The Matchmaker's Lonely Heart

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  “No, not at all.” He took her elbow and guided her to a chair opposite his desk. “I am the one to apologize for my shabby appearance.” He began to roll down his sleeves, and she held up her hand.

  “Please, do not change one thing on my account. I ought to have made an appointment or called in advance.” She paused. “I was surprised to learn you had left town.”

  He nodded as he took his seat. “It was a rather urgent matter.” He rubbed his forehead. “I will share the details with you when I am able.”

  “I shall try to be patient, then.” She smiled. “I was hoping to find you here to see if you have made progress on the investigation into Mr. Stern’s death.”

  “Very little,” he admitted and braced his elbows on his desk. “I have many suppositions, of course, but until I can tie all of the pieces together, it remains elusive.” He sat back and put a hand on the desk as though preparing to stand. “May I offer you tea?”

  Her stomach lurched, and she quickly shook her head. “Oh no, no. I am on my way to Hampton House, where dinner awaits.” She smiled, but it felt sickly. She’d had tea with him before. Why was she feeling those ridiculous nerves now?

  He smiled and settled back into his seat. He looked, if anything, more relaxed. “You are feeling fully recovered, then? No excessive residual effects from last week?”

  “I am,” she said, grateful for the change of subject. “I have occasional head pain, and my arm is still tender, but otherwise I am almost entirely myself. I must . . . I feel I must apologize to you for my rashness that morning. I can be rather impatient, and I was so anxious to learn as much as I could about Mr. Stern that I wandered into something that was completely beyond appropriate.”

  “I accept your apology, although it is unnecessary. I understand the motivation to solve the puzzle as soon as possible. Regrettably, much of what I do here does not move quickly.” He smiled, but his blue eyes seemed tired.

  “Where did you go this week?”

  “Marseilles.”

  She raised her eyebrows high. “Marseilles?”

  He nodded, watching her closely.

  “Oh. My goodness.” Mrs. Radcliffe was from Marseilles, and she was buried there. “A coincidence, perhaps?” she wondered aloud.

  He shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “This is wretched. How long am I to wonder before you are allowed to say anything? You know full well by now that I am completely capable of keeping information to myself.”

  His lips quirked. “I do know that, quite well. Even with cousins as curious as cats, you kept our business to yourself until I changed my mind.”

  Our business. It sounded intimate, private, and she felt something warm unfurling in her chest. Had she noticed how handsome he was the first time they’d met? Or had she been too caught up in Mr. Radcliffe’s facade to see the detective clearly? He watched her now with those striking eyes that missed nothing, and she wondered if he could read her thoughts.

  Her cheeks heated, and she managed a smile but dropped her gaze to escape his regard. It left her examining his shoulders and chest, the white shirt and open collar, the loosened tie and unbuttoned waistcoat. He had the appearance of a man who would return home at the end of a long day and loosen the confines of his professional attire, relaxing with the one person who had the right to see him the way nobody else did—

  She blinked. “I’m sorry?” Her face heated more, and she was mortified. If he could read her thoughts, he’d find her ridiculously childish. His world was one where hearth and home were probably the last things on his mind.

  He smiled, looking suspiciously smug. The scoundrel knew he was distracting her! The expression was enough to have her straighten in her seat, and she welcomed the irritation.

  He chuckled. “I said, I am nearly finished here and will see you home, if you wish. Or I can have another constable escort you, the decision is yours.”

  “I would appreciate your escort,” she said, lifting her chin. “The last constable sent to guard me was less than vigilant.”

  He frowned as he rolled down his sleeves and put his appearance to rights. “How so?”

  “He was lured from his post at the hospital, and in his absence, I had an unwelcome nocturnal visitor.”

  He stilled, all traces of good humor vanishing. “Explain. Please.”

  “I am surprised you’d not been informed, actually, as it concerned communication with the offices here,” she began.

