by Turano, Jen
“Oh, very well, I’ll deal with him,” Harriet said, struggling to her feet and heading out of the kitchen. She stalked down the short hallway, reached the door, pushed aside the bolt that secured it, twisted the lock, and then wrenched it open, her temper steadily rising when she looked at Oliver and found him smiling back at her, although his eyes held a distinct trace of temper.
“What?”
“Is that any way to greet your fiancé?”
“You’re not my fiancé, you’ve only ever been my pretend fiancé, or maybe temporary fiancé would be a better way to put it. But since I’ve decided I can’t be trusted not to harm you if I have to spend any additional time in your company, you need to go away and leave me alone.”
“Don’t you think you’re being a little overly dramatic? I mean—”
Not allowing the annoying man to finish his sentence, Harriet shut the door in his face, locked it, brushed her hands together, turned, and pretended not to hear his demands for her to open up as she headed back toward the kitchen. She knew full well she’d have to open the door again to give him Buford, but . . .
Her steps slowed when a letter, sitting directly on top of a clumsily wrapped package and positioned on a side table, caught her eye. Dread was immediate when she picked up the letter and found her name scrawled in an untidy hand across the front—that particular scrawl far too familiar.
It was from Aunt Jane, but . . . how had it gotten on the table?
She picked up the package and hurried to the kitchen, finding Millie and Lucetta both on their knees, trying to coerce Buford from under the table. She had to clear her throat twice to get them to look at her. She held up the letter and package. “Were these waiting outside the front door when the two of you came home today?”
Lucetta frowned. “No, they were on the table.”
“Are you sure?”
Lucetta’s frown deepened. “Didn’t you leave them there because you were avoiding dealing with your aunt?”
“Perhaps she’s sent you a birthday present,” Millie said, eyeing the package. “You should open it.”
“My aunt never sends me presents.”
“She gave you that dress of your mother’s last year on your birthday,” Millie argued.
“Only because she wrongly believed if she buttered me up with that offering, I’d be more inclined to join her little confidence-swindling thing she has going on in the city.”
“But at least she didn’t try to take the dress back after you refused her offer,” Millie said weakly.
“There’s no need for you to try so hard to bring out positive aspects about my aunt, Millie. She has nothing whatsoever positive about her, and just because she’s likely related to me, doesn’t mean I have to like her.” Harriet tore off the brown wrapping and considered the box for a second before she finally opened it up. What was nestled inside had alarm flowing freely through her. She plucked out the diamond necklace and held it up.
“That’s . . . hmm . . . really nice,” Millie said as she nodded to Lucetta. “Isn’t it nice?”
“Stunning, but . . . ” She turned to Harriet. “Do you suppose that used to belong to your mother?”
“Highly doubtful, since Aunt Jane has never given any indication she or my mother came from wealth, and . . .” Her words died in her throat as something more concerning than receiving what was most likely a stolen necklace hit her. “I’ll be right back.” She dropped the necklace into the box, spun around, marched her way back to the door, and pulled it open, barely flinching at the glare Oliver sent her.
“Why didn’t you mention that Buford can open doors?” she demanded.
Oliver’s brows scrunched together. “Buford can’t open doors.”
“Are you quite certain about that?”
“Well, yes, seeing as how he’s a dog, and”—he lifted his hands and turned them from side to side—“he has paws. Why do you ask?”
“Never mind.” She shut the door in his face again and willed her breathing to slow, knowing this was not the appropriate time to descend into a fit of the vapors.
Her aunt, or the men her aunt employed who’d been following her around town of late, had been in her home.
She’d been left an expensive piece of jewelry, which meant her aunt was up to something and wanted to get Harriet’s attention, but what could that something possibly be?
“She’s going to frame me for theft, or blackmail me, or . . .” Horror was swift as Harriet realized that not only could she be harmed by an accusation of theft—her friends could be as well. Her breath caught in her throat when the idea sprang to mind that authorities could even now be getting a tip from Jane. They would be led to this very apartment, where they’d discover a glittering diamond necklace that, clearly, none of the ladies living on the Lower East Side could afford.
