An Agent for Alexandra

by Rebecca Connolly

  An Agent for Alexandra

  The Pinkerton Matchmaker

  Book 21

  Rebecca Connolly

  An Agent for Alexandra

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are all products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblances to persons, organizations, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

  The book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. All rights are reserved with the exceptions of quotes used in reviews. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage system without express written permission from the author.

  The Pinkerton Matchmaker

  ©2019 Rebecca Connolly

  Cover Design by Virginia McKevitt

  www.virginiamckevitt.com

  Dedication

  To Mercy Street for helping me work out a Southern accent in the appropriate time period.

  And to Annie, who told me this setting would make a perfect story.

  Table of Contents

  The Denver Tribune Editorials

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  About the Author

  The Denver Tribune Editorials

  Sat. April 22, 1871

  Female Agents to join National Detective Agency.

  Seven years ago, the National Detective Agency moved into the new office location at 427 Chain Bridge Road. Since then stories have swirled of brave men solving crimes and fighting for justice.

  But a new time has evolved, and the Agency is now seeking able-bodied women to join the ranks of their private investigators.

  Daring women who seek adventure and are of sound mind and body. You will help the criminal elements answer for their crimes and secure safety for their victims.

  You will train with an existing agent and after your first case you earn the rank of Private Detective. Paid training, transportation, uniforms and accommodations provided. You will become a part of a noble profession and pave the way into the future.

  This editorial has been placed in newspapers throughout the nation, so the quickest responses are appreciated.

  Please send inquiries and a list of skills to A. Gordon, at the above noted address. Interviews will occur on the premises the week of May 16, 1871.

  Ed.

  Prologue

  Denver, 1871

  You will be paired with Tucker Waite.

  The words had absolutely no meaning for Alexandra Drake, but they had sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine all the same.

  Then Tucker had appeared, and a very different sort of shiver had traveled the length of her. The man was impossibly attractive, hair the color of aging gold and eyes the color of the sky itself. He was tall, he was tanned, and he was scowling.

  He’d taken her hand, the calluses rubbing against her perfectly smooth palm in a ticklish sort of way, nodded, then turned to face Mr. Gordon for the wedding ceremony.

  Not even a word of greeting.

  And now here they were, nearing the end of the vows, and she felt the backs of her knees trembling.

  Was he going to kiss her? There was something Mr. Gordon had said, but Alexandra had been so fixed on her forthcoming husband that she’d clean forgotten everything. She glanced towards Marianne, Mr. Gordon’s secretary, if not secret lover, but Marianne’s face held no answers. None of the other girls in the room seemed to have any idea, and all of them wore the same expression Alexandra was.

  It said, “What in the world have we gotten into?”

  A very good question, and she had no answers.

  Tucker pressed her hand then and she looked up at him. “Do you or don’t you?” he hissed.

  Did she what?

  Her eyes went wide. Oh! The vows! “I do,” she said quickly. “I guess.”

  The corner of his mouth ticked, but did nothing else. When the same question was posed to him, he, and every other man in the room, echoed, “I do.”

  His response was firm and clear, but there was no hint of warmth in it. He might have been asked if he wanted chicken for dinner and received the same degree of enthusiasm.

  Then he started reciting the vows in the flattest, most monotone voice she had ever heard, and it took all of her good breeding and manners to avoid scowling.

  Yes, they were getting married for the mission they were about to undertake, and yes, they were getting married in a room filled with other people getting married for the same reasons, and yes, they were only partners in truth and getting married was simply a condition of the partnership, but surely the idea must give him some pleasure.

  After all, she had it on very good authority that she was the most attractive woman in Savannah and in the surrounding twenty-five miles in any direction. Surely that would make any man of sense and taste smile.

  But given the condition of Tucker’s shoes, trousers, and knuckles, it was not a foregone conclusion that he had no sense and no taste.

  What a pity.

  An annulment she would have, then, as soon as the mission was complete. She had so been hoping that she would be wed to a man who would consider the state of matrimony with a bit more respect and dignity, and at least try to make a go of it with her. Alas for them both, this would be a formality and convenience only.

  There went her imaginings of very chubby children with her dark hair and his vibrant eyes.

  Her papa would be so disappointed. He had such high hopes for this venture.

  He insisted she was brilliant enough for the position and more clever than any woman he knew, but there was no denying that the ease with which she would obtain a husband was his primary motive.

  If she were perfectly honest with herself, Alexandra would admit she felt the same way.

