Love Between the Lines (15 page)

Peter
sly gave a small bow. “I always knew you were a sensible man.” He was smart enough to leave soon after without any more drawling speeches or attempts at wit.

Gideon would just have to circumvent Peter
sly’s pursuit. Miss Drury had passion. He’d felt it in her kiss, seen it in her eyes. Hell, he’d read it in her stories.

Gideon
wouldn’t do as an object of that passion. He knew it and so did she. Yet even Gideon would be a better target than Petersly.

Something, someone had to redirect her. A
nyone with that hunger inside, even a woman, was going to need an outlet. Her writing? Eventually.

I
n the meantime, there was Petersly to be dealt with. God, he would seduce and hurt her. Accidentally, of course. He wasn’t malicious, just careless. And if word of his pursuit got out, she’d have to sail back to New York.

So where could she direct
that passion of hers and not be ruined? And perhaps eventually coax her ardor back into her work. Someone could help her redirect. Not Gideon. God, no, it would be like pouring kerosene on the fire to have him try to quiet the flames.

Brinker.

It amazed Gideon to think that Lizzy Drury might be more attracted to a slightly sheep-faced servant than a dashing young earl like Petersly, but she did have a penchant for the valet. Perhaps Brinker could be persuaded to offer her an arm. For innocent entertainments out in public. To take her mind off other men and help her adjust to her new life.

Her private life was her own business, he
’d told Petersly. But surely as a stranger in a strange land she’d appreciate being directed into the company of a genteel man, even if he wasn’t a gentleman.

Lizzy walked into work the next morning
, feeling self-conscious in a bottle-green outfit that felt too tight. A copyboy rushed up to her. “Note for you,” he said and thrust it at her.

There was no name on the front.
“
Miss Miles at the Barnes Asylum will provide an interesting story. Ask her where she was found.”

Lizzy had no contacts who might give her such a note. Tucking it into her skirt pocket, she walked swiftly after the boy and found him in a corridor, rolling a cigarette.

“Who gave this to you?” she asked. “There’s no salutation. Are you sure this note is for me and not for someone else?”

The skinny boy, who she guessed was somewhere between eleven and fifteen, shoved the cigarette into a trouser pocket.
“I know my job. I was to give it to the young lady reporter. The one from America and not the other one.” He scratched his neck. “If the gent who gave me the note knew so much, he woulda known she left a month ago. Couldn’t take the atmospherical of the place.”

“
Atmosphere,” she absently corrected. Then, noticing his scowl, pulled a sixpence from her pocket. She held the silver coin between two fingers where he might see it. “So you don’t think he works here?”

He nodded and stared at the sixpence.
“Not one of us,” he confirmed.

“
If you don’t know his name, can you give me a description of the man?”

“
Not old, not young. Not truly. He had a scratchy voice, like he had a bad cold in the head.” The boy still eyed the sixpence.

“
Anything else?”

“
He had fine clothes, like a good waistcoat, and his spats weren’t a bit dirty. A top hat that hadn’t been squashed too much.”

“
You think he was well-bred? A gentleman?” She wondered if a boy wearing such a vivid pair of checked trousers could discern such a thing.

“
Maybe, yes,” he said without conviction.

She handed him the coin and thanked him. She must have more than adequately tipped him
, because he gave her a brilliant smile and ran off down the corridor, dodging around a couple of scolding printers.

Perhaps she would ask
Sir Gideon if he was the one who’d sent the note. Ridiculous, of course—the boy would recognize his own employer.

But this intriguing anonymous note
—she didn’t need to think about other people’s marriages as she had most of the night. Not if she had a good lead to sink her teeth into. She went to the paper’s morgue—the gloomy rooms where the old papers were stored—and started work at once, searching for stories about Miss Miles.

She didn
’t have to search long before discovering a woman had been found lying insensible in front of a house in Maida Vale. Flipping forward to more recent copies of the
Clarion
, Lizzy discovered that the young lady in question was Ellen Miles and she had been placed in the Barnes Asylum.

She decided to go to the place wh
ere the lady had been found. After looking through her guidebook, she fetched Oyster who was drinking tea with a group of off-duty printers.

Maida Vale was a pleasant neighborhood.

Oyster shoved his hands into his pocket and glared around the quiet street; the lack of dirt and disorder obviously made him uncomfortable.

“
Don’t worry about me,” Lizzy said. “I’ll go knock on the door and if I’m not out in fifteen minutes—”

“
I’ll come looking,” he finished for her. He shambled off, out of sight around the corner.

The address proved to be a neat recently
built house with a brightly painted door. She peered through a gap in the row of houses and saw the well-laid-out gardens of the houses ran down to the canal. A pleasant little row house, nothing gaudy, although the door was very red. The house next door had a bright blue one and the one next to that, yellow.

The man who answered the door looked her up and down.
“Are you here for an interview?” he asked. “Mrs. Phelps didn’t say she was looking for a girl.”

She was about to answer that she wasn
’t in search of employment as a domestic when a woman appeared at his elbow.

Her vivid gown—what little there was of it
—immediately told Lizzy that the sort of women looking for employment here would probably not be sweeping out kitchens or lighting fires.

And such a quiet pleasant neighborhood, she marveled. How very interesting. She wouldn
’t divulge her profession right away. She knew from experience that houses of ill repute would not welcome the attention of a newspaper.

“
Might I have a word with Mrs. Phelps anyway?” She tried to pitch her voice low and sultry.