They’d be hauled away to rot in jail, probably Jane’s plans all along, and then she’d come to the rescue and bail them out . . . leaving Harriet, Lucetta, and Millie in the woman’s debt.
That idea was completely unacceptable, although . . . She might be completely off the mark, but . . . what if she wasn’t? What could she possible do to avoid suffering the consequences of whatever duplicity her aunt intended?
The solution was clear, and although it left a sour taste in Harriet’s mouth, she marched back to the door, pulled it open, ignored the complaints that poured out of Oliver’s mouth, grabbed hold of his arm, and ushered him into her home.
“Just let me stuff this dictionary into my trunk, since it won’t fit in Millie’s, and then you and Darren can cart it down to the carriage.”
Oliver simply stared at Harriet as she threw a remarkably large dictionary into her battered trunk and slammed the lid shut. She brushed her hands together before sending him a look that had expectation written all over it. He didn’t exactly appreciate the look, nor did he appreciate the fact he was more confused than he’d ever been in his life, but no one seemed inclined to alleviate his confusion by explaining exactly what was going on.
“And why is it that you’ve decided to take Mrs. Hart up on her offer and continue on as my pretend fiancée?” he finally asked.
“Don’t you want me to complete the deal with the duke so that you can get your hands on that wool you seem so keen to acquire?” she countered.
“Well, certainly, but I have to tell you, Harriet, you’re acting a little peculiar. Does the reasoning behind the peculiarity have something to do with thinking Buford knows how to open doors?”
“It’s really not very gentlemanly of you to point out I’m peculiar,” Harriet said before she turned away from him when Darren stepped into the room. “Ah, Darren, thank you so much for agreeing to help us. This trunk is ready for you and Mr. Addleshaw to take out to the carriage now.”
“She says that as if we don’t have to negotiate down four very steep flights of wobbly stairs, but simply stroll outside and toss the thing into a carriage,” Oliver said to Darren, who grinned as he took hold of one end of the trunk while Oliver took hold of the other.
It took a bit of maneuvering to get the trunk down the stairs, but they managed to do it unscathed, even if both he and Darren were perspiring rather profusely by the time they reached the bottom step. Miss Plum’s trunk was next, and except for the unwelcomed suggestions Harriet, Miss Longfellow, and Miss Plum called to them as he and Darren struggled their way down the steps yet again, their trip was uneventful. However, when they took hold of Miss Longfellow’s trunk, the situation immediately turned difficult.
“What do you have in here?” Oliver asked Miss Longfellow, pausing right in the middle of the front door because Mrs. Hart seemed determined to take that precise moment to try to squeeze her way past him.
“One should never question what essentials a lady needs to take with her, Mr. Addleshaw,” Mrs. Hart said with a sniff. “Why, I’m sure you’ve just embarrassed Miss Longfellow quite dreadfully since she’s most certainly stuffed that trunk to the gills with her unmen
tionables.”
“It’s actually filled with all my dictionaries, along with a thesaurus and my recently acquired collection of Jane Austen novels,” Millie said with a grin.
“Essentials to be sure,” Oliver said dryly before lugging his end of the trunk the rest of the way through the door right as Mrs. Hart managed to scoot around him, giving him an unexpected jolt forward when she bumped into him. He was propelled out the door a little faster than he’d been anticipating, which caused Darren, who’d evidently not been prepared to be thrust forward so rapidly, to slip on the wet steps. That unfortunate circumstance resulted in Darren jerking the trunk forward, making Oliver drop it in the process. Oliver could only stand there, frozen in horror, as Darren careened wildly down the stairs with Miss Longfellow’s trunk chasing after him.
“This is no time to dither—help him!” Harriet yelled, reminding him of a not-so-distant admonishment she’d sent him when Miss Birmingham had gotten on the bad side of Buford.
