“I would ask that you keep my arrival in confidence,” she asked, her gaze flitting from Hil to Harry to Roger. “I am not ready yet to have it known that I am here.”
Meaning she didn’t want her husband to know, Hil surmised. It was as he’d suspected. “I shall keep the knowledge to myself,” he assured her. “As a matter of fact, I may be out of London for a time, and so I shall take the secret with me.”
“What?” Roger exclaimed. “Why?”
“Another favor I am doing for a friend,” Hil answered obliquely. “I expect to be gone for several months at the very least. I can call before I leave if you wish me to do so.” He could tell from Mrs. Enderby’s expression she understood exactly what he was saying. He’d take her with him if she needed to run even farther. He had no qualms about helping an innocent lady escape an undesirable marriage. Based on his investigation into Enderby’s background when he was looking for her and the gossip surrounding their marriage, he had no doubt that was exactly what she was.
She regarded him seriously for a long, drawn-out minute before answering. “No, thank you, Sir Hilary. I do not wish to delay your departure. I bid you farewell and a pleasant journey. Thank you for your help.”
“Madam,” he said respectfully, with a bow. “Please feel free to send a note to my secretary should you need me. He will have my direction. Shall I see you upon my return?”
“If all goes well, I hope we may renew our acquaintance in the future,” she responded, her answer almost as oblique as Hil’s had been. His respect for her grew. With another bow he departed the room, quite sure he would never see the mysterious Mrs. Enderby again.
* * *
Eleanor watched Sir Hilary leave with Harry’s husband, Roger. “Who is he?” she demanded as soon as the door closed. “Why was he looking for me?”
“That’s Sir Hilary St. John,” Harry told her. “Finding people and things is what he does. He’s quite mysterious, and one of Roger’s dearest friends in the world. As soon as those horrible men showed up looking for you I sent for Sir Hilary. When even he couldn’t find you—” She stopped abruptly and her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Ellie, I was sure you were dead.”
Eleanor tried to assess all that Harry had said. “What horrible men?” she asked quietly, dealing with most pressing issue first. “When were they here?”
Harry pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose. “They first came about three months ago, looking for you. Enderby sent them. They said you’d gone mad and run away from home or some such nonsense. I knew they were lying, and so I asked Sir Hilary to find you.”
“First came?” Eleanor asked sharply. “You mean they’ve been back? How recently?”
Harry nodded. “Yes, a couple of times. They became belligerent, sure we were lying when we said we didn’t know where you were. Sir Hilary said they were watching the house for some time. He had men watching them. Oh, it was all so confusing. But they left a few weeks ago. I suppose because they assumed the same thing we did, that you were dead.”
“Good,” Eleanor said with satisfaction. “That’s exactly what I thought would happen. That’s why I stayed hidden so long. Although I’d hoped the misleading clues I left as to where I was going would keep them away from you.”
“Eleanor,” Harry said with an exasperated huff. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
“Of course, dear,” she said, reaching for Harry’s hand. “I’ve run away, just as they said, but I am not mad. I am free at last.” She bit her lip. “Your new husband, he won’t make me go back, will he?” She hoped not. The Roger she’d known when they were all so much younger hadn’t been that sort. He’d been a good boy, a friend and often a confidante. Truthfully, she’d always rather hoped he’d grow up and marry Harry.
Harry looked utterly astonished. “Roger? Of course not! He hasn’t changed a bit, Ellie, from when we were children. He’d never do such a thing. He wouldn’t dream of it, not if you don’t want to go back. Why don’t you want to go back?”
“It’s a very long story,” she said. “So I shall condense it for you. Enderby is a pig. I loathe him, and he feels the same way about me. The difference is, he can do something about it and I can’t. I have been a virtual prisoner at his house in Derbyshire for a decade. Which felt even longer than it sounds.” She sniffed, refusing to cry anymore over that loathsome fiend and what he’d done. “I can’t have children, you know,” she said calmly. “The fever, when I was five or six. The doctor said it did something to make me barren.”
“I didn’t know,” Harry said, her cheeks burning as she covered her obvious pregnancy with her hands, as if embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” she said, and she meant it. “Bringing a child into that house would have been a disservice. He doesn’t deserve to be a father.” She smiled. “And I’ve accepted it. I heard that you had a baby with Lord Mercer. Is he here?”
“Oh, yes,” Harry said, glowing with maternal pride. “Mercy is upstairs, asleep. You shall meet him tomorrow.”
Eleanor looked away, and she was confronted with her own image reflected back in the window, the night pitch black outside now. She wished she could open one of the windows. It suddenly seemed so terribly hot and airless in the room. “I tried to meet him when he was born,” she said. “I heard that you’d had him, and I escaped and ran to Merveille House, to you and Mercer, hoping to find sanctuary.”
Harry grasped her hand in both of hers. “And you never made it?” she said sadly.
“Oh, I made it all right,” Eleanor said indignantly, turning back to look at Harry. “Mercer promptly locked me up and sent for Enderby. The next day I was dragged home.”
“What?” Harry asked incredulously. “But Mercer never told me. If I had known, Eleanor, I swear I wouldn’t have let them take you.”
Eleanor shook her head. “There was nothing you could do,” she said pragmatically. “It didn’t take but a minute in Mercer’s company to realize you were in the same situation I was. We were both sold, right and proper, to despicable men.”
Harry hugged her tightly. “We were.” She held Eleanor’s shoulders, facing her. “But I am free by the grace of God, and you are not. What are we going to do, Eleanor?”
She patted Harry’s hand. “Tonight? Nothing. I’m so dreadfully tired, Harry, dear, and my mind is in a bit of a muddle.”
Harry hugged her again and this time Eleanor found herself holding her little sister tightly in return, overwhelmed that she had made it. She was here. With Harry. “Of course, darling,” Harry said sympathetically. “Come on. I’ll show you upstairs.”
* * *
Eleanor awoke in a cold sweat, her throat aching and her scream echoing off the walls around her. It took a moment to realize she was at Harry’s, not back in her locked room at Enderby’s. The wick still burned low in the lamp, and she could see the pale-green oriental wallpaper and delicate furnishings of the room she’d been given. It was much finer than anything at Enderby’s house. Rising from the bed on shaky legs, she stumbled to the window, opening it wide. She took a deep breath of the rather fetid London air. It smelled like heaven, like freedom at last. Closing her eyes she took inventory of her self and her surroundings. Her belly was full, her clothes clean and sweet smelling, and the window was wide open. No thundering voice yelling invectives as Enderby charged from his room at the interruption of his sleep. She smiled, and she knew it wasn’t pretty. It was an angry, determined smile. Just then there was a knock at the door.
“Eleanor,” Harry called out sounding rather frantic. “Are you all right?” She knocked again. “Eleanor?”
“Eleanor, open the door.” It was Roger.
She hadn’t realized the door was closed. Of course. That’s what woke her up. She’d opened it before she’d gone to sleep. The maid must have closed it. God, she hated closed doors. “Come in,” she called out, dragging her borrowed wrapper from the chair by the bed with shaking hands and pulling it on.
The door flew open and Roger charged in, Harry right behind him. Both were barefoot and obviously wearing hastily donned wraps. Suddenly Eleanor heard the cries of her young nephew from the floor above. “I’ve woken Mercy,” she said apologetically. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” Roger said disbelievingly. “My heart is still palpitating from your scream. What happened?”
“Just a silly nightmare, I suppose,” she said, avoiding the truth. She wrapped her arms around her middle so they wouldn’t see her shaking. She didn’t want them to know how foolish she was about it all. This was Harry’s, not Enderby’s. They weren’t going to lock her in. She could leave whenever she wanted.
“Ellie, you must tell us,” Harry pleaded. “How can we help?”
That caught Eleanor’s attention. She brushed aside the last remnants of the dream and focused on Harry and Roger. She’d need their help if she was to escape Enderby for good. No time like the present to discuss that. She certainly wasn’t going back to sleep right away. “I have a plan,” she declared. “One that will disgrace Enderby and gain me my freedom. But I have to remain lost for some time more. I need Enderby to be so convinced I’m dead that he remarries.”
