by Jen Turano
Asher stepped right up next to her. “You were a delightful partner, Permilia, and I can honestly say I’ve never had such an interesting time performing a quadrille before. It was most gracious of you to follow my lead when I suggested you do so.”
The sting of tears caught her by surprise, but before she could do more than blink them away, music filled the room, the sound of it having Asher looking back toward the ballroom.
“I’m sorry to have to leave you at such an inopportune moment,” Asher began, “but I’ve promised the Ticklish Water Polka to Miss Lukemeyer. I’m afraid it wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me to renege on my promise to her.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Since you admitted to me not long ago that you maimed poor Mr. McVickar while attempting to dance the polka with him, perhaps you really should consider encouraging Mr. Slater to dance this particular dance with your stepsister.”
Giving her arm what felt exactly like a reassuring squeeze, Asher made his excuses to Ida and Lucy, sent Mr. Slater a less than friendly look, and turned and walked away.
“I get the uncanny feeling I’ve done something to annoy that gentleman,” Mr. Slater said.
“I’m sure you haven’t,” Permilia said, shaking her head when he held out his hand to her. “But speaking of annoying, I have the uncanny feeling you’ll be most annoyed with me if I take to the floor with you to dance this particular polka, so . . .” She nodded to Lucy. “I would deem it a great favor, Lucy, if you would dance with Mr. Slater in my stead.”
To Permilia’s relief, Lucy didn’t hesitate. When the orchestra began playing in earnest, signaling the start of the dance, she took the arm Mr. Slater offered her and began walking away. But they slowed to a stop a mere second later when Mr. Slater turned and arched a brow Permilia’s way.
“You will join me for dinner, though, won’t you?”
“I would be honored to join you for dinner, and I assure you, you’ll be much safer sitting down to dine with me than trying to partner me in a polka.”
Sending her a smile, Mr. Slater urged a now-unsmiling Lucy into motion again, leaving Permilia standing with only Ida for company.
“That was very wise of you, dear,” Ida said.
“Since I was recently speaking with Asher about poor Mr. McVickar and how I’d injured that gentleman while attempting the Ticklish Water Polka, the horror of the dance was relatively fresh in my mind.”
Ida immediately took to looking Permilia over in a very considering fashion. “I wasn’t aware you and Mr. Rutherford were on such informal terms with each other.”
Dredging up a smile, Permilia shrugged. “I’ve been taking your advice, stepmother, which, if you’ll recall, encouraged me to be on friendly terms with Mr. Rutherford.”
“Don’t be on too friendly of terms with any gentleman, Permilia, at least not until after arrangements have been settled. Gentlemen rarely bother to buy the fine crystal champagne flutes when they can drink from less expensive goblets instead.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that and go back to what I normally do while at a society event: find a nice wall and settle in for the duration.”
“Do not forget you promised to dine with Mr. Slater,” Ida said with a wag of her finger in Permilia’s direction. “Lucy is far too impressionable at her tender age, and a man dressed as a pirate will almost certainly turn her head. One dance shouldn’t turn her head too much, but if she spends additional time with the man . . . well, it’s not an idea I’m comfortable contemplating.”
“If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say Mr. Slater is a very wealthy gentleman.”
“He’s in mining.”
Permilia frowned. “As is your husband.”
Without bothering to reply to what Permilia thought was a most profound statement, Ida glided down the hallway, stepping around the young lady dressed as Joan of Arc before she disappeared from view.
The sight of Joan of Arc, who was still brandishing a notebook instead of a sword, banished all thoughts of dances, eligible gentlemen, and annoying stepmothers and stepsisters from Permilia’s mind.
Realizing that she’d allowed herself to become completely distracted from the truly important task laid out for her that evening—that being gathering information for the best column she’d ever written in her life—Permilia headed across the room, searching for an out-of-the-way place she could use to get back to work.
Smiling when she found another large fern by the entrance to the ladies’ retiring room, she walked as casually as she could toward it, bending down a second later to retrieve an abandoned dance card from the ground. Straightening, she dusted off the card, but before she could take up her position behind the fern, Gertrude dashed up to join her, breathing rather heavily and having a distinct look of panic in her eyes.
“I’ve lost Mrs. Davenport,” Gertrude managed to get out before she bent over and sucked in a large breath of air.
“I’m sure she’s not lost.”
Gertrude straightened and frowned. “Well, quite, but I’ve misplaced her for more than an hour. That’s far too long to allow Mrs. Davenport to be misplaced. There’s no telling what mischief she might have gotten herself into by now.”
Although Gertrude had never confided in Permilia regarding exactly what Mrs. Davenport got up to when she disappeared at each and every society event, Permilia had a notion it might not be considered . . . aboveboard. Stepping closer to Gertrude, she gave her friend’s arm a squeeze.
“Would you like me to try and find her?”
Relief immediately replaced the panic in Gertrude’s eyes. “Would you mind? I’ve come to believe that Mrs. Davenport is on to me and is now deliberately avoiding me, which means . . . she’s definitely become embroiled in something . . . disturbing.” She drew in a breath and blew it out. “You may be more successful than I’ve been in finding her, since she won’t be expecting you to try and run her to ground.”