  He shook his head. “I’ve only returned from Marseilles in the last hour. The director has been all day in court, and I’ll not receive an update on the week until morning.”

  “You’ve not even been home yet? No wonder you look exhausted.”

  “Do I?” He shrugged into his jacket, and then his greatcoat, retrieving his hat from a hatstand by his desk. “Come along; in the carriage, you’ll explain what I’ve missed.”

  “Rather high-handed of you to presume what I will and will not do.”

  “Should you refuse, I’ll be forced to revoke your deputy status.”

  “Ha. I would be thrilled if there were such a thing at stake.”

  “Oh. I forgot . . .” He looked at a small stack of parcels on the corner of his desk. “I was to drop these by for my sister and brother.”

  “I can certainly travel home by myself, or with another constable, truly,” she hastened to reassure him, even as she felt a stab of disappointment. “Do not alter your plans.”

  “Not at all,” he said, looking up from the parcels. “If you do not mind the inconvenience of stopping along the way to your home?”

  She smiled. “It is not an inconvenience in the least.”

  He gathered the boxes and paused. He lifted the smallest of the three and said, “Actually, this package is for you.”

  For a moment, she was speechless. “Me?”

  His answering smile was sheepish. “It is nothing significant, but as I was collecting treats, I saw this.” He handed it to her, and she took it, flabbergasted. “Please, do not be disappointed.” He looked at her expectantly. “Open it, you’ll understand soon enough.”

  She pulled the string and unwrapped the thin brown paper to reveal a slender box. She knew better than to believe it was jewelry, and as she opened it, she laughed aloud. “A hatpin! You bought a hatpin for me?”

  He chuckled. “I ought to have just handed you the thing outright and avoided this anticlimactic revelation.”

  She laughed again and looked at the lovely ornament, which was topped with a blue crystal flower. She closed the box, slipping it into her reticule along with the paper and string, wishing she could at least place a kiss of thanks on his cheek.

  “You’ve no idea how timely this is. Aunt Sally and Charlotte were mocking me just this evening as my hat flew off in the wind. I shall keep this pin in my reticule, and then, each morning as I reach my front door having forgotten a pin but cannot be bothered to return all the way to my chamber, I’ll have this one with me.”

  He switched off the lights and escorted her from the room. They made their way through the building, and she was acutely aware of him as they descended the stairs and stepped into the cold night. He whistled at a line of waiting hacks, and then, holding the packages in one arm, lent her his other hand to climb inside the cab. He gave the driver an address and then settled in beside her. The cab was small, and she almost sighed in delight at the warmth of his body alongside hers. Sitting next to him was far better than heating bricks or a lap robe.

  “Now,” he said as the cab lurched forward, “tell me about my errant constable. And who, pray tell, was your unwelcome nocturnal visitor?”

  Undercover investigations should be assigned to professional, experienced detectives. Amateurs attempting such exercises may endanger the entire operation with the use of untried skills and methods.

  —
Detective Handbook for Investigative Procedure

  Michael’s chest tightened as Miss Hampton explained that Radcliffe had snuck into her hospital room in the dark while she lay sleeping. He now had another reason to wish to pummel the man, but worse was the accompanying fear he felt. Radcliffe, who had drowned his wife in her bathtub and then dumped her into the Thames, now had set his sights on Amelie.

  He cleared his throat and shifted slightly to better look into her face. “You mustn’t see him, not ever.”

  Her eyes widened. “But I must! I’ve encouraged his suit in order to learn more about his involvement with Mr. Stern’s murder, and potentially his late wife’s. I’ll be cautious, but to deny all contact now when he seems determined to pursue a course with me would be foolish.”

  Heat climbed up under his collar. “Miss Hampton.” He fumed, caught between frustration and deep concern. “I beg of you, do not encourage him further. Your aunt must discourage his attentions.”

  She sighed and closed her eyes. “I am not so naive as to ignore the fact that he is not a good man. I will admit I was completely hoodwinked, but I am no longer enamored of him. If we do not take advantage of this opportunity for me to work undercover, he may slip away!”

