The Pursuit of Mrs. Pennyworth

by Callie Hutton

  Although Miss Garvey and Mr. Talbot appeared together at many functions, she didn’t think they were actually courting. She got the impression from the way they behaved toward each other that theirs was no more than a friendship.

  Union Jack lived up to its reputation. The story of Captain Morton, a nasty sort who was blackmailing Sir Philip Yorke with a view toward marrying his ward, Miss Ethel Arden, captivated her. A poor petty officer, Mr. Jack Medway, fell in love with Miss Arden, and Jack’s sister, Miss Ruth Medway, was in turn seduced by Captain Morton. Sir Phillip killed the captain, and was arrested, which left Jack free to marry his love, Miss Arden.

  The four of them took a short walk during the intermission. Mr. Talbot secured lemonade for him and Charlotte, both Elliot and Miss Garvey declining the offer for refreshment. “It appears you are loving all the intricate plot twists that are thwarting the lovers.” Mr. Talbot regarded Charlotte with amusement.

  “But I am expecting a happy ending.”

  He nodded. “It has been my experience that women love happy endings.”

  “Only women? I imagine everyone loves a happy ending, do you not agree, Miss Garvey?”

  The woman smiled for the first time that evening. “Yes, I think the idea of happy endings is what makes us step from our beds in the morning.”

  Charlotte grinned. “Well put.”

  A footman announced intermission had ended, and they headed back to their seats. “Happy endings?” Elliot leaned in, close to her ear. “Mr. Talbot was correct. Women are indeed staunch supporters of happy endings.”

  “Are you suggesting men do not, or just you?”

  “I am not like all men. Perhaps we should find someone to write a happy ending for your troubles.”

  She smirked. “Isn’t that what I hired you for, Mr. Baker?”

  “Ah, Mr. Baker again. I must be in trouble with the lady.”

  Charlotte sighed. “I sometimes wish I had a magic wand that I could wave, and all my worries would vanish.”

  “Yes, that would be wonderful, but at least we’ve had a nice—albeit temporary—escape.” Elliot guided her to their seats, and they settled in to enjoy the rest of the performance.

  After the play, Mr. Talbot and Miss Garvey invited them to a late supper at Ship and Turtle on Leadenhall Street.

  “I am sure you will enjoy the cuisine.” Mr. Talbot smiled broadly as they all took their seats. “I have eaten here many times and have found the food to be splendid.”

  The menu did seem impressive, and there was plenty of discussion among the four of them about the best dishes to be had.

  Once their orders had been placed with the waiter, Charlotte took a sip from her water glass and turned her attention to Mr. Talbot. “Did you enjoy the play?”

  “Yes, I did, and you certainly seemed to. You were riveted.”

  “Indeed. It amazes me how someone can take words and turn them into a book or a play. It takes a great deal of talent to entertain an audience.”

  “Yet you said you have seen the play once before,” he said.

  “I have seen it before, but the theater captivates me.”

  As the conversation around the table continued, she couldn’t help but remember how much she liked Mr. Talbot and how helpful he had been right after Gabriel’s death. As he chatted easily with Elliot, she tried to imagine him running a sharp blade over a rat’s throat. She shivered and ran her hands up and down her arms. No, that just didn’t seem likely.

  “Are you unwell, Mrs. Pennyworth?” Miss Garvey viewed her with concern, drawing Charlotte from her thoughts.

  “No, not really. I just felt a slight chill for the moment.”

  Elliot turned to her, breaking off his conversation with Mr. Talbot. “Perhaps you should put your cape back on.”

  “He is right, Mrs. Pennyworth, we would not want to see you take ill.” Mr. Talbot frowned at her.

  Goodness, such a fuss. She was beginning to feel embarrassed with their regard, but thankfully, the waiter appeared with their food. She leaned back to allow him to place her dinner plate in front of her and glanced over at Miss Garvey who was glaring at her.

  Startled, she quickly looked down. Perhaps the woman thought Mr. