Not Quite a Baroness: A Sweet Victorian Gothic Historical Romance (The Boston Heiresses Book 2)

by Ava Rose

  “Very well. He was obviously hit from behind and he fell forward. The stab wounds are in the front, so the killer must have turned him over to finish the job. The blow certainly did not kill him instantly.”

  Henry’s eyes went to the multiple slits on the body’s torso. They were gruesome and seemed almost…vengeful. Only a severely heartless person could do such a thing.

  “One other thing,” Burris said. He pointed to the victim’s hair. “There is a distinctively perfumed substance on the man’s head. Possibly a pomade? There will likely be traces of it on the murder weapon, once it is found.”

  “I have what I need for now. Thank you, Mr. Burris.”

  The coroner covered the body and they left the examination room. It was not until Henry and Montgomery were out on the street that Henry bent forward with his hands braced on his knees. He took deep breaths.

  “Yes, I can never get used to the chemical smell myself,” Montgomery said, giving Henry an avuncular pat on his back. “But you have it worse than me.”

  When his stomach was no longer turning and his breathing was even, he straightened. “Is there nothing they can use for preservation instead of that?”

  “I doubt there is.”

  They headed back to the commander’s office and closed the door behind them.

  “What do you think?” Montgomery asked.

  “I don’t believe she did it,” Henry replied.

  “What brought on the change?”

  “Only an incredibly vicious person would kill like that; a person without a conscience. She does not seem like she is lacking in that regard,” he explained. “But then again, she could have hired a soulless individual to do it, but I suspect she is not the kind to have people take care of her problems.” As he spoke, he realized that what he was saying about the baroness was the truth.

  His short conversation with her in front of her house had revealed a lot. Her eyes were very expressive when she was not consciously trying to conceal her emotions and her reaction to his flirtation had given him a glimpse of her innocence. And innocent people did not commit vicious murder.

  Montgomery clapped him on the back again. “Well, good luck, son.”

  He was going to need it. He placed the file back on the desk and left the police station, turning over his next plan in his mind as he went.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Late afternoon seemed like the best time to visit The Barbican. Sarah had told her that the Raven was almost always there, as he preferred the place to the other gentlemen’s clubs in his retinue.

  Libby dressed as she had the day before, in black and hidden behind a veil, and slipped out of the house after informing the others that she was going up for an afternoon nap. She even pretended to be feeling faint from the stress the situation was causing her.

  The truth was that she was feeling more determined than stressed. Her blood rushed with adrenaline every time she was out on a quest. Like now.

  She was not afraid of danger. Not when she was on the lookout for it. It was this fearlessness that had landed her in trouble before, but she was far more cautious now…at least, she tried to be. She now carried a sheathed blade in the pocket of her dress and a small gun strapped to her thigh beneath her skirts. She would be foolish to allow what happened to her three weeks ago to happen again.

  She walked down the street, the confidence from her disguise brightening her mood. It was thankfully not raining despite the grayed skies. Boston had not seen sunshine in days and the hornbeam trees on the streets had been stripped almost completely of their leaves.

  The sound of her boots on the cobblestones created a smooth rhythm, but as she passed the second block, the clicking of another pair of shoes joined hers and she instantly became more alert. She didn’t turn to find out who was following her. She only listened and pulled the lapels of her short black cloak more tightly about her body.

  Someone was following her again. Quickening her steps, she half jogged the rest of the distance to the carriage station where she had hailed a ride yesterday. The same carriage that had transported her to Sarah’s shop was waiting on the side of the road. She turned to see if she was still being followed and by whom, but again, saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  Libby shook her head. No, this could not be paranoia. She was not in so much of a muddle that she was beginning to imagine danger where it did not exist. She was certain of those footsteps she’d heard and the presence she had felt. A shiver ran through her and she hurried across the street to the waiting carriage.

  She gave the driver the address and climbed in, turning one last time to look about her. Whoever was following her was adept at stalking, and as much as she had cause to believe it was Detective DeHavillend, she did not think it was him. This felt ominous and fearful, quite like a predator stalking its prey.

  And Libby felt like the prey.

  Another shiver ran through her and she hugged her arms around her as the carriage jolted into motion.

  In twenty minutes, they rolled to a halt in front of a grand building that combined Victorian and Grecian architecture. It was in a quiet neighborhood with streets that were almost empty. That was understandable, given gentlemen usually visited clubs in the evening. She could easily imagine the line of grand carriages that would fill this street by nightfall.

  She stepped out and looked up at the building. Sculpted scrollwork rimmed the roof and separated the floors. Tall columns stood on either side of the front door and were replicated on the terraces on the upper floors directly above the entrance.

  She took a tentative step forward then paused to think. She had half a mind to turn around and go home, but she had come this far. And if she was any closer to finding the truth, she could not turn back now.

  With a deep breath, she lifted her veil, stepped up to the front door, and pulled the knocker. A man—a steward from what she could tell—stepped out and looked her over with contempt.

  “Yes?” he asked in a haughty manner.