  “Amelie, he killed his wife!” His words rang through the small carriage and echoed into silence. He wasn’t certain which of them was more surprised at his outburst.

  She swallowed. “You’re sure?”

  He nodded and took a deep breath; there was no hope for it now. “We disinterred Mrs. Marie Radcliffe in Marseilles, and the coroner found evidence of murder, likely occurring in a bath.”

  “Oh!” Her brows drew into a furious frown. “That . . . that . . . oh!” She clamped her lips together and breathed out of her nose for a moment before looking at him in the dim carriage light. “Now more than ever we must lay a trap!”

  “No.” He closed his eyes. “Ame—Miss Hampton, no. If I am correct in believing he also killed Mr. Stern, Radcliffe may well be the man who attacked you in Whitechapel.”

  She took in his comment, remaining quiet for a moment. He could see the wheels spinning in her head, and he wasn’t certain he’d like what they produced.

  “Let us look at what we know,” he said, his knee bumping hers as the carriage bounced along the cobblestones. “Apologies,” he added.

  “None necessary,” she muttered. “What is it that we ‘know,’ Detective?”

  “We know Mr. Radcliffe and Mr. Stern had a strange encounter an hour before Mr. Stern’s death, in which Mr. Stern made cryptic comments that seemed almost goading in nature, and Mr. Radcliffe’s usually unflappable demeanor was shaken. We also know it was noticeable enough that nearly everyone in attendance perceived the tension between the two men.”

  She nodded her agreement.

  He continued, “I believe Radcliffe located Mr. Stern’s address, went to the flat to destroy any evidence of an association between them, but found you there. He may or may not have recognized you, but either way, he struck you from behind, intending to render you unconscious at the very least, but then you turned, and his billy club struck your arm and head, softening the blow to your head.”

  She bit her lip and looked straight ahead, silent for a moment. “You truly believe he was my assailant?”

  He exhaled, hating to put yet another crack in the rose-colored glasses through which she saw the world. “I do believe that,” he said as gently as he could. “I am sorry that it is even a possibility. You are a wonderful woman, and even if I didn’t suspect him of murdering two people, he does not deserve a moment of your time. He is a rogue, and a cad, and entirely beneath you.”

  She turned her head, her eyes bright even in the dim light. “That is lovely of you to say.” She nodded once and sniffled. “Of course, you probably have the right of it. Everything makes sense.”

  He handed her a handkerchief, and she wiped her nose.

  “Sometimes I do not understand why people are the way they are.” She gave him a wobbly smile.

  “I admit, I have worried your view of the world would be changed, involved as you’ve become with me.”

  She lifted her shoulder. “It is not as though I’ve been a stranger to sadness; both my parents have passed, and Charlotte’s mother died under mysterious circumstances when we were young. I suppose I am always surprised to hear about instances where one person has grievously wronged another.” She paused. “I know I must sound like a child to say such things.”

  “You do not sound like a child, Ame—Miss Hampton. You are a truly good person.”

  She looked at him beneath her lashes. “I do not mind if you address me by my given name. I feel as if we are friends, and I . . . I do not mind.”

  It was suddenly insufferably warm in the carriage, and he fought the urge to loosen his collar. “That is kind of you to say so, especially as I have already slipped up.”

  She smiled. “I am flattered. It suggests a level of comfort that I very much appreciate.” She glanced away, but then straightened in her seat and met his eyes. “I enjoy your company, Detective, and hope that when this business with Mr. Radcliffe is at an end, we might at least remain associates.”

  “Michael. My given name is Michael.” The corner of his mouth turned up. She had given away her emotions in the literal stiffening of her spine, which meant it had cost her something to make the admission. His respect for her climbed another notch.

