by Jen Turano
“True, but do you see what they have trailing behind their buggy?”
Lifting up on the seat in order to get a better view, Permilia searched through the crowded street again, glancing past other carriages, delivery wagons, and . . .
She abruptly retook her seat. “They have your horse—and Harrison Sinclair’s horse as well, I have to imagine—attached to the back of their buggy.”
“Indeed, which begs the question . . . where did they find the horses and where are they taking them?”
“I would think they’re heading to your store, since everyone on Broadway is familiar with Vagabond. He’s a most splendid animal with very distinctive markings on his head and forelegs.”
“You’ve noticed Vagabond’s markings?”
“I’m a wallflower, Asher. We spend most of our time noticing things.”
“What an interesting thought, and one I’d never considered before. But getting back to the spinster sisters, it seems a little out of character for them to be returning my horse. They’re not known to be overly helpful types.”
Permilia frowned. “Why is it that when people remark on women who have not married by a certain age, they always describe them as spinsters in exactly the condescending tone of voice you just used? Unmarried men of advanced ages are always referred to as gentlemen bachelors instead of something equally insulting such as . . . crusty curmudgeons or—”
“Forgive me for interrupting what I’m certain is going to be a blistering lecture in which more of my many deficiencies will be brought to light, but . . . the hospital is just up ahead, which means you need to pull the wagon over. And while you see Harrison settled, I’m going to go see about getting our horses back.”
“But I don’t even know Harrison Sinclair, nor does Gertrude.”
“Gertrude’s had plenty of time to become acquainted with him, and you saw him that once in Central Park when you were ice-skating. Besides, even though you don’t know him well—”
“Or at all,” Permilia interrupted.
“It’s a proven fact that we gentlemen prefer to be seen after by feminine sorts when we’re suffering from an injury or malady. That means Harrison is more likely to enjoy you and Gertrude seeing after him than having me do the deed.” He smiled. “Besides, Harrison will want his horse after he’s finished at the hospital, and this way, we’ll not waste time if you see after him and I see after his horse.”
“But you can’t go charging up Broadway on your own. If you’ve forgotten, you just escaped from a mad assassin, one who may even now be lying in wait for you.”
“I highly doubt the person who failed to kill me earlier has had the proper amount of time to enact another plan to kill me, so . . . I’ll meet you back at Rutherford & Company after you’ve seen Harrison properly attended to, or if you don’t show up there in a timely fashion, I’ll come back to the hospital.”
Edging Mr. Merriweather to the side of the street and bringing him to a stop directly beside the hospital, Permilia blew out a breath. “What if the Huxley sisters don’t see fit to return the horses to your store but take them back to their home?”
“Then I suppose I’ll be forced to pay them a call.”
“They’re not ladies you should be visiting on your own. It is well known throughout society that they’re beyond peculiar.”
Asher sat forward on the seat. “While there’s no arguing with that, I certainly don’t believe the Misses Huxley were behind the plot to kill me.”
Opening her mouth with an argument on the tip of her tongue, Permilia found herself swallowing that argument when Asher jumped off the wagon seat, sent her one of his annoyingly charming smiles, and began to stride down the street without allowing her the opportunity of directing even a single additional word of warning his way.
Chapter
Thirteen
Striding down the sidewalk next to Broadway, Asher exchanged nods with a gentleman who managed the bank a few buildings down from Rutherford & Company. Reaching up to tip his hat to a group of ladies strolling his way, he lowered his hand when he discovered he seemed to be missing his hat and settled for sending the ladies an inclination of his head instead.
Exactly when his hat had gone missing, he couldn’t say with any certainty, but if he were to hazard a guess, he thought it might have fallen off while he’d been in the midst of the wild ride Permilia had taken through Central Park.
That she’d had the audacity to follow him about the city for two days was a rather disconcerting idea, and one that certainly deserved further contemplation now that he had the time to consider the matter.
She had, without his consent, placed herself smack-dab into a situation that could have very well seen her dead, or at the very least, grievously injured.
Even though she’d made the claim to him that she was not well suited for society life, she was still, unquestionably, a lady. As such, she had no business trying to assume a role that gentlemen throughout the ages had assumed—that being the role of rescuer.
While he’d certainly appreciated her timely intervention, he was a man—and as a man, he was perfectly capable of saving himself.
Having to admit that he’d allowed a woman to race to his rescue was embarrassing to say the least, and . . .
His feet simply stopped moving as a rather unexpected thought flung to mind, his lack of movement causing the poor gentleman who’d been walking behind him to take a hasty step to the left in order to avoid a collision.
Extending the gentleman his deepest apologies, Asher found himself incapable of moving forward as unpleasant notions took that very moment to begin storming through his mind.
The reason Permilia had taken to following him about town was not simply because she was a woman who enjoyed insinuating herself in other people’s business. Instead, she’d obviously come to the conclusion that he hadn’t believed her about the murder plot and decided to take matters into her own hands.
She’d evidently done that because she believed he would soon find himself dead if she didn’t intervene, because . . . she’d recognized him for what he truly was—a man sheltered from the realities of the world.
