The Pursuit of Mrs. Pennyworth

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The Pursuit of Mrs. Pennyworth Page 11

by Callie Hutton


  Upon arrival at the Foreign Office, he found Drovers in his office, his head bent over some papers, a magnifying glass in his hand, as he perused the document in front of him. The man’s hair stood on end, as if he’d run his fingers through it several times. So great was his concentration, he didn’t hear Elliot enter the room.

  “Hard at work, as usual, I see.” Elliot moved farther into the room and took a seat in front of the worn, wooden desk.

  The man looked up, not at all startled. “Good evening, Baker. Come with samples for me?”

  Elliot withdrew the paper with Von Braun’s scrawl. He laid it on the desk on top of the paper Drovers had been studying. “What can you tell me about this specimen?”

  Not one to rush through anything, which, of course, in his line of work was imperative, Drovers studied the sample with his magnifying glass. After a few minutes, he pushed the paper back to Elliot. “This man thinks a great deal of himself.” He leaned over and pointed to a sentence. “See how he forms these letters? That shows rigidity, a man not able to bend to anyone else’s opinions.”

  “Is this man capable of leaving a number of frightening items on a woman’s doorstep meant to disrupt her life?”

  Drover grinned, one of the few times Elliot had ever seen such. “Given the right circumstances, I believe most people can do things out of the ordinary.” He leaned forward and folded his hands together. “However, based on your letter to me outlining the problem, to do it over and over, takes an individual who has something wrong up here.” He tapped his temple. “But to answer your question, yes, this man is capable of doing so. But, that doesn’t mean he did.”

  “Well, that clears that up.” Elliot chuckled in frustration.

  “When dealing with human nature, and what man can justify to himself, nothing is clear-cut. You, of all people, should know this, Baker.”

  Elliot stiffened, assuming Drover was referring to his slip-up with Annabelle. Until the man waved his hand and continued, “I’m not referring to your matter, but to the general population that you have dealt with in your line of work. I, myself, have been surprised many times by the cruelty and downright degradation one can foist on another human being. And find justification for it, as well.”

  He snorted. “People rarely change. If they are evil, they will always be evil.”

  Drover tsked. “Such a rigid stance for a young man.”

  “Lesson learned.” Elliot placed the sample of the vicar’s writing on the desk. “This one?”

  Again, the man studied the sample carefully. “Ah, an interesting one. Your friend here is erratic, critical, and methodical. He could be a bit unstable, or merely had a poor tutor when he was learning his letters.”

  “I’m afraid that doesn’t help.”

  “In any event, I don’t think you will find your perpetrator by analyzing handwriting. It is much too hard to predict what someone is capable of doing by studying how they write.” The man sat back and adjusted his spectacles.

  “Perhaps not, but I must pursue every avenue.” At last Elliot pulled out the paper from the man who had left the flowers. “What I’d like to know about this one is if it matches either of the other two.”

  Drovers studied the sample, then laid the other two alongside it. He looked back and forth, and finally looked up at him. “This is an interesting one.”

  Elliot sat forward. “Yes, go on.”

  “Whoever wrote this one is trying to disguise his handwriting.” He moved his magnifying glass over the sample. “It doesn’t match either of the other two, but my educated guess is the scriber is left-handed and tried to write this note with his right hand.”

  Drover removed his spectacles and rubbed them with a cloth. “Languages are different in more ways than one. Those that are written left-to-right, like English, are harder to write with the left hand. You see, a right-handed person writes away from his body and pulls the writing instrument, while a left-handed individual must write toward his body and, therefore, push the instrument.” He tapped the paper. “This person is left-handed and is writing with his right hand.”

  Feeling encouraged by that information, Elliot stood and tucked the paper in his pocket. “Thank you for your insight. I do appreciate your expertise.”

  Before Elliot had crossed the room and closed the door, Drovers had once again returned to perusing the document on his desk with his magnifying glass.

  A light rain had begun to fall when he exited the building. Elliot opened his umbrella and decided to catch an omnibus instead of walking. What he was looking forward to now was an evening in his rooms with a brandy, a warm fireplace, and thoughts of Charlotte.

  Now there was a true conundrum. Truth be told, he would enjoy an evening in his rooms with a brandy, a warm fireplace, and Charlotte sitting on his lap. Curled up with her head resting on his shoulder, her plump breasts pressed against his chest. He would slowly unbutton the back of her dress and ease it off her silky-smooth shoulders.

  His lips would cast feathered kisses over her neck, his teeth nipping her earlobe. Then, he would—

  The devil take it, he was hard as a rock and sweating just thinking about her. This nonsense had to stop. She was his client, nothing more. The kisses they’d shared were an aberration. They should not have happened and would not happen again. Yes, she was a lovely woman, but she was hiding something. He sensed it, and his past experience with Annabelle made him more attuned to deception.

  He hailed the omnibus and climbed aboard. The light drizzle had turned to a steady rain. Darkness had descended earlier due to the weather, and he shivered, anxious to be home in dry clothes. The horses plodded along, stopping to allow riders to alight and board the vehicle.

