“Work, as usual,” he said, taking the offered cup and sipping it, the warm liquid, spice with cinnamon and clove, a heartfelt grounding, surging together the past and the present in one cup of home. “And you?”
“The same,” his aunt said, drawing a blanket over her lap as his uncle took a seat in the chair across from them. His teacup looked like a doll’s in his large-knuckled hands which had spent their life working, building, placing one stone upon another. He was a builder, a laborer, creating something out of nothing, fixing wrongs in his own way.
“Uncle Andrew,” Drake said, a thought suddenly occurring to him, “what do you think of the fabricated stone that has made an appearance over the past few years? Does it hold up, or is it all a ploy?”
His uncle lifted one bushy brow. “What’s the sudden interest?” he asked, and Drake held his stare. His uncle had been greatly disappointed when Drake hadn’t followed in his footsteps, learning the trade from him, but Drake had other priorities — priorities which did not involve building.
“It has to do with a case.”
“I see.” His uncle’s gaze became shuttered again, and he looked out through the window as though contemplating his answer. “Depends on the company,” he said, looking back at Drake now. “Some are of high quality and more durable than any stone to be found from the land. Others do nothing but steal a man’s hard-earned riches. If it’s cheap enough for most to afford, then it will not last, son. Nothing that is cheap or easy will stand the test of time, let me tell you.”
Drake nodded, hoping to stop his uncle before he began reciting his views on life — views that he felt everyone should follow, most especially Drake himself.
“You are right, Uncle, absolutely,” he said with a nod, hoping that quick agreement would spare him. It was not that he didn’t appreciate his uncle sharing his wisdom with him — it was that he had already heard it countless times before.
“I wish neither of you had to work,” Drake said, rubbing the stubble on his jaw, stubble that he should have shaved but kept forgetting to.
“Oh, we like the work,” his aunt said, although somehow, he doubted cleaning laundry for others could be considered enjoyable. “What would we do without it?”
“I’m not sure,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Sit? Enjoy life?”
His aunt laughed at that, while his uncle simply snorted, and Drake supposed that they had a point. They knew nothing but work, so how were they to learn any differently?
“Now, tell us, any young women in your life these days?” his aunt asked, her lips curled up expectantly, and the word ‘no’ was on Drake’s lips, but suddenly, an image appeared in his mind, one unbidden and not at all welcomed — Madeline Castleton.
He shook his head to clear it. She was simply in his thoughts because he had just met with her. For she was not a woman he would ever consider romantically. He preferred strong women, women who were clear-minded, focused, determined.
Miss Castleton was a frail beauty if there ever was one. He had a feeling that her wispy, light-blond hair would almost disintegrate if he were to touch it, not that his hands would have any invitation to come close to her. She had the palest skin, as though it had never seen the sun, her frame lacking strength of any sort. Though her eyes, as blue as the sky on a clear day, were difficult to forget. They cut through a man when they focused upon him, as though they could see right through his suit of armor — even if it was, in his case, a black jacket over buff trousers.
“No,” he finally said, shaking his head to his aunt’s hopeful stare. “No one.”
“Oh, Drake,” she said, her smile falling. “I do wish you would take more care to find yourself a bride. You need a good woman in your life.”
“That is why I have you,” he said, attempting humor, but she batted his arm.
“You know what I mean. And I will not be here forever.”
“Don’t say that,” he said, his tone more curt than he had intended, but he would far prefer not to speak of such things.
“Drake,” she said, leaning toward him, “your parents would want you to be happy. You know that, yes?”
He nodded, not trusting himself to actually respond to her suggestion without any emotion.
“Besides,” his uncle added, “how do you know that you are not going to find yourself in trouble? Your aunt and I worry every day that you will get on the wrong side of the wrong person, find yourself in the graveyard next to your parents. Do you know what they would say to us, if we allowed such a thing to happen at your age? Perhaps if you had a woman to come home to, a family… you would take more care.”
“If such a thing happened, know that it would not be your fault,” Drake said gruffly, ignoring the last suggestion, but his aunt and uncle stared at him with such sadness that he could no longer meet their eyes. “But onto more important things — what does a man have to do around here to get some dinner?”
Drake opened the door of his small house, both welcoming and abhorring the silence that awaited.
He didn’t spend much time here, in the one-story house near Bow Street he had bought a year ago, when he had saved just enough for his own space. Most of his investigations took place not during the sunlit hours of the day, but in the dark of night, when the criminal element emerged. It was the time when the shadows provided cover for the most nefarious of deeds, but also when truths were revealed.
But not tonight. Tonight was quiet. So quiet that he even had time to ruminate on an act of vandalism that would normally be far too inconsequential for him to provide any time for.
Which worried him. Whenever London seemed quiet, it usually meant that something was in store, something brewing that threatened to cause more turmoil than he would have liked.
He threw the wad of money on the side table as he entered — money that he had attempted to give to his aunt and uncle, but they had refused, telling him that if he left it with them again, they would only give it away.
