The Education of Mrs. Brimley (41 page)

The driver clicked the horses forward. Without hesitation, James raced for the back of the brougham, even though his own hack waited around the corner. He caught a handhold on the edge of the moving conveyance and braced his feet on the fenders above the spinning wheel axels so that he was tenuously attached to the back of the vehicle like an overgrown street urchin.

After several minutes and near fatal turns, the carriage slowed and Locke dropped off. He dashed across the street to a park to avoid detection and allow the blood to flow back into his whitened fingers. Although he attempted to appear unobtrusive, his gaze was clearly focused on the brougham. The driver hopped down and rushed to open the carriage door.

Although he half expected to see a necklace fly from the carriage and up the townhouse steps, a widow emerged from the depths of the brougham. A young widow at that, judging from her pleasing waist and saucy bustle. A jet-black reticule with a bulging bottom swung from her wrist. Locke smiled in spite of himself, imagining a fat ruby necklace nestled inside. He strained to see beneath the black-lace veil that contoured a narrow face with distinctive cheek planes, but she was either too distant or the lace too dense. How did she do it? He never saw a woman anywhere near Pembroke’s study. One had to admire such talent, even if it was used for common thievery.

She mounted the steps toward a town house door framed with blooming white flowers. Odd to see flowers blooming at this hour, he mused before dismissing the thought. The widow paused then turned to look straight at him, as if she knew he’d be there. He should turn away. Play the role of a drunken sot stumbling down the pavement, but instead he remained rooted to the spot. He raised his arm as if to tip his hat, but then he remembered that he’d left it in the waiting carriage at Pembroke’s residence.

She quickly turned and entered the house. What to do now? He was tempted to storm the house and demand to know how she had palmed the necklace. However, storming a widow’s home at such a disrespectful hour might raise a bit of unwanted attention. Better to observe the mysterious widow, make a few inquiries, and discover which way her allegiances lay before making any rash moves.

A welcome breeze surrounded him with the strange floral fragrance he’d noted earlier. He took a deep breath, reliving the fascinating memory of all he didn’t see in the study. The widow’s techniques would certainly make her a formidable spy. That gave him pause. He glanced back up at the residence, noting the address. It shouldn’t be difficult to gather a bit of information about her tomorrow once the working world was about. He noted a shift at the draperies then turned to retrace the path to Lord Pembroke’s house, where his own carriage waited.

“HOW DID IT GO, DEAR?” AUNT EUGENIA ASKED.

Lucinda Havershaw hurried to the front window to peek out between the drapes. The lacy veil obscured her vision but she didn’t dare move it until she was certain . . .

“Someone saw me tonight.”

“Oh dear!” Her aunt, a thickened, older version of Lucinda herself, hurried to the window to add her scrutiny to the street. “Were you followed?”

“I’m not certain.” Lucinda began to pull off her black gloves. “I had thought I had lost him once I reached the outside of the house, but there was a strange man on the pavement just now. I think he was watching me.”

She pulled off her hat and veil and tossed them to the well-worn settee. The grandfather clock in the corner tapped out two bells. Aunt Eugenia readjusted the draperies before turning toward her niece. She gasped. “Dear Heavens, I don’t suppose I’ll ever become accustomed to seeing you like that.”

Lucinda smiled, although she knew no one could see it. She had peeked at a mirror once when she was in full-phase. Viewing the headless dress reflected there had shocked even herself. She had avoided mirrors while in phase ever since.

She opened her reticule and retrieved the beautiful ruby necklace she had liberated from Pembroke’s safe. “Mrs. Farthington will be very happy to see we reclaimed her necklace. I hope she can keep it out of the hands of her foolish husband this time.”

“I hope she doesn’t.” Aunt Eugenia took the necklace from Lucinda’s invisible hand to store in their parlor safe hidden beneath a chintz table cloth. She lifted the flowery fabric and inserted an ornately carved key into the exposed keyhole. “We make more money if he gambles it away. A woman on her own can never have enough money, dear, especially with four mouths to feed and a household to run.”

“Lucy?”

Lucinda turned quickly to see her youngest sister, Rhea, in the hallway. The sight of the three-year-old clutching a bedraggled velveteen kitten tugged at her heart.