  Eventually, the conveyance came to a stop a block from his rooms. He stepped onto the pavement and opened his umbrella. He raised the collar on his jacket, and head down against the rain, he hurried toward home. Before he even identified the sound as footsteps behind him, he was thrown to the ground, a large body landing on top of him with a grunt.

  All the air in Elliot’s lungs whooshed out of his body, and the side of his face smacked the pavement. The cold steel of a gun nudged against his temple as very bad breath wafted over him, followed by whispered words. “Leave off yer a’en’ions ’o the lady. She ain’ yers.” He pressed the gun harder against his head. “I’m bringin’ ye ’his message as a cour’esy. Nex’ ’ime I won’ be so gen’le.”

  The lumbering ox fisted Elliot’s hair and slammed his face into the ground once more, bringing stars to his eyes. The footpad climbed off him, leaving Elliot still gasping for breath. After a few minutes, he stumbled to his knees and emptied the contents of his stomach. The side of his face throbbed, and he shook his head to clear it. Warm liquid ran from his nose over his lip to drip on the stones under his knees. He swiped his face. Blood mixed with rainwater.

  There was no need to attempt to follow the man, since he had disappeared into the mist. Elliot made it to his feet and with the help of the handrail, dragged himself up the stairs to his front door, fumbling until he could insert the key and enter the building. He viewed the stairs he needed to climb to reach his rooms, and with a deep breath and shaky legs, slowly made his way up the steps.

  He collapsed face down on the bed, not caring that he smeared blood all over the pillow. After he gave himself a few minutes to rest his throbbing head, he would tend to his injuries. His thoughts swirled around in his mind at the attack. It was apparent Charlotte’s situation had gone from frightening to dangerous. He did not think the man who had attacked him was the same one leaving the packages. This man had been hired to put the fear of God into him. Which, of course, would not work, since he did not scare easily. And now that he knew how serious her “admirer” was, he would take every precaution to protect himself.

  And Charlotte.

  Chapter Eleven

  “This just came for you, ma’am.” Charlotte opened the missive Bridget handed her, butterflies doing a tango in her
stomach. Her life had become so unpredictable that a simple note set her nerves aflutter.

  My Dear Mrs. Pennyworth,

  I have met with an unfortunate accident, and I fear I will be unable to attend you for a few days.

  Mr. Elliot Baker

  She read the words over and over, trying her best to convince herself that Elliot had merely stumbled into a table and bruised his leg. Or perchance he had sliced a bit of fruit and his finger got in the way. Of course, there was also the possibility that he’d missed the last two steps on his way out the door and twisted his ankle.

  Don’t be ridiculous, Charlotte, you know this “accident” is somehow connected to you.

  “Bridget, ask for my carriage to be brought around, and help me change into another gown.” She had to see for herself, or she would not rest easy. Elliot was a strong, virile man, who would not be unable to attend her due to a mere accident. The mishap must have been serious. And even if it was not connected to her, as a good Christian woman, she should see to his comfort.

  Thankfully, her driver knew where Elliot lived. She was probably breaking some type of rule by visiting a bachelor in his rooms, but she had to discern for herself his condition. After all, as his employer, she owed him some sort of consideration.

  With those thoughts firmly fixed in her mind, she climbed out of her carriage and proceeded up the steps to the building Bones indicated was Mr. Baker’s residence. She dropped the knocker and waited. After a few minutes the door opened, and a rotund woman with rosy cheeks and a large apron tied around her middle offered a warm smile. “Yes, miss, what may I do for ye?”

  “Is this the residence of Mr. Elliot Baker?”

  The woman’s easy demeanor changed as she drew back and regarded her with narrowed eyes. “Aye, it is Mr. Baker’s residence. I don’t allow ladies to call upon my gentlemen boarders.” She sniffed. “It appears to me ye are a lady, so I would advise ye to send a note if you must gain Mr. Baker’s attention.”

  She began to close the door, but Charlotte slapped her palm against it to stop the door from closing.

  “Now see here, young lady, I told ye I do not allow lady visitors.” The woman’s face grew even more rosy.

  “Please. I do not intend to stay long. In fact, I will not even remove my cape. I had a note from Mr. Baker this morning that he has had an accident, and I just wish to see if there is anything I can do to help him.”

  “An accident? I didn’t hear anything about an accident.” The woman looked aghast that someone in her house should have an accident and she was not informed. If Charlotte wasn’t so anxious, she would have laughed at the woman’s attitude.

  “I’m sorry you weren’t aware of his mishap, but may I please enter and just take a quick look?”

  After a few moments of consideration, the woman stepped back. “I will go with ye.”

  “Fine.” Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief. “Where are his rooms?”

  “Follow me.” The woman climbed the stairs, puffing quite laboriously by the time they reached the top. The boards creaked beneath their feet as they walked down a corridor and stopped at a wooden door at the end. The woman tapped on the door. “Mr. Baker?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Murray,” came the voice from inside.

  “Ye have a visitor here who says ye had an accident.”

  Within seconds the door opened, and Elliot stood there. Charlotte and Mrs. Murray both gasped. The entire side of his face was scraped and black and blue. His nose was swollen, and might have been broken. Despite his injuries, he smiled his usual greeting and bowed slightly from the waist. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

  “Whatever happened?” Charlotte didn’t even recognize her breathy voice.