“It sounds a little disturbing when you put it like that.”
Gertrude lifted her chin. “You have no idea how disturbing this situation could turn if we don’t find Mrs. Davenport and run her to ground before someone else discovers her. And if you’re fortunate enough to find her, do try and see if there seems to be anything suspicious in her reticule.”
“How, pray tell, would I get a glimpse of the contents of her reticule?”
“I’ll leave the details of that up to you.” With those less than helpful words, Gertrude moved closer to Permilia, whispered something about needing all the luck she could get, and then gave Permilia a push, leaving Permilia with no choice but to proceed forward with her quest, a quest she hoped would not see her landing in a disturbing situation as well.
Chapter
Eight
Twenty minutes later, it was becoming quite apparent that Mrs. Davenport did not want to be found.
Having traveled back up to the third-floor gymnasium and meandered as casually as she could through all the many rooms located up there, and having absolutely no success running her target to ground, Permilia had been forced to return to the second floor. The dilemma with that, though, was that some of the areas of the second floor were no longer open to guests, and those areas had almost all the lights extinguished in them, leaving her meandering around in shadows.
Creeping down yet another dimly lit hallway, Permilia prayed that if she did find Mrs. Davenport, she wouldn’t find her in the midst of doing something of a questionable nature. What that something might be, she had not the faintest idea, but since Gertrude had certainly lent the impression Mrs. Davenport was prone to mischief, Permilia knew there was little chance that she’d stumble on the woman behaving herself.
That idea was a little unsettling, even though she was perfectly aware that Mrs. Davenport was known throughout society as an eccentric sort.
She had a propensity for dyeing her hair black, exactly like Mrs. Astor did, and a fondness for wearing rouge and rice powder whenever she stepped out of her house.
Because of that, it was next to impossible to gauge the woman’s true age, although Permilia thought she might be in her late sixties. For a woman of that age, she’d managed to maintain a trim figure, which certainly made the business of finding her more difficult than if Mrs. Davenport had been a lady prone to plumpness.
Besides the woman’s physical attributes, Permilia knew relatively little about her except that she was known to be in possession of a very large fortune, had no family to speak of, at least none in New York, and was apparently delving into a bit of skullduggery. What that skullduggery was, or why a society matron would delve into that nonsense in the first place, was apparently anyone’s guess.
Turning left when she reached the end of the hallway, Permilia found herself faced with another shadowy space in front of her. For a second, she debated giving up her quest, until she remembered that Gertrude could very well suffer a loss of employment if Mrs. Davenport was discovered doing something of a questionable nature. Society did not approve of questionable behavior, especially from their society matrons, and could very well banish Mrs. Davenport from their gatherings, those gatherings being one of the main reasons the woman employed Gertrude.
The sound of a grunt drew Permilia out of her thoughts and toward a door only a few feet away from her.
When the grunt was directly followed by the distinct sound of something crashing to the ground, Permilia slipped farther into the shadows, pressing herself against the wall. Hoping that the person responsible for the crash, a person who might very well be the oh-so-elusive Mrs. Davenport, would abandon whatever it was they were doing and return to the festivities, Permilia decided her best option was to remain where she was and wait the person out.
It turned out to be a long wait. After a few minutes had passed and not a single soul exited the room where the crash had occurred, Permilia drew herself up, stepped out of the shadows, and moved toward the room, ignoring the little voice in her head that kept whispering she was being an idiot.
Stepping through the door that had been left open just the tiniest bit, she came to a sudden stop when she got a good look at the room she’d just entered. A single gas lamp was throwing a golden glow over what seemed to be a collection of objects, some of those objects still in brown wrappings.
Statues, paintings, and even a few stuffed birds were scattered about, but there was not another living soul in sight.
Turning, Permilia was just edging through the door again when another sound—this one along the lines of a thud—drifted to her from somewhere on the opposite side of the room.
Squinting in the direction of the sound, she saw another door, one that looked as if it might lead to some type of closet. Tiptoeing across the room, she took hold of the doorknob and, before allowing herself time to rethink the action, twisted it as quietly as she could and opened the door.
What she found after stepping through the door took her by complete surprise. Instead of a closet, she was standing in another room, this one designed as a second art room, the main art room being located on the first floor and accessible to guests. The walls in this room were papered in a deep red, and the furniture looked as if it had been lifted straight from an ancient castle. A fur rug—one that had certainly come from a bear, given the bear’s head that seemed to be watching her from the edge of that rug—was placed directly in the center of the room, while a gold cart filled with crystal decanters stood next to crimson drapes.
This room was clearly not intended for anyone but Mr. and Mrs. Vanderbilt to enjoy, which meant if she was found out, there’d be all sorts of trouble to pay. Sweeping the room with her gaze, she stilled when she caught a glimpse of movement to her right. Before she could investigate further, though, voices drifted in from the room she’d just vacated.
