Secrets of Sloane House (11 page)

“Nonsense. They’re one of the oldest families in the area. Very respected.”

“I fail to see how that means anything at the moment.” She made a move to rise and leave him. This had been a mistake, a terrible one, and one that she sincerely hoped wouldn’t cause further difficulties in her investigation. “I had best go back now, sir,” she said stiffly.

He whipped out a hand and held her in place. “Not yet.”

“Sir?”

“Why would you think the Sloanes would be suspects?”

She debated saying any more, but she realized that only the truth, not further evasiveness, was going to bring her sister’s fate to light. And she had a feeling that the search wasn’t meant to be easy. Not the things she learned and not the pain and worry she was going to subject herself to.

Slowly, she said, “My sister wrote the family letters. In them, she talked about everyone she came in contact with. At first, it was only because her experiences were so exciting and so different from anything we’d ever known.”

“That makes sense.”

“Later, though, she told us things that made us worry for her. She said some of the Sloane family seemed . . . ruthless. And secretive.” She gazed at him, not trusting him entirely, but needing for someone to know the truth of what she was saying. “Mr. Armstrong, she began to fear the family, that she would lose her job. I think she may have discovered some of their secrets. But she needed the job, needed the recommendation that only staying—no matter what—could bring her. But she was not terribly happy.”

“Chicago is a dangerous city, Rosalind. Especially now, with so
many foreigners and tourists here. The police are overwhelmed and underpaid. Anything could have happened to a young woman on her own.”

“Yes, sir. I am aware of that.” Feeling more frustrated and confused than ever before, she made to stand up again. “I must go. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d be very grateful if you kept this between the two of us.”

He closed his eyes, obviously striving for patience. “Rosalind, I want to talk to you about this some more. I want to help you.”

“There is nothing you can do.”

“I disagree. By the very nature of your job, you have limited access.” Lifting his chin a little, as if he were daring her to disagree, he said, “I can speak to people you cannot. I can speak to the men and women of my society, see if they have heard of any tales about a missing housemaid.”

“Don’t you imagine that they’d find your sudden preoccupation with missing housemaids peculiar?”

“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “Perhaps not.” He turned his head so that he was looking at her directly. “I think, at the very least, it is worth a try.”

“Why would you do this? Miranda is nothing to you.” She swallowed hard and removed the last bit of her pride. “I’m nothing to you.”

One of his eyebrows arched. “Does someone have to mean something to a person in order to do the right thing for them?”

His voice had turned haughty. In that moment, he was very much the wealthy society gentleman. His arched look, combined with the dizzying emotions running through her veins, caused her own voice to become painfully sharp. “I don’t know, Mr. Armstrong. I would usually say yes. Because though I might have been aware of all sorts of dangers women faced in the big city, until it was my sister I feared hurt, I never did anything. Do you often make it your business to help others?”

He looked away first. “No. But I want to help. And once more, I think you need my help. Let someone help you, Rosalind.” Lowering his voice to a mere whisper, he added, “Let that someone be me.”

His words were dizzying. The offer was tempting.

But more than that was the feeling for the first time that she didn’t have to be alone any longer. If she accepted his offer, she would have someone to discuss her suspicions with.

“Rosalind, now that I know, I fear I am already involved. I’m going to try to help you, with or without your approval. You might as well give in.”

He was right. It wasn’t like she had much of a choice. She could either give in gracefully or perpetuate the myth that she was strong enough to do this on her own.

“Thank you, Mr. Armstrong. I will appreciate any assistance you may give me.”

The faintest of smiles hovered on his lips. “I am glad you’ve seen things my way. Now, when is your next afternoon free?”

“Not for almost a week.”

“I’ll try to find a way to see you at Sloane House. And don’t fear, Rosalind. I will be nothing but proper at all times.”

The reminder of how precarious her job situation was made her stand up and back away. “Until then,” she said before turning and walking away.

And though the afternoon sun shone on her back, she had the strangest feeling that it was Reid Armstrong’s concern that was warming her insides.