Asher sucked in a much-needed breath of air and pressed a hand to his temple, as if that would be enough to stop the unwanted thoughts whirling around in his head, but unfortunately, the whirling continued.
He was a gentleman who’d been raised in an affluent and civilized setting. As such, he’d not been exposed to the nastiness of the world at large—the greatest hardship he’d ever faced being that of learning the family fortune had diminished considerably and knowing it was left to him to replenish that fortune and save them all from financial ruin.
At the time, that had seemed like an insurmountable obstacle, but now—looking at it from afar, and from the perspective of a man who’d apparently incurred the hatred of someone to such an extent that they wanted him dead—it didn’t seem worthy to be called a hardship.
It was little wonder, living in the sheltered world he’d apparently been living in for far too long, that he’d blithely dismissed Permilia’s story, waving aside her concern for his safety as if it had been a trifling matter.
In his defense, he did live in a world where people were not usually marked for murder . . . nor did assassins lurk their way through an evening of frivolity, accepting payment for their dirty deeds while an orchestra played and the guests danced their way through the Ticklish Water Polka, but . . .
Permilia, while currently living in the world he lived in, had the common sense to realize there was a very real threat to his life, and . . . she’d acted accordingly.
Instead of being annoyed with her for taking it upon herself to assume a role she shouldn’t have had to assume in the first place, he should have been grateful that she’d had the bravery needed to keep him alive.
That right there was exactly what was truly bothering him.
When Permilia had been confronted with what likely was an assassin the night of the Vanderb
ilt ball, she’d not panicked as one would have expected a lady to do. Instead, she’d stuffed herself, along with Mrs. Davenport, into a dumbwaiter and escaped from a most dastardly situation without the assistance of a gentleman.
Asher was not certain he would have been able to claim that same success, nor could he even be certain he’d still be alive at this very moment if she hadn’t come riding in her milk wagon and saved the day.
What was truly telling and certainly didn’t speak well of his character was how he’d gone about repaying her for her bravery.
Instead of professing his fervent appreciation over her timely appearance in Central Park, he’d acted like a complete idiot by inquiring about what she was wearing.
That inquiry had been beyond ludicrous, and that he’d actually admitted he’d done so in order to distract her, the poor, wilting flower she obviously was not, was hardly a mark in his favor.
He had a reputation for being considered a charming gentleman about town, and . . . one of the most eligible gentlemen in the city at the moment.
Those titles needed to be stripped straightaway, especially since, when faced with an honest-to-goodness emergency, he had not acted as a gentleman was expected to act and taken charge of the situation, but had turned to talk of . . . clothing.
He was a disgrace to the title of gentleman.
Resolving right there and then, in the midst of the foot traffic on Broadway, that he would strive to change that unfortunate situation, Asher moved into motion again.
That he truly had no idea how to accomplish the daunting task of becoming more, well, manly, was a cause for concern. But a small step in moving toward that goal might very well be retrieving his horse, along with Harrison’s horse, from the Huxley sisters, if they had, indeed, kept the horses instead of returning them to Rutherford & Company.
The Misses Huxley were known to be curious ladies, possessed of sharp tongues and peculiar behavior. And while he by no means thought them to be dangerous, it would take a certain amount of manliness on his part to approach the sisters, especially since he employed numerous men who would normally have been sent to accomplish such an unpleasant task.
His shoulders sagged as he realized that doing an unpleasant task on his own instead of pawning it off on one of his employees, who would have no say in accepting or declining the task, was scarcely a positive point in his favor.
Telling himself that he was going to have to do better than that if he truly wanted to improve himself, he squared his shoulders and strode forward again but was forced to stop a few steps later when one of his regular customers, Mrs. Strong, stepped into his path.
Since he couldn’t doff a hat that was no longer on his head, he extended her a bow and smiled. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Strong.”
Mrs. Strong smiled back at him. “Good afternoon to you, Mr. Rutherford, and may I say that it’s lovely to find you looking so well.” She glanced at the watch pinned to the underside of her coat. “It’s almost past three and I must tell you that members of your staff are growing quite frantic, having expected you back at two.” She leaned closer to him. “The salesladies in the glove department are very concerned about your whereabouts, Mr. Rutherford, and are having a most difficult time performing their jobs in what I’d consider a satisfactory manner. You really must seek those salesladies out straightaway, otherwise, I’m afraid your sales in the glove department may very well suffer today.”
“How interesting to learn you’re so familiar with my schedule, Mrs. Strong” was all Asher could think of to respond to that.
Frowning, Mrs. Strong looked up from her watch. “It’s not as if your schedule is a mystery, Mr. Rutherford. Everyone knows you’re a gentleman who appreciates a strict schedule. Why, ladies have been known to reset their watches because of your schedule. Although . . .” She shook her head. “If anyone thought to do that today, they’d be sorely disappointed since you’ve strayed from what has become expected of you. May I dare hope that there’s not a troubling reason behind that straying?”
“Everything is perfectly fine.”
“You’re missing your hat,” she pointed out, as if that proved he was anything but fine.
“Indeed I am.”
