “Dramatic of me. I wasn’t truly staring death in the face. But it was frightening.”
Charlotte nodded. “It was frightening, Amelie. We were terrified for you. You might have been killed. Eva and I couldn’t sleep that first night. Do you still have no memory of your attacker’s face?”
Amelie shook her head. “None. The local constabulary suspect it might have been a neighbor who knew Mr. Stern had passed and thought to ransack his rooms. I was truly at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Or it could have been whoever killed Mr. Stern.” Charlotte sat back in her seat. “I have stewed about that, I do not mind telling you. I am hopeful your detective is exploring all avenues in the course of his investigation.”
“He is hardly my detective.” Amelie frowned and added, “He left town for work without so much as a by-your-leave.”
Charlotte pinched her lips together, clearly trying to hide a smile and failing spectacularly. “One wonders why that should bother you.”
“Well,” Amelie said, feeling defensive, “we are colleagues, after all.” She sighed. “Of a sort. I am wondering about the status of his investigations into both Mrs. Radcliffe’s mysterious death and poor Mr. Stern’s untimely end. I feel foolish for going to his flat alone in a neighborhood foreign to me. I ought to have known better—I did know better. My curiosity will be the death of me.”
Aunt Sally left her office, speaking to her assistant over her shoulder, and then joined Amelie and Charlotte. “Good work today, girls, as always. Eva is still out photographing the wedding?”
Amelie nodded. “She mentioned the wedding party was going to be huge, and we all know how time consuming it can be when there are so many moving parts.”
Aunt Sally rolled her eyes. “Mother of the bride wants this, mother of the groom wants that, and we must have at least two photos of grandmother, because she is at death’s door. Poor girl is going to need an assistant who has the luxury of time, so not one of you two. We may need to advertise.”
Amelie smiled, and as she looked at Charlotte, an idea formed. Sally had been generous with all three nieces and had helped Eva purchase the photography equipment. Eva repaid the advance over time and used the equipment for both Gazette and personal use. Often, the two overlapped in the same setting, and Sally, always a generous employer, allowed Eva to do her personal work while on assignment.
Amelie knew her aunt would help Charlotte pay for schooling—she’d offered to fund any sort of training the girls desired—but Charlotte was proud and stubborn. She would never ask it of Sally on her own. Amelie added a mental note to discuss it with Aunt Sally. Her list of things requiring immediate attention was growing.
“I’ll check the machinery, and then we shall be off,” Sally said.
As Amelie gathered her belongings and put on her coat, hat, and gloves, she wondered if the detective had returned yet and if he was at his office. “I believe I shall stop by the Yard on the way home,” she told the others as they exited the building and Sally locked the door. A gust of wind sent her hat flying, and she muttered a curse, hoping nobody overheard.
As she dashed after it, she stopped short when a passerby caught it and handed it to her with a chuckle. “Thank you,” she said and crammed the thing onto her head.
“Hatpin,” Aunt Sally and Charlotte said simultaneously, and Amelie made a face.
Sally smiled. “If we decide to add deportment lessons to our list of services, I think Eva would be ideal to teach the class on accessories and organization.”
“Are you truly considering it?” Charlotte asked as they strolled away from the office.
“When that gentleman brought in his daughter, Barbara, for emergency training, I thought it ridiculous, but then I gave it serious thought . . .”
Amelie’s mind wandered as Sally continued speaking, and in her memory, she kept seeing Detective Baker sitting beside her bed in the hospital and holding her hand. His had been the first face she’d seen upon awakening, and as confused and in pain as she’d been, she’d been glad to see him.
Detective Baker. Detective Michael Baker. She wished he would ask her to use his Christian name in conversation. Michael Baker. Michael. It was a nice name, a noble name. A strong name for a strong man who had little use for silliness and artifice, but possessed a subtle sense of humor that made her smile. The first night at the book group gathering when he’d fallen directly into step with her, teasing back rather than being affronted when she’d told Mrs. Forrester he composed poetry and played the harp—
“Where are you?” Sally asked Amelie, giving her arm a little shake.
Amelie blinked and looked at her aunt. “I . . .” She smiled feebly. “Woolgathering, I suppose.”
Charlotte grinned at her. “Would you care to share the details?”
Amelie wrinkled her nose at her. “No, I would not. Furthermore, I must hail a cab if I’m to arrive at the Yard before the detectives leave for the day.”
“Some of them work long hours,” Sally said, arching a brow at Amelie. “I suspect the one you’re hoping to find will still be there.”
Amelie didn’t bother to plead ignorance, but she was glad when the walkway became too crowded for them to continue walking three abreast. She felt a raindrop hit her nose, and she looked quickly down the street, hoping to catch a hack before being forced to open her umbrella.
Sally held up her arm and, as she always did, immediately secured a cab for Amelie.
“Are you going this way?” she asked Charlotte and Sally.
“I am stopping by Poodle and Company,” Charlotte said and squinted as the rain began to fall steadily. “I’ll see you at home!” She dashed behind Amelie’s cab and climbed into another one Sally had snagged.
“Be safe, dearest!” Sally cal
led. She shouted directions to the driver, and then to Amelie, added, “Do not walk home alone from any point. Take a cab directly to the house, am I clear?”
“Yes, of course!” Amelie settled back into the cold conveyance and shivered, wishing for the luxury of heated bricks or at least a lap robe. As they drove the busy streets through the rain, her thoughts swirled with the idea that she was on the precipice of something. She didn’t know what it was, but as surely as she knew anything, she felt change in the air.
The cab reached her destination, which was a hive of activity, even considering the evening hour. She paid the driver and hurried inside, making her way through constables and detectives to the CID department where she knew Detective Baker’s office was located. She politely declined offers of help as she went, walking with a purpose that assured she was not stopped by anyone.
Detective Michael Baker, she thought, repeating his name in her mind like a wish as she climbed stairs and walked down the hallway. He might not be there, she cautioned herself, but even still her heart beat a little faster as she approached the large common room where constables and detectives milled about.
The door bearing the names “Detective Baker” and “Detective Winston” was ajar, and light shone from within. Hoping very much she wouldn’t find only Winston inside, she knocked lightly and peeked around the corner.
“Yes?” Detective Baker was seated at his desk, and when he saw her, he rose and made his way to the door, his face a combination of surprise and worry. “Are you well?” he asked, bypassing all polite salutation.
She smiled, her heart thumping harder. “I am,” she said with a laugh. “And hello to you, Detective.”
He smiled, rueful, and ran his hand through hair that looked as though it had received that treatment several times already. His tie was loosened, his jacket slung over the back of his chair, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to show forearms corded with muscle and definition.
She swallowed, flustered, and lifted her gaze to his face. “I am sorry to arrive unannounced,” she began.
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