CHAPTER 10

U
nwilling to stop himself, Reid watched Rosalind walk back to the Sloane estate, bypass the front door, and walk to what must have been the servants’ entrance. Not for the first time, he reflected that the somewhat utilitarian dress should have detracted from her beauty. It was plain and loose fitting, so different from the current ladies’ fashions. Most women of his class were wearing bright satins and taffetas decorated with cords of ribbon and yards of lace.

But Rosalind looked as fresh and quietly pretty as many of the women of his acquaintance. Of course, the beauty he was thinking about wasn’t the result of fine textiles and ingenious design. Instead, it radiated from within.

This was not the first time he’d thought about her—or his attraction to her, he realized—since first meeting her at Sloane House. He’d found himself thinking of her at odd times and in odd places. He’d be speaking to one of the women at his church and he would notice the fine dusting of freckles on her nose . . . just like Rosalind’s. Or he’d
overhear a person’s voice on the streets, the way they lengthened their vowels, and he would think they sounded like Rosalind.

He wasn’t sure what his preoccupation with her or his need to help discover what happened to her sister meant. All he knew was that there was a voice inside him that proclaimed she was important. Perhaps it was his conscience?

Maybe it was God, gently reminding him to do good works?

“Armstrong? I say, Armstrong, is that you?”

Startled from his musings, Reid turned in surprise. Almost as quickly, he attempted to hide his dismay. It was Eric Newhouse, one of his classmates from Lawrenceville, but unlike Douglass Sloane, Reid felt no sense of obligation or gratitude toward the man.

“Hello, Eric,” he said. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“I’ve been on the continent. Doing my tour before I settle into the family business.” He chuckled. “Unfortunately, it only lasted a year. You know how that goes, though.”

Reid actually did not know, but there was no reason to share that. Eric had been born into almost as prominent a family as Douglass had. Reid, who had not, was instead his parents’ calling card into high society.

“It’s been several years since we matriculated. Have you stayed here in Chicago this whole time?”

“I have. I’m running my father’s business with him.” Reid was pleased he could say the words without even flinching. When was he ever going to come to terms with his father’s failing health?

He tensed, half waiting for Eric to ask him about his father’s state of being. Most everyone knew he had tuberculosis and was ailing. In addition, many feared that Reid Armstrong would never be the man his father was—and weren’t shy about saying so. Many did not know he had now also started his own business.

But instead of going that route, Eric simply looked him over like he was an unusual specimen. “Ah, yes. I had heard that you chose to go right to work.” Eric’s voice had turned cool. “Well, it seems to have done you no harm. Your success has been creating quite a stir in some circles. Congratulations on your success.”

“Thank you. I have much to be thankful for. I feel blessed beyond measure.”

The words, so honestly stated, drew an obviously uncomfortable breath from Eric.

He fidgeted a bit, and even went so far as to take a step backward, giving them each some distance from the other. “So, I’m on my way to see Sloane. I imagine you are doing the same. You two always were thick as thieves,” he added languidly. “Are you leaving or about to enter?”

“As a matter of fact, I have just taken my leave.” Reid decided Eric could discover for himself that Douglass wasn’t receiving visitors.

“It’s lucky that our timing coincided. We seem to have missed each other at some of the debutante balls.”

“Yes. It’s been good to catch up.”

Eric glanced at Sloane House. “It is, however, unlucky for me that I arrived just as your tête-à-tête with that fetching girl finished.” His voice lowered, becoming oily. “I would have liked to have made that one’s acquaintance.”

Only living for years in a boarding school, pretending he was one of the crowd, kept Reid’s expression impassive. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, I believe you do,” Eric said in a light, joking way. “Was I mistaken, or were you sitting on this bench a few minutes ago?” He held up a hand, laughing off any reply Reid might have attempted. “Don’t answer that. We both know you were. Actually, it looked like you were having quite a fine time flirting with her. Who is she? A
maid in one of the houses nearby? I looked away and didn’t see where she went to.”