“I’m here, my sweet.”

“But I can’t see you,” the little one said with a yawn.

The child’s lament pulled at Lucinda’s heart. It was bad enough Rhea would never know her own mother, and then to add a sometimes invisible sister to the situation must certainly lead to insecurities. Lucinda swooped the sleepy-eyed toddler into her arms while her aunt hastily closed the family safe. “You can feel me all around you.” Lucinda nuzzled the top of her sister’s little blonde head. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

She cast a disapproving glance to her aunt, but of course, her aunt was oblivious to her expression.

“I had a bad dream.” The child reached up and touched her face. “I thought you were gone.”

“The moon is still full and the stars are awake.” She kissed Rhea’s fingers. “Go back to bed, sweet angel, and tomorrow morning you’ll see me just fine.”

“Come on, little miss. I’ll see you back to bed.” Aunt Eugenia patted the child on the back.

The little girl puckered her lips in a kiss, while Lucinda moved her cheek to meet them. “Good night, Lucy.” Rhea clenched the ear of her bedraggled kitten, then proceeded to climb the stairs using hands and feet.

“Your blessed mother would be proud of the way you’ve taken care of the girls,” Eugenia said as she passed by Lucinda, “as I am.”

“Thank you, Auntie.” Eugenia’s appreciation of her efforts warmed her like a welcome cup of tea. She stooped to kiss her Aunt’s cheek as well, but as the older woman couldn’t see her, Eugenia continued by without pausing to receive the kiss. Lucinda’s pursed lips met only air.

A familiar jab of frustration stabbed at her heart, reminding her of the loneliness that went hand in hand with her unique ability. She had no choice but to accept her fate. She sighed. Anger couldn’t change what God had made. Better to concentrate on providing for her family, which brought her thoughts back to tonight.

Lucinda doused the lamps on the mantle and on the wall, before returning to the parlor window. She’d been spotted. Consequences always followed a sighting. At best the rumors of ghosts and headless horsemen would reappear, at worst they would need to once again find a new home. What would it be like to not have to schedule one’s existence to the phases of the moon? To not constantly worry about being labeled the devil’s child or a witch? Perhaps she was being too vigilant. Perhaps there was nothing to worry about. Still, an uneasiness settled heavy about her heart.

 
THE NEXT MORNING, JAMES SPOTTED THE QUAINT TOWN house easily enough. Although the flowers that had bloomed so enchantingly in the moonlight were closed and twisted tight, he remembered the location and the glimmer of the brass plaque by the door. How could he forget this location? Late into the wee hours of the morning, he had contemplated the mystery woman and her magnificent feats of magic—if, indeed, they were magic. One way or another, he was determined to find out.

Already he had learned through inquisition of the neighboring merchants, that a widow, Mrs. Eugenia Gertrude, and her three nieces had rented the residence. The information pleased him as it validated his sighting of a widow the evening before.

The town house faced a park, so he found an empty bench and watched the front of the house. The day stretched on with no remarkable activity. Indeed he had invested enough time on that hard bench to have read his copy of the
Illustrated Times
five times front to back. He stood to stretch when a closed carriage pulled up in front of the town house. Watching with interest, he observed a rather broad Mrs. Farthington exit and climb the few steps to the townhouse with difficulty. She was ushered inside without incident.

James crossed the street, moving closer to the front of the house. Mrs. Farthington’s husband, a gentleman who, it had been rumored, had fallen on some desperate times, was well-known around the gambling hells where Lord Pembroke frequented. James would be willing to bet that the Farthingtons were the link between the mystery widow and Lord Pembroke’s safe.

When Mrs. Farthington reemerged thirty minutes later, Locke was ready. He hailed a cab to follow her home. The mystery widow did not realize it, but the noose about her enchanting neck was about to tighten.

 
JAMES HADN’T ENGAGED IN DISGUISE SINCE HIS TRAVELING days with a caravan crossing the Karakum Desert in Central Asia. He affixed a bushy mustache that made his upper lip all but disappear, then added bushy eyebrows as well. Padding thickened his waist and gave him a bit of a belly before he covered it all with an unfashionable tweed jacket, knickerbockers, and gaiters. He checked his image in the mirror, confident that if the widow had glimpsed him in Pembroke’s study, she certainly wouldn’t recognize him now. With spirited determination, he journeyed to the widow’s address and rang the bell. He glanced at the brass plaque by the door, “Appointments during daylight hours only.” What in the devil did that mean?