  That and it would make all of her friends green with envy that she was a Pinkerton agent while they were only housewives with more babies than they could handle.

  Or so she kept telling herself.

  “You may now kiss your bride, if you are so inclined.”

  Gulp.

  One look at Tucker told Alexandra that he was most certainly not so inclined, so she simply let her hand fall limply at her side as he released it.

  Some of the other couples seemed embarrassed and smiled at each other, some studiously avoided meeting the other’s gaze, and some just stared at Mr. Gordon as though he had completely lost his mind.

  And then there was Alexandra and her new husband. She fidgeted, and he stared. At her.

  No smile, no warmth, no curiosity, and no encouragement. He just stared at her as though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was seeing, and was determined to figure it out.

  She suddenly felt like a strange sort of criminal, though what her crime could possibly have been escaped her. She was spoiled, that much she knew, and she had evaded the law once or twice in a rather tame version of a misspent youth, but she hardly thought Tucker would need to worry about who had painted insults into the back of Mr. Grover’s barn back in 1859, or who had stolen Miz Claire Sutherby’s prize winning blackberry pie from the fair in 1855. No one in Savannah could prove it was her, and no one had ever dared try.

  Yet Tucker stared as if he knew all of that, and her sins besides. She had far more sins than she did crimes, and she wasn’t sure if those would be held against her in this. He didn’t appear to be a man of the church, or
one at all familiar with the Almighty, but if she recollected correctly, there was something in a sermon somewhere about not judging lest ye be judged.

  Well, Alexandra Drake judged, and she judged a lot. And usually, she was right.

  So Tucker could judge her, she supposed. It was only fair.

  But staring was rude, and he should know it.

  “What?” she snapped, brushing at the cream lace covering her skirt. “Didn’t your mama ever tell you that staring is rude?”

  “No,” he answered simply.

  Alexandra raised a brow. “I’m sure she did. Perhaps you weren’t mindin’ her.”

  “Doubt I was.”

  She huffed at his short, unemotional answers. This would get them nowhere. Time for another tactic.

  Southern charm.

  She smiled in her very Sunday best smile and held out her hand. “How d’you do? Alexandra Drake.”

  “Waite,” he grunted.

  Her brow furrowed. “Wait? Wait for what?”

  Someone nearby snorted a laugh, and Tucker glowered with the power of a dozen thunderclouds before returning his attention to her, the storms clearing. “Waite,” he said again. “You just married me. Your last name is Waite now.”

  Alexandra blinked once, then again before smiling brightly. “My, my, so it is. Alexandra Waite, then. From Savannah, Georgia.”

  “You don’t say,” came the dryest response known to mankind.

  Surely the Lord would not hold it against a woman if she walloped her incorrigible husband of convenience over the head with something sturdy for being a dunce on purpose. A brick or two, or perhaps a stove.

  Alexandra fumed, forcing herself not to emit any sound to indicate such. “Where I come from, Mr. Waite, we are raised to treat each other with respect and manners.”

  He tilted his head, his expression remaining the same. “Where I come from, Mrs. Waite, we take people as they are and treat them as we see fit.”

  Mrs. Waite. The words washed over her like the coldest waves on the coast, and she fought a strange shiver, shaking her head.

  “And that would be understandable, I am sure,” she retorted, folding her arms, “if I knew where that was.”

  He matched her stance, and they stared at each other in a silent standoff.

  Unfortunately for Tucker Waite, Alexandra had a lifetime of standing her ground and getting her way. And no stern faced, hulking, handsome, somewhat dangerous looking man was going to ruin that streak for her.

  The corner of his impossible mouth twitched once more, and then, reluctantly, curved. “New York,” he finally said. “City.”

  Alexandra nodded once, firm and superior. “Lovely. That explains a lot.”

  “Meaning?” Tucker asked, not sounding in any way defensive, but almost curious.

  She shrugged one of her dainty shoulders in the way her father absolutely hated. “That I can expect a rude, crass, independent, street-smart scrapper of a man for my husband and partner for the time being. If you’ll wait one moment, I can pack away my feelings and expectations of respect properly so they won’t get creased or trampled on the journey. I’ll meet you downstairs in ten minutes.”

  And with that, she swept away and strode for the door of the room, smirking to herself and casting a wink at Marianne, who was grinning outright at her.

  Tucker Waite might be the senior agent, but he was most certainly not going to be running this show or this marriage, and he would simply have to get used to it.