  “I am here to see the owner of this establishment.”

  The man looked her over again and she suddenly began to feel self-conscious.

  “We do not admit women into this establishment.”

  His comment hit a nerve. She and Anna had been fighting against gender inequality for a long time. This was a public place—albeit exclusive—and she saw no reason why a woman should not be allowed entry. They were human too and entitled to just as much freedom as men. But society was unfair.

  “Do you know to whom you are speaking?” She raised her voice a notch.

  He glared at her with a mixture of boredom and disdain.

  “I am Baroness Esk and my brother, His Royal Highness, Prince Penforth Armstrong-Leeds, has membership here.”

  “That means nothing to me.” The steward shrugged. “I have no proof that you are who you say you are, and besides, you are a woman. We do not admit women. Not even the First Lady.”

  A brawny man appeared behind the steward and whispered something in his ear. The man stepped aside and the hulk came to stand in front of her. Libby’s heart sped up.

  “You are the muscle here, aren’t you?” she asked. “Perhaps you will be more reasonable than your colleague.”

  “Leave!” he barked.

  Libby’s eyes widened. Well. So much for reasonable. “Look—”

  He took a menacing step toward her. “If you don’t leave, I will throw you in front of that carriage coming this way.”

  She turned to see a carriage rolling toward them. She had to find a way to placate this man. Clearly, invoking Pen’s name was not an option.

  “Listen,” she began, keeping her voice even. “I am—”

  Before she could register what was happening, the man picked her up and threw her down the steps and onto the road. The carriage was almost upon her.

  ***

  Henry saw the baroness leave the Armstrong-Leeds House. Something about her furtive manner drew his attention in the first instance, and within
seconds he realized it was her because of the graceful way she moved. He followed, wondering why the obstinate woman had snuck out dressed like a widow.

  Surprisingly, someone else began to follow her, too. He sped up but they turned into an alleyway and disappeared. He had to choose between following them and her. He chose to hail a carriage and asked the driver to follow her. She seemed oblivious to the dangers around her and his ire grew.

  Did she really think a heavy black dress, a cloak, a hat, and a veil were a good disguise? She would have been better off wearing men’s clothing.

  When they arrived at their destination, he stopped several meters away and assessed the situation. What the devil was she doing at The Barbican?

  He began to close the distance between them as she exchanged words with the doorman. Then a large man came out and took over. Henry began to run, concern taking hold. Before he could reach her, the giant grabbed her and threw her onto the road where the carriage he had just alighted from was passing.

  Henry’s entire body ignited and he raced as fast as he could, his heart threatening to burst out of his chest. His vision was a complete blur. All he could see was a pile of black in the middle of the road and horse hooves and wheels coming ever closer.

  He dove forward and landed on top of her, covering her body with his before rolling with her out of the carriage’s way. Her head was cradled against his chest and her body was trembling. So was he.

  Henry remained there with her in his arms until he had regained his composure…some of it, for he was very angry. With her, and with the man who had pushed her…especially with her. She would not have been pushed if she had remained in the safety of her home.

  He pulled away, rose to his feet which felt rather weak, and helped her up. A gasp escaped her lips when she saw him.

  “DeHavillend!”

  “What were you thinking?”

  She was still visibly disoriented, but managed a fiery response. “I am close to finding out who really killed the man who kidnapped me.”

  “And you think coming out alone is the way to go about it? You were almost killed just then!”

  Her amber eyes flared at him. “If you think I should stay home like some delicate flower lamenting my situation into a pretty lace handkerchief, then you are gravely mistaken! The police want to take me into custody and men like you do not believe that I did not kill him!”

  “I offered to take the case yesterday and you rejected me. You should have allowed me to take care of things.”

  “You do not believe me!” She shouted the words at him, and Henry was silenced. He did believe her, now. Not just because of her outburst, but because she was obviously willing to risk her life in order to clear her name. A guilty person would not take that action.

  He felt somewhat ashamed.

  While they were squabbling, the club door suddenly opened. Henry turned to find the steward walking toward them. The man first bowed to the baroness and then to Henry.

  “My sincere apologies, Sir. My master would like to see you.” He looked at the baroness. “You most especially, my lady.”

  The Baroness glared at him. “Why? A moment ago, your hulking friend tried to kill me.”

  The steward bowed his head. “You earned his respect. Not many women will challenge the Raven’s guards. You didn’t back down.”

  The baroness sniffed and huffed for a moment, before straightening her delicate shoulders and marching forward. One corner of Henry’s mouth tilted up in admiration of her poise and grace, before he quickly followed her.

  ***

  Libby was still very shaken over her near-death encounter, but she put forth her best posture and most stoic countenance. She was in the realm of men now and any show of vulnerability, however small, could not be afforded. She pictured them like wolves poised to attack; one wrong move and they would rip her to shreds.

  She brushed past the despicable steward and into The Barbican. If she were here under different circumstances, today would go down in history as the day the most exclusive and prestigious club in Boston admitted its first woman.