He had taken it, but would go around the next day and ensure that any debts they had owing would be paid. That much he could do for the two people who had taken him in when he had no one, when he had been left by himself. If it wasn’t for them, he would have grown up in an orphanage, alone and forgotten.
He owed them everything.
It was the other reason why he worked as tirelessly as he did. If he was going to fight for justice, then he might as well get paid enough for it that he could help to support them.
Even if it meant submitting to the worries of a fragile blond beauty, her pesky protector of a cousin, and a factory full of fake stone.
Chapter 4
Dear Madeline,
I hope all is well in London with the factory. I am quite enjoying myself in Bath, I must tell you. It has been far too long — years too long — since I have taken any time away from the business. I am grateful to you, Daughter, for providing me with the ability to leave Castleton Stone in such good hands. I have faith that you cannot only keep the business running, but will make sure that it thrives.
Bennett promised to help in whatever you may need. He may not have the head or the heart for the stone business like you do, but as you know, he will do anything for this family, and I trust that he will be there to support you in every way.
I shall not be gone for too much longer — a few weeks at most.
Wishing you all my love,
Your Doting Father
Madeline closed her eyes and allowed her head to fall so far forward that it was resting against the desk, the paper sandwiched between the wood and her forehead.
Her father had such faith in her. She should appreciate it, welcome it — and she did. Most women would never be afforded such responsibility.
But she was failing him. She knew that.
Even as she closed her eyes, she heard the knock on the door, the clerk once again calling her, telling her that another client was awaiting her.
“A Lord Bainbridge, Miss Castleton!”
; She groaned. Another client, eager for his stone. Stone which had been destroyed.
They were working as hard as they could to catch up in the factory, to replace the broken sculptures and fulfill all of the orders. But it wasn’t enough. Not without bringing in more hands, and even then, new bodies would require training, training that she just didn’t have time for. Besides that, it took four days to fire the stone in the kiln, which could only fit so many pieces.
She took a deep breath and sat up, fixing her hair as best she could to welcome the visitor. “Please send him in, Clark!”
She straightened her spine and braced herself to explain all she could to the client, and hopefully stave him off for a few days, until they had time to shore up their supply, or at least come somewhat close to it.
Then she had a visit to make. She needed this mystery solved, and she needed it solved now.
It had been three days since she had seen Drake. Three days since she had told him of her problem. Three days since he had promised to look into it.
And in three days, she had not received one word in return from him.
So, she would just have to visit him instead.
Drake was itching for a case to solve.
A good case. One that would take all of his attention, all of his deduction, so that his mind would be focused instead of free to wander to places it had no business wandering.
Or, should he say, to people he had no business focusing on.
Like Madeline Castleton.
He was only interested in helping her because she had been so wronged, he reasoned with himself. Yes, he had been able to ensure last year that her scandal had come to a satisfying conclusion, but once a reputation was so ruined, there was no putting it back together again. At least, not in this case. This was one wrong he could not right.
He had meant to follow up with her on her current situation, to speak with the rival, Treacle, that she was so sure was behind it all, but he had not yet found the time to do so.
Or so he told himself.
He also told himself that it all had nothing to do with the fact that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her, that something about her — maybe it was that she was so slight and unimposing – threatened to slip through any crack that appeared in the wall around him.
For he was resolved that no one would ever do so.
“Something bothering you today, Drake?”
He looked up to find Marshall, the only other constable present in the Magistrate’s Office on Bow Street today, looking at him thoughtfully from beneath his bushy red eyebrows.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Why would you think that?”
Marshall lifted a shoulder. “You’ve got a frown on your face the likes of which I’ve never seen before.”
“Just bored,” he said with a sigh. “Waiting for something big to come in.”
“Well,” Marshall said, drawing out the word, looking beyond Drake’s shoulder. “Seems to me that something has come in, although big wouldn’t be the word for it.”
Drake hadn’t even heard the door open, and yet before he turned to see who the new arrival was, somehow he knew, without looking, that she would be standing there.
“Hello.” Her voice, soft and whispery, floated across the room to him, tickling his ears and causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end. “I am here to see Drake.”
Marshall, who was facing her, rose from his desk and approached. “Well, hello, my lady,” he said, bowing before her. “How are you today?”
“She’s not a lady,” Drake called out, imagining Miss Castleton’s reaction.
“Pardon me?” she said, lifting an eyebrow as he stood and began to walk toward her.
“I said you’re not a lady,” Drake repeated matter-of-factly. “You are the daughter of a merchant. Therefore, not a lady.”
Miss Castleton tilted her head to the side while looking up at him. “You are correct in that, of course,” she said, “however, there is one statement that I would disagree with.”
“Oh?”
“I am a merchant’s daughter, yes,” she said, lifting her chin, “but I would also qualify that by saying I am a merchant myself.”