Harry looked stupefied. “But that could take years!”
“That’s what woke you up, screaming?” Roger asked, clearly bewildered. He still looked half-asleep.
“No, Roger,” Eleanor said patiently. “But Harry asked how you could help. And the greatest thing you can do for me is to help me gain my freedom from Enderby, once and for all.
“Is everything all right, sir?” A tall, older man stood at the door. The butler, if Eleanor remembered correctly.
“Yes, Mandrake. Mrs. Enderby simply had a nightmare.”
The butler never even glanced in her direction. “Very good, sir,” he said. He turned and shooed the gathered servants away before he closed her door.
“All right,” Roger said, rubbing his hands over his face. “And how are we to do that? As Harry said, it can take years to have someone declared dead.”
“It won’t take him years,” Eleanor drawled, as she walked over and sat down in the chair by the open window. “Quite frankly, I’m surprised he didn’t kill me long ago so he could remarry. He’s sired several illegitimate children in the last few years, and his desire for a legitimate heir has grown. It has been the main cause of his discontent for some time. As soon as he can have me legally declared dead, he will do so and he will remarry with haste. Mark my words. In a few months, I shall be the late, first Mrs. Enderby, and the second one shall have taken my place.”
“And then?” Harry asked.
“And then I will miraculously return from the dead,” she said. “Enderby will be forced to choose: admit I’m still alive and take me back, which would mean casting aside his blushing, most likely pregnant bride, or leave me alone and keep her and his heir. I think I know him well enough to know which he will choose. And I will make it even more difficult for him to find me. Because I will not be Eleanor Enderby anymore. I’ll assume another identity. Surely he will leave me alone then. If he does find me, Enderby will not only have to renounce his claim that I am dead, but prove that I am not who I say I am.”
“It won’t work,” Roger said flatly. “I know the law, Eleanor. I’m a barrister. It will be very difficult to have you declared dead, and even more difficult to create a believable identity for you.”
Eleanor’s heart rose into her throat at his words. “It will work. He has most of the county in his pocket. They’ll do as he tells them, including declaring me dead.”
Harry looked unconvinced. “You’ve left out option three,” she said. “Make sure your fake death becomes a very real one.”
Yes, Eleanor had thought of that. “He won’t,” she said with false bravado. “He won’t want to be bothered after he has a new wife and a new life. I shall be free at last.”
Roger looked skeptical. “Perhaps we should just start with a good night’s sleep and tomorrow we’ll find some place to hide you until we can figure this all out.” He turned to usher Harry out of the room.
Harry turned back with a worried expression. “Are you sure there’s nothing we can do tonight?”
Eleanor tried unsuccessfully to quell the uncertainty assailing her. She bit her lip for a moment and then gave in, blurting out, “Could you leave the door open when you leave, please?”
Read on for an excerpt from
Juliet Rosetti’s
Crazy for You
Chapter One
You know the job market is tough when you daydream about going back to prison.
—Maguire’s Maxims
Rhonda Cromwell was the kind of woman that gives cougars a bad name.
She broke up marriages, seduced door-to-door missionaries, and sunbathed nude in her front yard, causing neighborhood guys to run their lawn mowers up trees, neighborhood mothers to lock their teenaged sons in their rooms, and the local camping-goods store to stock more binoculars. Botoxed, liposuctioned, and siliconed to whatever bodily perfection is possible at age forty-five, she trolled campuses for fraternity boys, hung out at singles bars, and hooked up with hot, young hunks she met on Internet dating sites.
She carried on her predations at the office, too, slinking around in bustiers under blazers, screw-me heels, and miniskirts so mini that when she put her feet up on her desk, you could read the brand label on her thong. Young, male employees were afraid to bend over the water fountain. Female employees fantasized about strangling Rhonda with her own Spanx fanny-lifting leggings.
Rhonda was smart, hardworking, and ambitious.
She was also vain, greedy, and malicious.
She was my boss.