Reid could have cursed his naïveté. Had he really imagined their conversation wouldn’t be noticed? “I was speaking with a lady—”

“No offense, but she was no lady, Armstrong.” Eric’s gaze hardened. “Don’t even try to deny it. Her gown was only something one of the lower classes would wear. And there is only one reason a woman of her class would be in this part of Chicago. No one with eyes would mistake her to be anything else.”

While Reid stood stoically, Eric chuckled to himself. “She’s a pretty thing, I’ll give her that. How is she under the sheets?”

This was beyond any sort of decency. Straightening to his entire six-foot-two height, Reid looked down his nose at Eric. “I beg your pardon. Sir.”

Eric laughed. “Sorry, chap. I should have remembered that you still possess far too many of those bourgeois, middle-class sensibilities. You don’t date and talk, do you? Of course, it wouldn’t be an actual date, and you very well might not have been talking about anything at all . . .”

Reid knew Eric was baiting him. He also knew enough to realize that any protestations he made would be duly noted. His words would be used as gossip and as fodder for bored conversations in the best drawing rooms. Next thing he knew, his imagined transgressions would be exaggerated and shared and joked about. And eventually, regarded as the truth.

Before long, it would reach the ears of one of the Sloanes. And then Rosalind would be fired.

And that was the best scenario. Eric could also use his protesting as a way to subtly blackmail him at a future time or merely use it as a source of amusement among their circle of friends. The result of
that, of course, would tarnish Rosalind’s reputation, and perhaps even cause her to be the recipient of several lurid offers.

And since he was now very aware of how much she needed the job, he merely smiled. “Enjoy your afternoon, Newhouse,” he said with the slightest of bows before turning the opposite way on the street.

Eric paused as a new thread of respect flew into his words. “It seems you’ve become a bit shrewder over the years, Armstrong. I must admit that I’m surprised. And impressed.”

Reid kept walking, but that brief exchange had served him well. He’d just been reminded that cruel gossip could be born and spread at the drop of a hat . . . and that it could spread twice as quickly as gossip some might deem “innocent.”

He wasn’t going to be able to meet with Rosalind anywhere publicly again. Of course, meeting in private had its own set of cruel consequences. If he wasn’t careful, it wasn’t going to be ribald rumors or gauche innuendo that ruined her reputation. No, it would be his inability to constantly remember that they were never alone and always being observed.

It was a pity he hadn’t remembered that a half hour earlier.

CHAPTER 11

And so that, dear family, is what I have discovered so far.

Rosalind wrote at the bottom of her long, somewhat rambling letter.

I now have an idea about Miranda’s life here at the Sloane estate, and I am acquainted with most of the servants with whom she worked. I also know when she disappeared. But I have no idea why she did so. That is the most disturbing aspect of my efforts. Sometimes I am so close to making progress, but then the reality of how much I do not yet know threatens to overwhelm me and I begin to doubt myself and your belief in me.

Holding the nib of her quill lightly over the paper, she wondered if she should mention anything else.

She flexed her fingers, happy that her palm didn’t hurt so much anymore. It had been three days since she’d broken the china, injured her hand, and talked to the handsome Reid Armstrong on the park bench. Three days since she’d felt the first ray of hope that she was going to be able to discover what had happened to her sister.

But she didn’t dare mention any of that. Her parents would only worry, and there was no real news anyway.

Picking up the nib again, she wondered if she should mention how distant and sometimes cruel Veronica could be. Or how Douglass had been kind to her, but she still felt a bit apprehensive whenever she was in his presence.

And what about Reid? Should she mention how she had given in and told him her whole story? Speaking to him had been against her better judgment and had been the opposite of their wishes to keep her investigation as private as possible.

She ached to give them hope, but at the same time, she knew better than to give them such a gift. Hope was one of the Lord’s blessings, that was true. But in other ways, hope could be the very work of the Devil. It permitted a person to believe that their imaginations or dreams could actually be true.

She had certainly found herself experiencing several moments like that. She’d spy something in Mr. Armstrong’s gaze that seemed to be far warmer than an impersonal glance to a maid. Or she’d be ironing one of Veronica’s delicately light linen nightgowns and she’d imagine what it would be like to go to sleep in such luxuriousness.