“You saw him for what he was from the very beginning.”
“Cynicism is a requirement for my profession. Had I been a tailor, as my mother advised, I might have become Harold Smith’s bosom friend.”
She laughed, grateful for the levity. She inhaled slowly and relaxed. “Somehow I cannot envision that.”
“Which part? My life as a tailor or as Mr. Smith’s confidante?”
She tilted her head as she studied him. “I think you would be a splendid tailor. You may not look the part, but you have a very exacting temperament that would lend itself well to producing lovely things.”
His lips turned up in a smile. “How is it I do not ‘look the part’?”
“Tailors are thin and stooped, and they wear glasses perched on the end of their noses. Just here.” She lifted the pen and used the capped end to tap him softly on the tip of his nose.
He looked at her eyes, her mouth, and then slowly released her hand to cup her cheek. “Miss Hampton, you are quite unraveling everything.”
“How so?” she whispered.
“The best-laid plans . . .”
Something in his tone caused her to brace herself. “What are those plans?”
His smile suddenly seemed sad. “My line of work does not lend itself to emotional security for family and . . . loved ones.”
She swallowed. “So you have decided to keep yourself free of such entanglements?”
He quietly exhaled. “I have. I had. My father was a constable and died while performing his duty. My brother-in-law and partner died while performing his duty. I saw the effects those deaths had on my mother and sister, and I cannot, in good conscience, do that to a woman I . . .”
Her spirits sank as he trailed off. “What a shame, Detective. I suppose that such a woman would then marry a factory worker, or other laborer, or a man in any one of a number of dangerous professions. Or perhaps a banker, who is accidently trampled in the street by a runaway carriage. Or a farmer who contracts consumption at the village autumn fete and succumbs to it weeks later.” She shook her head and pulled back.
He released her, remaining silent, watching her.
She shrugged, stuffing the pen and notebook into her reticule. “We are all going to die someday, and what a pity it would be to lose the possibility for happy opportunities because of fear.” She furrowed her brow. “You mentioned the detective who first interviewed Reverend Flannery is nearing retirement, which must indicate he has arrived at a certain advanced age. In fact, I have seen several gentlemen of varying advanced ages in my current comings and goings at the Yard. I am left to believe, therefore, that although an occupation such as yours does carry with it inherent risk, the odds of living a long, full life are not improbable.” She paused. “I daresay there are risks associated with hundreds of professions. Yours is not unique, Detective.”
She fell silent, deciding she’d delivered enough of a lecture. She tried desperately to swallow disappointment at losing something she hadn’t been aware she wanted.
His expression didn’t change for a long moment. Then he moved forward and touched her shoulder. He slid his hand along the curve of her neck, up to her jaw and cheek. His strong fingers cupped the back of her head, and he touched her face with his thumb, slowly, as though giving her an opportunity to pull away.
She placed her hand on his jacket and curled her fingers into his lapel. He whispered something—a curse, perhaps, or a plea? She couldn’t discern it over the sound of her heart beating in her ears.
He lowered his mouth to hers. He kissed her softly, the warmth of his lips a contrast to the coldness of his nose. She reveled in the contact, marveled at it, at the communion, the intimacy of returning his kiss. He shifted his stance, and she feared he might pull away, but instead, he brought his other hand to her head, deepening the kiss.
As the moment came to a gradual end, her grip on his coat relaxed. He didn’t break away, but slowly lifted his head and looked at her with those blue, blue eyes.
“Shall I apologize?” he whispered against her mouth.
“I sincerely hope you do not,” she managed.
“Even though we stand in clear view of the world?”
“We are shielded by trees. And we do not know anyone here.”
He smiled slowly and kissed her again, soft, small touches that provided a counterpoint to his earlier, more passionate, kiss. He trailed his lips along her cheek and whispered into her ear, “You are the most incredible woman I have ever known, and I love you.”
She closed her eyes and exhaled, this time a tear escaping. “I love you,” she whispered back, baffled. “I truly do, and it happened without fanfare. How is that possible?”
His breath escaped in a quiet laugh against her hair, and he moved his arms to encircle her and pull her close. He held her quietly, blocking the wind and enveloping her in warmth.
“We shall cause a scandal, and your aunt will have my head,” he murmured against her ear. “Or we shall freeze to death in place.”
“I am very warm,” she murmured into his coat and nuzzled closer. “Also, you smell good.”
His laugh rumbled in his chest, and she felt it against her cheek. “As do you, Amelie Hampton.” He sighed. “What am I going to do with you?”
“You could kiss me again.” She felt her cheeks warm, but she was determined to stay in the moment as long as she could.
He looked at her as though she was the only person on earth, and she lost herself in the depth of his blue eyes. “I could spend a lifetime kissing you, and it would never be enough.”
“Good,” she whispered. “I do hope you will make an effort.”
He spread his fingers around the back of her neck and threaded them into her hair, pulling her close again. He drew her body up against his with an arm wrapped tightly around her waist, and she reached for his shoulders as he descended, crushing his lips to hers.