Peering up into his face, Mrs. Strong actually reached out a hand and gave him a rather motherly pat. “You’re looking a bit peaked, Mr. Rutherford. I suggest a nice cup of tea, which should help you feel more the thing.”
Wagging a gloved finger his way, she turned and marched down the sidewalk, quickly disappearing into the crowd.
Wondering again how it could have possibly happened that he’d turned into such a predictable sort, which certainly wasn’t a dashing or exciting title to hold, and certainly wouldn’t impress someone like Permilia, since she was . . .
Shaking himself straight from those thoughts, since this was certainly not the time to be dwelling on Permilia, he forced his feet into motion again and moved down the sidewalk.
He’d gotten all of ten feet before he noticed Mr. Cushing, a man he employed as a doorman at Rutherford & Company, charging down the sidewalk toward him, a large smile of what could only be described as relief spreading over the man’s face.
“Thank goodness you’re back, Mr. Rutherford. The salesladies are beside themselves, having concocted all sorts of outlandish stories to explain your absence from the store this afternoon, some of those tales concerning your demise.”
“Which isn’t as farfetched as you may think,” Asher muttered before he forced a smile and fell into step beside Mr. Cushing. “But surely everyone wasn’t concerned for me? I’m not that late returning from my afternoon ride.”
“You’re never late, Mr. Rutherford.”
“Surely I am, at least occasionally.”
“No. The few times you haven’t returned precisely at two, you’ve left notice with Mrs. Banks. She then adds a note on your schedule and no one takes to worrying.” He shook his head. “Mrs. Banks has been pacing the floor outside your office for the past hour, telling anyone who will listen that something dastardly has happened to you. She’s even composed a letter she intends to send off to the authorities, telling them you’ve gone missing.”
“I’m only a little over an hour late.”
“Which is quite unlike you, sir.”
Asher blew out a breath. “Apparently you’re right, but if I may ask a favor of you, Mr. Cushing, would you be so kind as to seek out Mrs. Banks and tell her I’m fine?”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but don’t you believe that’s something your secretary will want to hear from you?”
“I would be quite willing to speak with her, Mr. Cushing, but I must first travel to the Rutherford & Company stable to discover if the Misses Huxley returned my horse, along with Mr. Sinclair’s horse, before I can attend to any other business.”
Mr. Cushing frowned. “Right before I spotted you walking down the sidewalk, I was speaking with the head groom, Mr. Slavic, and he did not mention Vagabond having been returned.”
“And that right there proves I was exactly right to part ways with Miss Griswold, no matter that she thought I’d taken leave of my senses.”
“Sir?”
Asher swallowed a sigh when he took note of the clear confusion now stamped on Mr. Cushing’s face. “Don’t mind me, Mr. Cushing. I’m afraid I’ve had a very trying day so far, and learning Vagabond has not been returned means my day is certainly not going to improve any time soon.”
“Surely you’re not suggesting that the spinster sisters have stolen your horse?”
“I don’t believe they’ve stolen my horse. I would say more along the lines of retrieving it, at least that’s what I’m hoping—a realistic hope, I would have to imagine, since everyone knows the Huxley sisters are two of the wealthiest ladies in the city. Since we’re on the subject of the sisters, Mr. Cushing, whatever you do, do not allow Miss Permilia Griswold to hear you say the word spinster in her presence. You’ll only be opening yourself up for a good lecture if you do
.”
Mr. Cushing’s brow furrowed. “I’ll try to refrain from that, then, sir, if I ever happen to find myself having an actual conversation with . . . Miss Griswold, you said?”
“You may find yourself having a conversation with that lady sooner than you’d expect. I asked her to join me at the store after she gets Mr. Sinclair seen to by a physician at the hospital.”
“Mr. Sinclair has been taken to the hospital?”
“He has, but I’m sure he’ll be fixed up in a trice. He suffered a blow to his head, which is why I need to retrieve his horse. I’d hate to tax that head of his further by not providing him with the return of Rupert.”
“Should I assume you, along with Mr. Sinclair, suffered from some manner of an accident today?”
“I believe a more apt term to describe what we suffered, Mr. Cushing, would be an ambush.”
Mr. Cushing, oddly enough, took to nodding his head in a very knowing fashion. “I’m not surprised. Given the company Mr. Sinclair’s been known to keep, it was only a matter of time until someone went after him.”
“Would you be surprised to learn I was the target of the ambush?”
Mr. Cushing, instead of looking suitably impressed by the danger Asher had drawn his way, let out a chuckle. “Very amusing, Mr. Rutherford, and exceedingly thoughtful of you to try and detract attention from your friend’s dangerous reputation.” He gave a last chuckle and moved toward the front door of Rutherford & Company. “I’ll go tell Mrs. Banks that you’re fine, as well as inform the rest of the staff you have not met an unfortunate demise.” With that, Mr. Cushing vanished into the store, mumbling something about Asher’s excellent sense of humor under his breath.
As he watched his doorman disappear, Asher couldn’t help but shake his head.
Clearly, it was the conception throughout the city that he was punctual, safe, and . . . unworthy of attracting the interest of an assassin—conceptions that were less than pleasurable to swallow.