She was the owner and CEO of Cromwell Research Services, which sounds like the kind of business that crunches numbers, runs rats through mazes, or test-markets new brands of cheese spread. But its name is misleading. CRS is a spying operation. It sends mystery shoppers out into America’s malls and mini-marts to rat out rude employees, crummy food, and toilet paper stacked in towering piles ready to fall on your head when you squeeze the Charmin.
I’m one of those spies. My name is Mazie Maguire. I’m still pretty much the same insecure twelve-year-old who worried about kissing, except now my acne has cleared up, I’ve achieved a B-cup bra size, and I’ve kissed quite a few males. My real name is Margarita, a legacy from my Italian grandmother, who also handed down her dark-brown hair and ability to sing on key. My blue eyes, freckles, and small frame are from the Maguires, an Irish clan rumored to be descended from leprechauns.
I spent the last four years of my life in prison, convicted of murdering my husband.
I didn’t do it.
Of course, all felons claim they’re innocent, but in my case it’s true. When a tornado tossed me over the prison fence, I ran for my life, pursued by a federal marshal, a couple of nasty hit men, and squads of gun-toting citizens salivating over the reward on my head. Along the way I managed to solve my husband’s murder, expose a dirty senator, and royally piss off my loony-tunes ex-mother-in-law. A judge looked at the new evidence, declared me not guilty, and ordered me set free.
But people believe what they want to believe, and in their eyes I’ll always be the woman who got away with murder. When I tried to return to my old job teaching high school music, the school board refused to hire me back. Nobody wanted an ex-convict teaching their kids. Guilty or innocent, it made no difference. I still wore an invisible barbed-wire tattoo.
It’s now been seven weeks since I walked out of prison, and there are days I want to go back. In the can, you don’t have to worry about making your rent, filling your gas tank, or buying groceries. I’d been released at the exact moment the American economy was tanking. I was fighting for burger-flipping jobs with PhDs in physics.
So I was grateful to have found the job with CRS. True, I despised my boss, the salary was laughable, and I had to taste-test tons of greasy, calorie-laden fast foo
d—but at least I was earning a paycheck. If Rhonda ever got around to paying me, that is.
I live in Milwaukee, a terrific city with not-so-terrific weather. Our unofficial motto is “Yeah, but have you ever felt a witch’s tit?” I rent a two-room flat at the rear of Magenta’s, a boutique that caters to drag queens. It’s the first time I’ve been on my own in years, and the freedom is dizzying. I can take a shower without Mona the Monobrow sidling over and offering to lather up my back. I can read in bed without someone yelling at me to turn off the damn lights. I can eat Pop-Tarts for breakfast and popcorn for supper. After you’ve lived cheek by jowl with twelve hundred people for four years, solitude is the sweetest thing in the world.
Except when it isn’t. Except when you’re missing someone so much it’s an actual physical ache and you want to clamp a giant band-aid over your heart.
Tough it out, my horrible brothers would have said.
Plenty of fish in the sea, my dad would have said.
Stop moping and get on with things, my mom would have said.
Getting on with things on this Friday morning meant heaving myself out of bed and going to work. I had mystery-shopping to do, restaurants to rate, salons to scrutinize. The consumers of the greater Milwaukee area were depending on me.
I skipped breakfast. Sack time wins out over cereal every time. I snapped a leash on Muffin, my shih tzu, and took him out for a walk, both of us exhaling frosty puffs of breath like speech balloons. It was sunny and chilly, typical mid-November weather for Wisconsin. The trees were bare, the ground was frozen, and Thanksgiving decorations were fighting a losing battle against the oncoming steamroller of Christmas.
I dropped Muffin off at doggie day care and hiked the five blocks to where I’d parked my car. I live on Milwaukee’s east side, close to the megalithic University of Wisconsin campus, which means that every day I have to compete with thirty thousand students for about sixteen available parking spaces.
My car is a twelve year old Ford Escort in an end-of-season clearance-sale color—sort of kidney bean red. It has a jones for oil, its tires are bald enough to require a comb-over, its glove compartment harbors a family of mice, and its engine makes odd grunting noises, as though a pig is curled around the carburetor. Still, it was as much car as I could expect for what I’d paid.
A Kiss of Lies Page 32