Oliver began running down the steps, but they were slicker than ever, and he slid, tumbling down a good few steps before he finally landed on the third-floor landing. Before he could so much as shake the stars from his eyes, he found himself trampled underneath the dainty feet of the ladies, including Mrs. Hart, as they dashed past him. Pushing up to a sitting position, he peered through the railing, finding all the ladies hovering around his driver, who’d stopped on the second-floor landing. Miss Plum, he noticed, was tearing off a piece of her petticoat, which she immediately began wrapping around Darren’s head—a head that seemed to be bleeding.
“Are you all right?” he called to his driver before he rose to his feet and began making his way cautiously down the steps on legs that were less than steady.
Though there was a dazed expression in Darren’s eyes—not an expression Oliver believed was a result of the fall but from the fact Miss Plum was crooning to Darren in that amazing voice of hers—Oliver came to the rapid conclusion his driver was going to be just fine. When he made the mistake of mentioning that, though, he earned himself a scowl from each and every one of the ladies, right before they sent him back up the stairs to collect a few remaining items.
By the time he’d retrieved those items, which turned out to be more than a few, and they had started off for Mrs. Hart’s home, Oliver was thin on patience. Wincing as a dress form conked him in the head when his carriage made a rather abrupt turn, he shoved the form aside. Looking to Harriet, who was frowning at him from her squashed position on the opposite seat, he arched a brow. “Are you sure it was wise to allow Miss Plum to take Darren’s place and drive the carriage?”
“Lucetta is perfectly competent with the reins, as you can see,” Harriet said even as the carriage jolted over what had to be a huge rut in the street that a competent driver would have surely missed.
“I was more than willing to drive us to Mrs. Hart’s,” he insisted.
“Yes, I know, you told me, several times, but that wouldn’t have allowed Darren, the man who suffered a troubling accident because of you, the opportunity to spend time with Lucetta.” She smiled. “I must say, it’s wonderful to see he’s already on the mend, probably because he’s been given the extreme treat of having Lucetta’s undivided attention.”
“Miss Plum should be giving all her attention to the road, not to Darren, and if I were at the reins, we would have arrived by now.”
Harriet batted long lashes his way, an action that was completely out of character for her. “Lucetta’s apparently decided to take a more scenic route to Mrs. Hart’s.”
Edging forward, Oliver peered past Buford and looked out the miniscule patch of window that wasn’t blocked by the ladies’ possessions. “I hardly believe this back alley we seem to be trundling down is even close to being scenic. Although”—he leaned back—“it would be a perfect route to take if someone was, perhaps, trying to make certain no one is following us.”
“Who would want to follow us to Mrs. Hart’s?”
“I’m sure I have no idea, other than the two men you were obviously trying to avoid earlier.”
“I never said I was trying to avoid two men.”
Oliver blew out a breath. “You didn’t have to. Your suspicious behavior spoke for itself.”
“I must say, all these compliments you keep sending my way are bound to go to my head soon. Why, I don’t recall the last time I was deemed peculiar and suspicious in the same day.”
“You can hardly fault me for being a little suspicious, especially when you had Miss Plum drive you to that church instead of following Mrs. Hart’s carriage.”
“I needed to let Reverend Gilmore know where we were going so he wouldn’t worry about us.”
“What was in that box you took into the church?”
Harriet eyed him for a moment, and then, strangely enough, she smiled. “Honestly, Oliver, we’re hardly going to enjoy a pleasant ride in your carriage if you continue questioning me in such a concerning fashion.”
“Our ride was doomed to be less than pleasant from the start, considering we barely have enough room to sit, let alone comfortably, and you’ve been glaring at me for most of our journey.”
“I wouldn’t continue glaring at you if you’d simply extend me the apology I so richly deserve.”
“The agreement you and I struck does not require me to apologize to you for anything.”
“Then I suppose you’ll just have to become accustomed to me glaring at you.”