“
American!” The girl behind him widened kohl-heavy eyes. “And entirely sweet. Come in, come in. We should at least speak to you.”

“
Are you Mrs. Phelps?” Lizzy tried not to stare at the woman’s bosom, which was large and nearly exposed.

“
Indeed I am.” The lady beamed, and Lizzy realized she was at least ten years older than her first estimate. Someone in the household had a dab hand at applying face paints.

Lizzy tucked her notebook deep into her bag and made her way into the house. She passed a sort of reception room that was far more tastefully decorated than the two other such houses she
’d entered in New York. Whoever supported the house had money and classical taste, although statues of naked women lurked in nearly every corner.

Would
Sir Gideon ever come to a place like this? She imagined him smiling down at the well-painted Mrs. Phelps or perhaps one of the other females found in this house. She heard a girl’s giggle from a distant room. Maybe he was here now, or in a house just like it. Naked and bouncing with some female. She walked a little faster.

Mrs. Phelps led her into a cozy room with pink flowered wallpaper—mor
e like a lady’s drawing room than a bordello’s office—and bade her sit on the armless chair. She shut the door of the office and took her place behind a graceful lady’s writing desk.

Lizzy prepared herself for some embarrassing question about her previous work experience but Mrs. Phelps began with
“How did you hear of us?”

This might prove a fine way to lead to the information she wanted.
“I read about that unfortunate young lady found in front of your, ah, establishment several days ago. And then, when I understood what sort of place this is, I grew even more curious.”

Mrs. Phelps
’s smile vanished. “You are only here due to curiosity?”

“
No, of course not. I work for a living,” she said.

This seemed to
mollify Mrs. Phelps. Before the lady could frame her next question, Lizzy said, “But I shouldn’t wish to work for a place that didn’t treat its employees well. Was Miss Miles one of your young ladies?”

Mrs. Phelps
’s pleasant face grew cold. “Someone was playing a terrible prank using that poor girl. She had nothing to do with us.” She rose to her feet and looked down at Lizzy. “Why were you interested in working here if you thought we had anything to do with her sad situation?”

Lizzy couldn
’t think of a good answer. “I have heard good things about you from some of my acquaintances.” She didn’t like falling back on lies, but Mrs. Phelps seemed on the verge of throwing her out again.

“
Oh? Who?”

She tried for a mysterious smile.
“I shouldn’t like to bandy names, if you see what I mean.”

“
Clients.” Mrs. Phelps took her seat behind the cherrywood desk again. “Very good, dear. I approve of discretion.”

Unfortunately the lady wasn
’t a hypocrite, and no matter how delicately Lizzy asked about whom she might be called upon to entertain, Mrs. Phelps didn’t divulge names.

F
ifteen minutes soon passed, and she knew Oyster would be knocking on the door any second. She stood. “I thank you for your time but I’m afraid I’m not interested in employment here after all, Mrs. Phelps.”

Mrs. Phelps scowled at her.
“You weren’t ever interested in a job, I knew it. And I know what you’re after. You’re a competitor wanting to steal our business.” She stood and flung open the door. “No wonder you wanted the names of our patrons, despicable girl.” She pointed, as melodramatic as any music-hall heroine. “Out! And don’t bother the others. I shall tell Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Jordan all about you.”

Lizzy bowed her head and scuttled through the rooms to the front of the house. Bother the others?

The large man who’d opened the door to her was approaching menacingly when the doorbell chimed.

“
That will be for me,” Lizzy said. “My, ah, protector.”

Mrs. Phelps
, who’d followed, gave another cry of outrage. “I knew it,” she said. She turned to the manservant. “Get her out and tell the other ladies to bar this American female. Give them a good description of the bitch.”

Oyster stood on the doorstep with his cap in his hand. He stepped to the side and watched as Lizzy hurried down the stairs.

“You’re with her?” the big man asked Oyster, who shrugged.

“
If you are, go to the devil and take her with you.”

Oyster ambled down the three steps
to meet Lizzy. After a long, poisonous glare at them, the manservant went to the blue door, knocked, and was let in.

“
Mrs. Johnson or Mrs. Jordan. And the other one is behind the yellow door,” Lizzy said.

Oyster put his cap on his head.
“Find out anything?”

“
No.” They walked a safe distance and turned to watch the manservant reemerge and hurry to the yellow door a few minutes later.

“
Three in a row in such a fine neighborhood,” she said musingly. “There has to be a story there, don’t you think?”

The story of
poor Ellen Miles might have something to do with Mmes. Phelps, Johnson, and Jordan—but she recalled the story she’d read of Miss Miles’s outraged and battered body and expected it had more to do with one of the houses’ clients. “Men are such violent creatures,” she said. Oyster didn’t bother to answer.

“
Don’t forget you got that ball tonight,” he said.

She froze. Lord Petersly.
He’d called upon her and reminded her she was obliged to follow her employer’s directions. He’d been unflirtatious and businesslike for a change during his brief visit. She’d pointed out that she had already agreed to do the darned articles and he needn’t act like her darned keeper. He’d bowed and left almost at once.

A note soon arrived instructing her to be ready for the first event
.

It
informed her that he would fetch her with the escort of a maid who would then help her prepare for the soiree. And now the day of the ball had arrived—when all she wanted to do was discover the secret of Miss Miles’s attack and that strange note to her.

“
No, no,” she groaned. She’d rather face the wrathful Mrs. Phelps again than the cream of English society.