  Chapter 1

  Alexandra was a hardy traveler, but this was unbearable.

  She’d lost count of the number of trains they had been on and the number of days it had taken for them to get anywhere close to their assignment, and Tucker, it seemed, had absolutely no intention of seeing to her comfort, or his own. They slept on the train or in whatever inn was closest to the station, if the train itself was not an option or they needed to change trains. He had proven, in the week or so they had been married, to be as reticent as she had found him then, and she had begun to wonder if his vocabulary extended to any words at all over two syllables.

  He had to be intelligent or else he wouldn’t be a Pinkerton agent, but it was entirely possible, she suspected, that he was an agent for show rather than substance. He cut quite an imposing figure, and several people avoided his eyes and skirted his presence when he came near.

  The most she could say about her husband, and likely the kindest thing, was that he never tried to go anywhere without her. He offered his arm whenever they were in public unless his hands were full, and then he would check for her repeatedly.

  It wasn’t necessarily affectionate, she wouldn’t stretch it that far. She felt, rather, as if he had been tasked with minding a particularly flighty ward of sorts and refused to be saddled with chasing after her if she bolted.

  She was strangely tempted to try it, just to see what would happen.

  But no, she would behave herself and go along with him, if for no other reason than because he had neglected to tell her absolutely anything about their assignment except for the destination.

  She had never been to Portland, let alone anything in its general vicinity, but what she could see from the windows of the train seemed picturesque. A rather different shade of green than she had seen in Georgia, and the trees…

  “You seem pensive.”

  Alexandra blinked, then looked over at the companion she had entirely forgotten about in her compartment.

  Her husband.

  “Pensive?” she repeated, wetting her lips. “That’s a mighty fancy word for a stoic man such as yourself.”

  Tucker lifted a wry brow, his hands folded simply in his lap. “Stoic doesn’t mean uneducated, you know. The vocabulary is there even if the display of it is not.”

  Alexandra could only stare at her husband, every assumption and judgment she had formed suddenly turned on its head. “Lord above, Tucker,” she drawled, a surprised smile finally crossing her lips. “Do you have a fever? Need to rest a while? So many words, you must be exhausted.”

  The subtle curve in his lip she had learned to recognize as his smile miraculously appeared. “Well, my throat does ache a bit.”

  A delighted giggle escaped her, and Alexandra covered her mouth quickly, determined to contain herself. “You are a man of surprises, aren’t you, Tucker?”

  “Try to be,” he grunted. “Makes me unpredictable.”

  “Sure does.” She shook her head. “Why talk to me now, though? It’s been days.”

  Tucker grunted again. “With you as a companion, Chickadee, it’s tough to get a word in edgewise.”

  That was true enough, but hardly fair. She tried for a frown. “Chickadee? You’ve known me for barely ten minutes, and you’re calling me names?”

  “You chirp incessantly and you’re from the South.” He lifted a broad shoulder in an imitation of a shrug. “Chickadee.”

  Her temper flared with that particular spark, and roared into life. “Now you wait one cotton pickin’ minute…”

  “Pensive,” he said again, his tone as calm as a morning in May. “Why?”

  At the moment, she was rather pensive about the idea of drowning him in a cattle trough, but it was likely best to keep that a secret.

  She looked out of the window once more. “It’s a different shade of green than I’m used to,” she said aloud, letting her eyes scan the area. “Darker. Richer. I didn’t know it existed.”

  “The colors are further different, even than this, in areas such as Michigan and Iowa and Pennsylvania. And over the sea, different again.”

  Alexandra gave her husband a dubious look. “You’ve been overseas?”

  Tucker smirked in a rather ticklish sort of way. “I have. Don’t pretend your initial impression is perfect, Chickadee. I promise you, it’s not.”

  “Don’t call me Chickadee,” she snapped. “I’ll be forced to give you an equally critical name.”

  “You don’t know anything about me,” he shot ba
ck, still not showing any sign of temper. “I invite you to try.”

  She sneered, which a good Southern girl never did, but she couldn’t imagine anyone blaming her for this. “And whose fault would that be, Tucker? We’re husband and wife, and we’re partners, and I know no more about you than I did the first five minutes after saying ‘I do.’ How are we supposed to have any sort of relationship like this?”

  “None of my other partners have complained before.”

  “No, as I imagined they are all dead.”

  Silence filled the compartment as they stared at each other. Then Tucker blinked and looked away, his expression finally cracking into something almost human.