  If he wasn’t careful, he might develop feelings for her that would give way to hopes and dreams he’d already decided to keep at bay. Feelings that extended beyond a desire to steal a kiss or spend time in her company. The more he respected her, the more his affections grew—these were simply additional reasons to protect her from a life that would inevitably hold more grief. He would not do to her what Stanley’s death had done to Clarissa.

  The carriage slowed to round a corner, and Michael looked out the window. “We are nearly there,” he said. “This is my sister’s home, one she shared with her late husband.” He swallowed. “Who was also my former partner on the police force.”

  “Oh, I am sorry,” she murmured. “How awful for the both of you.”

  He nodded stiffly. “Thank you. She has an infant, and also living with Clarissa is our brother, Alexander.” He wondered what kind of scenario he was walking them all into by taking a stranger to visit his family, even briefly.

  “She has an infant—so her husband’s death was recent?”

  He nodded again. “Six months ago. Their daughter was born after his death.”

  “How tragic for you all.”

  The carriage rolled to a stop, and Michael hesitated with his hand on the door handle. “My brother, Alexander, he is . . . different, and I—”

  She leaned forward, raising her eyebrows high, and waited.

  “He is just different. That is all.”

  She looked perplexed, but said, “Different is good. Different is wonderful.”

  He nodded, but still hesitated.

  “Will he hit me over the head with a truncheon?”

  His laugh caught him by surprise, and he shook his head, smile lingering. “No. He will definitely not do that.”

  “Well, then. I am already in better hands.” She hesitated. “Would you rather I remain in here? I understand if you prefer to speak with your family alone—”

  “No.” He opened the door and stepped down, extending his hand to her. “You are not sitting alone in a carriage.” He called up for the driver to wait, and then escorted Amelie to the door of a modest home, tidy and well-kept. He’d not bothered with an umbrella, so they hurried through the drizzling rain, and he knocked quickly.

  Michael heard his infant niece, Mae, crying, and the noise grew louder as the door opened. His sister looked weary and near tears.

  “Hello, Michael,” she said, smiling and opening the door wider
. She ushered them inside but glanced in question at Amelie.

  “Clarissa, are you mistreating my favorite girl again?” He took the baby from her, and Amelie took the packages from him. He held his niece high against his shoulder, bouncing the way his mother had taught him to do years ago with Alexander. He smiled at his sister as the baby quieted for a moment. “Clarissa Moore, may I introduce my work associate, Miss Amelie Hampton.”

  Clarissa may have been confused, but she covered it smoothly with a polite smile. Amelie offered her hand. “It is lovely to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Moore.”

  Clarissa waved toward the parlor across the hall. “Will you join us for tea?”

  Michael shifted the baby and moved farther into the front room, but shook his head. “I regret, we cannot stay. The driver is waiting, and I am escorting Miss Hampton to her home, but I brought you and Alexander treats from France.”

  “Again?” Clarissa smiled and tucked a few wispy strands of blonde hair behind her ear. “You spoil us rotten, Michael.”

  “Michael?” Alexander emerged from the parlor across the hall, smile wide, and his uniquely almond-shaped eyes happy.

  “Hello! I’ve brought treats.” He smiled at his younger brother and put an arm around his shoulders.

  “Treats! Are they sweet treats?”

  Michael chuckled and looked at Amelie, whose eyes were on Alexander. Her expression was tender and compassionate.

  Her eyes glistened, and she said, “Alexander, I am Amelie, and very pleased to meet you!” She turned to Michael and said, “May I?” She held up the boxes.

  “Oh, yes. The one on top is for Alexander. The other is for Clarissa and Mae.”

  Amelie gave Clarissa her gift and then moved to Alexander’s side. She handed the box to him. “Do you mind if I watch as you open it? There are few things more delightful than treats.” She smiled, and Alexander grinned at her.

  As Alexander began removing the paper, Michael glanced at Clarissa, who watched the tableau with interest. She met Michael’s eyes with a clear question in her own, and he lifted a shoulder and smiled.