  She was greeted by the smell of cigars and liquor. It was a comforting smell, somewhat like Pen’s study at home. The front hall was decorated in the darkest shades of brown, giving the place a dark and mysterious air. They climbed two flights of stairs and turned down a wide hallway, also decorated in browns. The scent of a strong cologne filled the air and intensified as they approached their final destination—a salon with an elegant coffered ceiling and paneled walls. To her relief, the entire room was not decorated in varying shades of brown. The drapes were sage green and the carpet was olive green and ivory, while the massive fireplace was black marble.

  It was all very masculine. She would bet the place would look far more welcoming if it had a woman’s touch.

  A tall, dark-haired man stood looking out one of the windows and when he heard them enter, he turned. He must be the Raven. His deep green eyes glittered dangerously as they roved Libby, not in a condescending manner, but in an admiring one. His mouth was curved up at one corner and he moved with languid grace.

  “Welcome, Baroness Esk,” he greeted with a courtly bow. When he straightened, he gave DeHavillend an acknowledging nod before waving them toward a sitting area in front of the fireplace. “Please, sit.”

  She lowered herself onto a brown leather sofa. DeHavillend sat beside her and her senses awakened to his closeness. Despite the smell of cigar and heavy cologne in the air, she could still perceive the detective’s subtle sandalwood scent and her nostrils flared in response, strangely wanting more.

  She twisted her head and found his silver gaze on her, but it was not inquiring or amused as it usually was. It was stern and focused. He was still angry with her, she could feel it, but at the same time, she sensed his protectiveness.

  A warm feeling was just beginning to swirl around her when the Raven spoke, breaking the spell.

  “My deepest apologies for the way my men handled you. I will see they learn from this. Ladies should not be treated in that manner.”

  She nodded her acceptance of the apology and folded her gloved hands on her lap, waiting for him to continue.

  “Would you like something to drink?” he asked.

  “No, thank you,” she said stiffly.

  “A whiskey for me,” DeHavillend requested.

  The Raven raised his hand slightly to call the attention of a footman waiting by the door. “Our finest whiskey for Detective DeHavillend…”

  Her eyes narrowed in question. The detective had not given anyone his identity since their arrival.

  The Raven smiled rakishly. “I know a lot of things, my lady.” Then he turned back to the footman. “A bourbon for me and wine for the baroness.”

  “Certainly not!” she interjected firmly.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “You will do well not to assume what I drink.” She looked at the footman then. “I will have what the detective is having.”

  Henry’s brows did a slow ascent and he felt his lips curving upward. She never failed to surprise and bewilder him. And from the look on the Raven’s face, he had not been expecting that, either.

  The footman bowed politely and left to retrieve their drinks.

  “So, my lady, to what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?”

  “Oh, quit pretending,” she said, rolling her eyes. “We both know you find no pleasure in my visit. You have just admitted a woman into your establishment for the first time, and if the ego you’re oozing is any indication, you will do all you can to keep that fact hidden.”

  Henry knew the Raven, at least by reputation, and he smiled into his hand at Lady Elizabeth’s comment. This was definitely not the first time a woman had been admitted into The Barbican. But certainly, it might be a first for a lady. She clearly did not know that, of course. Why should she? This was not part of her world.

  “My dearest Baroness,” the Raven drawled in an ironic tone, “you are not the first fema
le to set foot in The Barbican. It is not something I need to hide.”

  “Good. Then perhaps you should consider giving women membership.”

  He chuckled darkly. “Society has not reached that point yet, my lady. But I assure you that if it ever does, I will happily offer women membership to The Barbican.”

  “Shouldn’t something as relevant as social inequality trump your desire to stay in business?” she challenged.

  The man’s eyes flared with something like admiration. Henry understood that emotion. Lady Elizabeth was proving to be an impressive young woman and she had somehow crawled into his mind and wedged herself there.

  “I am certain you have not come all the way here to convince me to admit women into my establishment. What can I do for you, my lady?”

  Just then the steward returned with their drinks. His master dismissed him and closed the door firmly behind him on exit. Henry took a small sip of his drink and allowed it to burn a trail down his throat, invigorating him.

  Libby spoke. “I have information that the Raven put out a hit on Mr. Nolan Hart. You are the Raven, are you not?”

  Their host’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Who gave you that information?”

  “That is irrelevant. Did you or did you not have Mr. Hart killed?”

  “It is relevant to me.” His eyes gleamed dangerously. “I want to know who is dragging my name through the dirt.”

  Lady Elizabeth stiffened slightly and reached for her drink. “For their protection, I would rather not tell you,” she said, taking a sip of her whiskey and coughing slightly. “Better not have another body turn up in a ditch outside of town.”

  “I am not sure if you are brave or stupid.” The Raven studied her and Henry stiffened, ready to jump to her aid. He relaxed a little when the man added, “Perhaps you are both. I take no responsibility for Mr. Hart’s death.” He raised his snifter to his lips, but changed his mind and lowered it before leaning forward. “The police are after you for the murder, are they not?”