Without the slightest hesitation, she dropped to the ground and crawled across the floor, wriggling as fast as she could underneath a drop-leaf table. Lifting her head when she felt she was sufficiently hidden, she found her gaze caught and held by none other than Mrs. Davenport, said lady having tucked herself neatly underneath what appeared to be a Jacobean chair. That Mrs. Davenport was not looking the least little bit disturbed by their current situation was rather telling in and of itself—as if the lady made a habit out of hiding in places she was not supposed to be.
“You do know that if we make it out of here unscathed, you owe me some type of an explanation, don’t you?” Permilia whispered.
The only response Mrs. Davenport gave was to place a finger to her lips even as she nodded to the door that was still slightly ajar.
Pressing her lips firmly together even though she had plenty of things left to say to Mrs. Davenport, Permilia turned her attention to the door just as someone began speaking on the other side in a lowered tone of voice, a voice that had the hair on the back of Permilia’s neck standing at attention.
“Discretion is imperative” were the first words Permilia could make out clearly, those words doing absolutely nothing to calm the anxiety that had taken to swirling through her veins.
“So you’ve said,” another voice rasped. “Numerous times, but do know that discretion comes with a hefty price.”
“As I’ve mentioned before, money is no object as long as the little problem my partner and I have been dealing with of late comes to a rather expedient . . . end.”
Every muscle in Permilia’s body stiffened, holding her quite immobile as she realized that the situation she’d landed herself in was quite disturbing, especially since it sounded as if someone was in the midst of hiring on a man to commit—
“How soon did you want your problem taken care of?” the raspy-voiced gentleman asked.
“As soon as you’re able to plan it out in the most efficient manner possible. My partner and I are anxious to finish this and would appreciate the deed being completed before the man is able to get that blasted tearoom of his up and running.”
A bead of perspiration dribbled down Permilia’s face, brought about by the mention of the tearoom. According to articles she’d read in all the papers, Asher Rutherford was in the process of creating a tearoom on the fourth floor of his store.
It was a brilliant idea, and one that the city had embraced wholeheartedly, but surely the gentlemen on the other side of the door, who were sounding more and more like gentlemen prone to criminal activity, could not be speaking about—
“I wouldn’t be able to continue my chosen profession if I performed my services in anything other than the most efficient of ways,” Raspy-man continued, the rasp in his voice steadily increasing, as if he were taking great pains to disguise his true voice.
That disguising was certainly a prudent decision on the man’s part since his conversation was, indeed, being overheard, but it was a frustrating situation for Permilia since she had not the slightest inkling who the voice belonged to, which meant she was going to have to—
“And that right there, my good man, is exactly why I have no qualms paying you the obscene amount of money you’re asking for in order to take care of the Asher Rutherford problem I’m experiencing. He, as you and everyone else in town is well aware, is a very prominent gentleman. His demise must be made to look like an unfortunate accident. Otherwise, well, we’ll never be able to let down our guard.”
Raspy-man released an ominous-sounding chuckle. “Mr. Rutherford has acquired a long list of enemies because of the rather unusual hiring methods he embraces for that store of his. Even if questions arise after his . . . accident, there are far more likely suspects out there to draw the notice of the authorities than you or your partner.” Raspy-man cleared his throat. “May I assume you’re currently in possession of the money I require before I begin making the proper arrangements?”
“Why else would I have agreed to your demand of meeting you here at this ball, and securing you a ticket to it, if I was not in possession of . . .”
Permilia stayed as still as she could, straining to hear more of the conversation, but the men’s voices became nex
t to impossible to understand, possibly because they’d moved farther away from her.
Realizing that the transaction for murder the men had apparently agreed to was rapidly wrapping up, and knowing she needed to get a look at the men in question in order to put an end to their plan, Permilia began inching forward ever so slowly. She was halfway out from beneath the table when she happened to glance up and notice that Mrs. Davenport was in the process of edging out of her hiding place as well. The woman was completely silent as she edged—yet another indication that she spent a significant amount of her time pursuing nefarious agendas.
To Permilia’s concern, though, Mrs. Davenport stopped edging, got a horrified expression on her face right before she drew in a wheezy sort of breath, and then . . . sneezed.
It wasn’t a delicate sneeze by any stretch of the imagination, but one that practically sent the windows to rattling and one that, unfortunately, had not gone undetected.
“Someone’s in that room” were the first words Permilia heard after Mrs. Davenport’s sneeze stopped reverberating in her ears.
“I’ll see to it,” the raspy-voiced man said, clear menace marking his every word, the menace sending Permilia immediately into motion. Scrambling to her feet, she dashed over to the door that separated her and Mrs. Davenport from certain madness and slammed it shut. Muttering a quick prayer of thanks when she discovered a key resting in the lock, she gave it a quick twist, blowing out a breath of relief when she jiggled the knob and found it securely locked.
“I say, dear, good show,” Mrs. Davenport exclaimed, drawing Permilia’s attention as she rose to her feet, fished a handkerchief out of a reticule that was bulging with heaven knew what, blew her nose, and returned the handkerchief to her reticule. “I thought we were done for.”