A cat, black as the widow’s gown, jaunted up the steps and wove its lithe body between his legs. “What have we here?”

He scooped the cat up in his arms and was giving it a good scratch between the ears when the door opened.

“Oh my.” The stout woman held her hands out for the cat. “Has our Shadow been digging in your gardens? I’m so sorry.”

“Not at all.” Disappointment clawed at his throat. Although the woman at the door was dressed in widow’s weeds, she certainly couldn’t be the same woman he had observed leaving the brougham. Her height was about right. He would have taken an oath that she had been a bit thinner last evening, but perhaps that was a trick of the moonlight. He cleared his throat. “No, this fellow just joined me on the step.” He handed the cat over to its owner. “I had hoped to see the lady of the house.”

“I suppose that would be me, sir.” She stroked the cat’s head and studied him from her position in the doorway.

“Oh!” He snatched the brown bowler from his head. “I’m Laurence Langtree.” He cast a nervous eye to the street. “I’m told that we might be able to do business.”

“Is that so?” She cocked her head, and frowned. “And what kind of business would that be?”

Mrs. Farthington had prepared him for this very question. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Recovery business.”

Her face brightened. “Then I suppose you should come in so we can talk.” She moved back from the doorway, letting James cross the threshold.

An ornate grandfather clock complete with a lunar phase dial immediately caught his attention. It was clearly the most valuable piece of furniture in the cluttered room. However, if he wasn’t mistaken, that bump beneath the flowery tablecloth hid the lock mechanism for a small safe. He smiled, remembering his last encounter with a safe and his reason for being here.

“I have been advised that you possess, shall we say, some remarkable attributes in the area of recovery.”

“I, sir?” She smiled, though it did not reach to her eyes. “Whoever told you that?”

“I am loath to name sources. I wish to respect privacy whenever possible.”

“In that case, I’m afraid you are mistaken, Mr. . . .”

“Langtree. Laurence Langtree.”

Footsteps sounded behind him. “Aunt Eugenia, I wonder if you would mind—”

James turned toward the voice and stood stunned. This was the one. This had to be her. She had a proud, straight nose with just the slightest uplift on the end and the high cheekbones that had molded the veil. Yet, there was so much more. Her eyes were the deep blue of the evening sky just before the sun slipped from view, made all the more striking by her almost luminous skin. It had been wise of her to wear a black veil, he thought with appreciation, for skin like that would outshine the moon.

“Mr. Langtree, this is my niece, Miss Lucinda Havershaw.”

“Miss Havershaw.” Even her name suited her, Lucinda with hair the color of moonlight and a curtsy borne of good manners.

“Mr. Langtree believes he has need of your recovery services.”

“Oh?” Her head cocked and intelligent eyes assessed him. He felt a stirring in his bones. Yes, this was the talented one he’d encountered the previous night. She wiped her hands on a handkerchief she removed from her serviceable pinafore. “I apologize, sir. I was doing a bit of gardening in back.” She motioned for them to sit. “What precisely did you wish recovered, Mr. Langtree?”

Not surprising, her voice was as enchanting as her appearance. He was in the presence of an angel. Even her scent was bewitching. Something floral, something familiar . . .

“Mr. Langtree?”

Pull yourself together, man! She’ll think you’re a drooling idiot.
He cleared his throat. “A pocket watch of great sentimental value.”

“You’ve lost your watch?”

“In a manner of speaking, it is in another’s possession.” He watched her amazing eyes. He could almost see the clockwork of her mind, the tumblers clicking . . . Her eyes narrowed.

“I’m not a thief, Mr. Langtree.”

“Of course not.”
Liar. A thief is exactly what you are, and one of the best I’ve ever seen.
He smiled, ever so slightly. “The watch belongs to me even though it currently resides in another’s pocket.”

Her brows lifted. “How could such an injustice have ever occurred?”