Drake couldn’t help it. His lips quirked up at the corners, stretching themselves into quite a foreign expression.
“Why, Drake, I do believe you are smiling!” Marshall said, awe in his voice before turning to Miss Castleton with interest. “I say, my dear, who are you?”
“Madeline Castleton, of Castleton Stone.”
“Oh, yes, I have heard of you,” Marshall said, leaning in toward her. “Quite a good quality product you fashion, I hear. Takes some time to fabricate, though, does it not?”
“Some time, yes,” she said in her gentle, quiet voice, “although not nearly as long as the evolution of natural stone, now does it?”
At that, Marshall threw back his head and laughed, while Miss Castleton smiled knowingly at him.
“Nicholas Marshall,” he said, bowing to her once again, even though they had all established that it was not necessary.
“Well, Mr. Marshall,” she said with a nod of her head, “are you a constable as well?”
“I am.”
“Perhaps you would be interested in a case, then,” she said, avoiding looking over at Drake, “since it seems that there are no other detectives here who have any desire to help me.”
There was a spark in her eyes and a set to her jaw, and Drake knew, then, how much courage it had likely taken for her to come seek him out again, and he was immediately regretful that he hadn’t done more for her.
“My apologies, Miss Castleton,” he said, linking his fingers together behind his back. “I have not been as attentive to this case as I should have been.”
She finally turned toward him, her blue eyes piercing into him.
“I understand, Drake, that an act of vandalism may not seem to be of great importance to you. However, it means everything to me, and to my business, and I require assistance. I may not have been clear the last time we spoke that I am willing to pay handsomely for such help.”
“How handsomely?” Marshall cut in, leaning forward between them.
“Fifty pounds for your time, and another fifty if you actually catch the culprit,” she said.
Drake could only blink.
It was too much — far too much for a case like this, or for a case at all.
He opened his mouth to tell her so, that he could never accept it — that they could never accept it — but then he was taken back to the week prior, to the visit to his aunt and uncle’s. He was reminded of the creaky front steps, of the worn sofa, of the gnarled hands both of them lived with while they continued working when they should be taking this time to enjoy their lives. He could use that money. They could use that money.
There was no room for his pride. Before he could say anything, however, Marshall intervened.
“Well, then, Miss Castleton, I would be more than happy to find your culprit,” Marshall said, reaching out a hand to shake hers. “Although I would have anyway, of course.”
“Unfortunately, Marshall, the case has already been claimed,” Drake said, reaching out and breaking their hands, fighting away the strange urge to prevent another man — even a man like Marshall, a friend and good-natured soul — from touching her. “Forgive me, Miss Castleton. Give me a second chance.”
He attempted to smile at her, although he was aware that his smiles, especially those that were forced, often had the look of a cringe instead.
She eyed him for a moment of indecision before she finally nodded her head curtly.
“Very well,” she said. “As you already know the particulars of the case, Drake, I would be pleased for your help — if you promise to remain committed.”
“Of course,” he murmured. “Why don’t you come sit down?”
He held his hand out in front of him, gesturing toward the spare chair next to the corner table. She nodded and followed
as Marshall began to amble back across the room to his own seat, releasing a low chuckle as he went.
“I would be correct in assuming, then, that you have made no progress?” she said, holding onto her reticule with both hands as she stared at him from across the table, and for a moment he felt like a chastised child, although he would ensure she had no idea that he felt any guilt.
“Not quite yet,” he said, fidgeting with his quill pen. “Soon, I hope.” He looked around her for a moment, wondering just how she had come to be here. “Are you alone, Miss Castleton?”
“I am.”
“That helpful cousin of yours did not accompany you?”
“He did not,” she said smartly. “Bennett is ever so helpful, but he is also…”
“Annoyingly overbearing?” Drake supplied with a lifted brow, and she laughed.
Her laugh was more of a trill, one that surprised him, shocking him with the way it sent corresponding tremors down his spine to the very base of it. It stopped far too quickly, however, as she slapped a hand over her mouth.
“Oh dear,” she said, moving her hand to the side as she caught his gaze with hers. “I really shouldn’t poke fun.”
“You didn’t poke fun,” Drake observed. “I did. You simply laughed.”
She sighed. “Even so. For all of his good qualities, I know that Bennett does not wholeheartedly approve of Father leaving me, a woman, in charge, and he believes that he must be ever-present in order to prevent me from doing anything foolhardy. I often become quite tired of it.”
“Understandable. I also would not want someone continually looking over my shoulder to determine how I am doing my job.”
He turned his head ever-so-slightly to catch Marshall nearly leaning over his own desk in an attempt to listen in to their conversation. When he heard Drake’s words, he turned back to his paperwork so quickly that the two front legs of the chair came crashing to the ground and he almost tumbled off it.
Unlike Marshall, however, Drake was able to keep hold of his curiosity, the only hint of his mirth the curl of one side of his lips.
Risking the Detective (The Bluestocking Scandals Book 6) Page 3