  She followed Mrs. Murray as she pushed her way inside and waved her finger at him. “Why did you not come to me for aid, Mr. Baker? Ye look dreadful.”

  “It is nothing, I assure you. I merely slipped on the wet pavement last evening.”

  Both women regarded him with disbelief. This was no slip. Elliot looked as though someone had slammed him to the ground.

  “I will fix ye some of my tea. It will help with the healing.” Obviously forgetting she was breaking her rules by allowing Charlotte to remain alone with Elliot, Mrs. Murray hustled from the room.

  …

  They both stared at each other until Elliot waved to a chair. “Won’t you have a seat?”

  Elliot studied Charlotte as she moved past his neatly made bed, wooden dresser, and two chairs around a small table. She no sooner sat on the blue and white striped chair facing his bed then her face flushed, and she hopped up and stammered, “Is there a drawing room?”

  He tried to hide his laughter as he said, “Not exactly a drawing room, but we would be much more comfortable in my sitting room.” He led her through a door to his small, well-appointed sitting room. The furnishings had come with the flat, a rose damask settee and two rose, white, and green printed chairs forming a semi-circle around the cold fireplace. His several bookshelves were loaded with books, and his ancient desk groaned under stacks of papers.

  Once she settled in the chair by the fireplace, with him taking the settee, her eyes grew wide as she took in his appearance. He wore trousers, with a banyan over it, open at the neck, revealing his bare chest, with dark swirly curls visible. A rush of heat rose to her face, and she unbuttoned her cape and began to shrug out of it.

  Elliot moved gingerly, sore from his beating, to help her, and could not stop himself from smirking at her reaction to his appearance. He folded the cape and placed it on the settee next to him.

  Charlotte took a deep breath. “How did you hurt yourself? And please do not insult my intelligence by repeating that story about you falling on wet pavement.” Her eyes kept darting to his chest, licking her lips in such a way that he wanted to hoist her over his shoulder, stride to his bed, and dump her on it.

  Her discomfort was causing his blood to race south. He shifted on his seat, wondering if she already suspected the attack had something to do with her. “It did happen on a wet pavement.” His grin did not appear to distract her.

  “And?” She raised her cute little chin in the air.

  He stood and ran his fingers through his hair. He ambled to the window and rested his hands on his hips. “As you probably surmised, I was attacked on purpose.”

  Charlotte followed him to the window and stood alongside him, taking in the sight of an apple cart being pushed down the street by a vendor. A little girl clung to her mother’s hand as they entered the bakery across the way from the building. Everything looked perfectly normal, but Charlotte’s life had not been perfectly normal for some time now.

  He turned and leaned his hip against the windowsill, crossing his arms over his chest. It would probably be best if she did know the truth. He could not be with her twenty-four hours a day, and she needed to be aware that the villain making her life miserable could very well be dangerous.

  Reaching his hand out, he tucked a loose tendril behind her ear. “Whoever it was who attacked me warned me to stay away from you.”

  Charlotte sucked in a deep breath. “I knew it.” She raised her fist to her mouth and shook her head. “This is all my fault.”

  Elliot rested his hands on her shoulders. “No, Charlotte. This is not your fault. It is the fault of the man pursuing you, and whoever he hired to attack me.”

  “So, you don’t think they are the same man?” Her beautiful eyes filled with tears, and he pulled her close to him, resting her head against his chest.

  “No. I am almost certain your tormentor is someone from your social circle. Whoever attacked me was from the lowest rung of London. He’d been hired, there was no doubt.”

  “Here is your tea, Mr. Baker.” Mrs. Murray, thankfully, backed into the room, pulling a rolling cart with teacups, a tea pot, and biscuits. He and Charlotte sprang apart before she could turn and catch them embracing.

  Mrs. Murray had been adamant when he rented the rooms that she did not al
low women to visit her “gentlemen boarders.”

  “I run a respectable home, sir,” she’d said as she’d handed him the key to his door when he first took possession of the rooms. “I don’t allow women or heavy drinking. Ye pay yer rent when due, allow my girl time to come in and clean, and keep the noise down.” Her eyes had narrowed. “Ye don’t play one of those musical instruments, do ye?”

  When he had assured her he had no musical talent whatsoever, she nodded and continued. “If you abide by those rules, we will get along just fine.”

  Elliot had been happy the five years he’d lived here, and only recently had begun to think that the money he’d been tucking away could buy him a small house. In fact, one day he might take a wife and think about having a family to occupy that little house. While those thoughts crowded his mind, his eyes drifted over Charlotte as she poured tea for the two of them.

  “You do that very well.” He reached out for the cup. “And you remembered how I like my tea.”

  She smiled, then her lips tightened as she regarded his face. “Yes, pouring tea is something I believe women are born knowing. English women, at least. However, what I want to know now is where do we go from here?”

  He pushed away the thoughts of the two of them, drinking tea together, having meals before a cozy fireplace, and then proceeding, hand-in-hand up to the bedchamber where they would spend leisurely hours discovering new ways to pleasure each other.

 

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