“You agreed to be charming.”
“And I shall be, when we’re out in public—unless, of course, you try to take me to task for speaking to people I consider friends.”
“It’s beyond inappropriate for you to count women of Tawny and Ginger’s ilk as friends.”
“It truly is a lucky circumstance I can’t reach the door at the moment, Oliver. Otherwise, I’d feel a distinct urge to throw myself out of it again.”
Oliver frowned. “While I know this has nothing to do with the conversation at hand—and we will return to that conversation—tell me, how was it possible that when you threw yourself out of this carriage the first time you were able to land on your feet?”
“I spent time in a circus.”
He couldn’t help himself, he laughed. “You have quite the imagination, don’t you?”
Harriet opened her mouth, but before she could say a single word, the carriage lurched to the right and began traveling at an even faster rate of speed. He struggled to reach the handle to roll down the window. “I think I should take over driving.”
“Don’t be silly. Lucetta’s doing a fine job, and . . . Good heavens, you’ve just squished my bustle.”
Wincing as he realized something that felt remarkably like metal was piercing his stomach, Oliver cautiously leaned back right as Harriet snatched the bundled package of wrapped linen straight off his lap. She set it on her knees, parted the linen and then scowled at him. “You broke my collapsible bustle.”
Oliver eyed the contraption. “It doesn’t look broken to me.”
“It certainly is. It won’t spring back into place.”
“Forgive me, Harriet, but if women are going to be sitting down with that bustle on their backsides, I would have to imagine there’s going to be more force used than what I exerted by merely leaning on it for a second.”
Harriet began muttering under her breath, but her mutters came to an abrupt end when the carriage began to slow. Craning her neck, she peered out the window. “Is this Washington Square?”
Struggling to see past Buford, who was trying to crawl into Oliver’s lap, he finally caught a glimpse out the carriage window. His gaze traveled over rows of brownstones, all looking remarkably the same.
“From what little I can see, yes, I do think we’re on Washington Square.”
“The houses are very different from those on Fifth Avenue, aren’t they?”
“That’s because Washington Square is home to many old New Yorkers, Harriet. These families were some of the fi
rst to live in New York, back in the day when it was New Amsterdam. They’re very set in their ways and prefer brownstones to the more progressive houses being built on Fifth Avenue. But, brownstones aside, this is a very respectable area, and you and your friends will be safe here.” He tilted his head. “Although, given that you’ve yet to explain what trouble you’re in, and I don’t see you doing that in the near future, given your stubborn nature, I’m going to have Buford stay with you for a little longer.”
Buford let out a loud snore as he sprawled across Oliver’s lap.
“I don’t believe that’s . . . ” Harriet’s words faded to nothing when the carriage suddenly made a sharp turn and jostled both Oliver and Harriet around before it pulled to a stop behind one of the brownstones.
Oliver shoved aside the dress form yet again and pressed closer to the window. A typical three-story brownstone met his gaze, but upon further inspection he noticed the dwelling had a somewhat neglected air about it. The windows appeared to be dirty, and cats seemed to be lounging in each and every one of those windows. For a moment, he thought they’d stopped at the wrong house, but then Mrs. Hart’s voice rang out.
“Miss Plum, my goodness, have you been driving the carriage? I can see the two of us are going to have to have a long chat about what is appropriate and what is not.”
Miss Plum simply laughed and then the carriage shook just a bit as someone jumped to the ground. A second later, the door opened and Miss Plum stuck her head in. “You have a very fine set of horses, Mr. Addleshaw, although the one with the black star on his nose does tend to shy a little when other carriages approach.”
“When other carriages approach, or when you’re driving on the wrong side of the street?” he countered.
Miss Plum sent him a sniff and turned to Harriet. “I think our extended journey through the city did the trick.”
“Wonderful,” Harriet exclaimed, handing Miss Plum the rewrapped bustle before she began scooting for the door.
“What trick?” Oliver asked.