She opened herself to him, relishing in each sensation as feelings crashed over her. He was right—it would never be enough. She breathed him in, wanting to stay in his embrace forever. Every practical thought fled, and her only reality was the feel of his lips as he kissed her as though he were starved for air only she could provide.
Her legs were weak, and she again clutched his coat, gasping as he finally released her from the spell he’d woven. He trailed his lips along her neck, his uneven breaths warming her skin as he eventually calmed and loosened his embrace by degrees.
“Wait,” she whispered, leaning against him as she tried to catch her breath. “I cannot stand.”
She felt his smile against her skin as he placed the softest of kisses just below her ear. “Deputizing you was pure folly,” he murmured. “We shall never get any work done.” He slowly kissed her cheek, her eyelids, and then finally rested his forehead against hers. “I love you. We must finish this thing so that I know you’re safe, and we can move beyond it.”
She ducked her head, suddenly feeling shy. What did one say after being kissed senseless in the street?
He lowered his head to catch her eyes and rubbed his thumb across her cheek. “Are you well?” he murmured.
She nodded at him with a small smile. “I am searching for something witty to say.”
He grinned. “Lack of wit is not something I would ever associate with you, Amelie Hampton.” He kissed her once more, firmly, and then released her, threading her arm through his and pulling her close. “I confess to also feeling rather scattered. There are a dozen things we should probably do here in town, but I can’t manage to pin down even one.”
She smiled up at him. “Now that you’ve deputized me, I have an idea.”
“Do you, now?”
“We must find the town storyteller. Every village has at least one, and I have questions.”
He took a deep breath and released it. “Let us find this worker of mag
ic, then. Where shall we start?”
“The main street leading through town. I’ll know her when I see her.” She was glad for a purpose to move forward again, preventing any awkward comments she might feel compelled to blurt out. She still felt the touch of his lips on hers, and she forced herself to refrain from tracing her fingertip along them.
She walked closer to him, now, feeling the thrill of it, and their pace was considerably slower than it had been before. She felt giddy, and while Michael hadn’t proposed, what had just transpired was a far cry from “I shall never marry and make a woman sad with my passing.”
As they neared the village’s main street, she scanned the establishments. She remembered Miss Van Horne talking about Wickelston and the increase in tourism with the coming of the railroad. Accordingly, many of the pubs, cafes, and shops looked new. She hoped to find one with some history behind it.
“Smells good,” Michael said as they passed the second pub. “We are approaching the noon hour, coincidentally.”
“After,” Amelie told him, surprised that despite the butterflies in her stomach, she thought she might actually be able to eat something in his presence without suffering from nerves. “Let me just . . .” She pointed across the street and tugged on his arm. “There!”
Madam Seville’s Ribbons and Hats was well-kept, but appeared older than the rest. As they reached the front door, Amelie glanced at Michael and hesitated. “Perhaps you ought to remain here. I may not learn anything with you hovering about.”
“I believe I’m insulted.”
She patted his arm. “This is my domain. I shall be but a moment.”
He didn’t argue, but looked inside the large, plate-glass front window and gestured with a head nod. “Stay in sight, if you please.”
“Of course,” she said, but she couldn’t imagine an unseen enemy doing her harm in a shop full of people. She entered the building and was nearly overwhelmed by the sumptuous array of ribbons, lace, and haberdashery brilliance.
“I should like one of everything, please,” she whispered to herself and turned in a circle.
A woman’s delighted chuckle sounded behind her, and she turned to see the proprietress, who was a middle-aged woman with a pink pinafore atop a lovely gray ensemble. A pencil was held tight through the bun atop her head, and she placed a tape measure in her pocket as she greeted Amelie.
“They are all rather spectacular, no?”
“Most assuredly,” Amelie answered honestly. “I am visiting for the day, but I shall bring my cousins back soon just for this shop alone.”
“My name is Hallie, and I own this establishment. Are you looking for anything in particular?” The woman’s smile seemed genuine and welcoming.
Amelie sighed. “I would dearly love to browse, but I actually am on a quest.”
“Oh?”
“You see, a gentleman of recent acquaintance has expressed an interest in courting me, but I have heard unsettling rumors. I should like to determine their truthfulness before I either confront him or agree to his suit.”
The woman’s brow knit. “How may I help you with this?”
“I have been told the gentleman was raised here in Wickelston. I have a photograph,” she added, opening her reticule and producing the same picture she had shown the reverend. “It may be that only longtime residents of the village would recognize him, if at all, but perhaps—”
The woman held out her hand. “I have lived in Wickelston all my life. If he is to be recognized, it would be by me.”
Amelie held her breath and handed over the photograph. Hallie fished spectacles from her pocket and examined the image.
She looked up at Amelie, her coloring draining from her face. “My dear, I would not let my daughters near this man if he were the King of England.”
When a gentleman maintains a life of order and discipline, he’ll not find himself bandied about the feminine waves of whimsy.
—The Gentleman’s Guide to Efficient and
Profitable Courtship by Sir Percival Prancey
Michael paced slowly outside the little shop as Amelie spoke at length with a woman inside. His view was partially obstructed, but he kept Amelie in sight as the woman spoke expansively with her arms and hands. He occasionally caught sight of the shopkeeper’s face, which was animated, her eyes wide.
His mind kept traveling back to the kiss. He was still reeling from it, from the intensity of it. He’d kissed her in the middle of a civilized country lane as though he was a sailor on shore leave. He wanted to regret it, because surely he should, but he kept envisioning scenarios wherein they might repeat the action. Continually.
He was going to propose to her, and the thought made him happier than he imagined possible, but she was a romantic woman who deserved a grand gesture. He also needed to take up the matter with her aunt.
When he’d left his house that morning, he would never have guessed that by the lunch hour, he would have changed his entire philosophy on marriage and family. Her impassioned words, summing up her view on life itself, rang truer than anything he’d ever heard. He had seen her obvious feelings for him written clearly across her face, and to know she returned his affections, and after such a relatively short time, was a relief. In recent days, he’d accepted his burgeoning feelings for her but had planned to do nothing about it. Her declarations, spoken and implied, had freed a band around his chest he hadn’t realized he’d placed there.
He made another pass by the window and saw Amelie at the counter, purchasing something from the woman. They exchanged a few more words, and the shopkeeper grasped Amelie’s hand, speaking earnestly. Amelie finally exited the store, carrying a small paper sack. She was pale and trembling, and Michael couldn’t get her away from the store quickly enough.
He guided her to an outdoor cafe that boasted a few firepits, thinking they would sit for a moment and order tea.
She shook her head. “I do not wish to be overheard.” She chewed on her lip and looked around. “Let’s walk there.”
She pointed to a small church and adjoining graveyard. Rain began to fall, misting, and a cold fog crawled in and began settling over the village.
He put his arm around her shoulders, and they hurried down the street, nearly running by the time they reached the old church. She pointed to a small mausoleum on the cemetery grounds, with steps and a protective overhang. The ground was spongy, and they picked their way through the mud, Amelie holding her skirt off the ground.
They reached the small building, on which the family name, Wilmington, was proudly etched.
“Many thanks, Wilmington family,” Amelie said as she ran up the steps and rested against the gray stone door. She put a hand to her chest as she breathed, and Michael joined her, bewildered.
“Amelie, what is it?”
“Oh, Michael.” She swallowed and took in another breath. “It is worse than we imagined.” She closed her eyes. “When he was eighteen years of age, Harold Smith killed a girl here in Wickelston.”
Michael exhaled slowly. “Tell me everything you know.”
“The shop owner, Hallie, has been well established in town for years, and the family goes back generations. As long as she can remember, the Wickelston Boys’ Home has been in operation, but it was not always the fearsome place it is now. Reverend Flannery instituted a strict protocol of behavior and expectations that many in town feel is disproportionately harsh. Rumors have spread, over time, of a series of unmarked graves on the property, but villagers leave the reverend alone, and in turn, he supports businesses in town but otherwise keeps to himself.
“Harold Smith was a charmer, Hallie said, and by the time he was a young man, had all the village girls swooning. The village adults and elders, however, tended to shun the boys from the home and instructed their children to give the place a wide berth. Hallie said that as Harold grew older, he developed an edge that
bordered on cruelty, although few people ever saw it.
“He had his eyes set on one young woman in particular. Her name was Vivien, but she lived in that poor area we passed on our drive into town.”
He nodded.
“She fell quite in love with him, and he apparently made empty promises. He was preparing to leave the boys’ home and move to London for work the reverend had arranged when Vivien confided in her sister that she was carrying Harold’s child.”
Amelie shook her head, and her cheeks flushed. “According to Hallie, what followed was never clear, and it is difficult to parse fact from rumor, but the facts are that Vivien disappeared the night before Harold was to leave for London. But rather than London, the reverend sent Harold to school in Paris.
“For the coup de grace,” Amelie continued, still breathing quickly, “the villagers learned these details and gossip from another boy who had gone to live at the home when his mother passed.”
Michael briefly closed his eyes. “Jacob Stern.”
She nodded. “He told a few of the village girls that Harold killed Vivien and that he and the reverend ‘took care of the rest.’ Shortly afterward, the reverend sent Jacob away. Most people believed he’d gone as far as Hungary.”
“That would explain where he learned his accent and the Great Prospero routine.”
“Harold was the reverend’s protege, not someone threatening an old man as we suspected. Reverend Flannery’s reaction during the interview certainly makes more sense now. I believe he saw Harold as a son, and he will do anything to protect him. Even as an adult.” She thought a moment. “The reverend said he didn’t keep track of what his charges did after leaving the home, but he knew that Harold was a solicitor at the Chancery.”
Michael nodded, impressed again by Amelie’s observations. “We might presume that Harold met and married Marie Verite in France, moved to England, purchased insurance policies on her life, and then killed her in order to collect the money. We know he’d harassed the Verite family’s solicitor for the remainder of Marie’s dowry, which hadn’t funded yet.”
The Matchmaker's Lonely Heart Page 22
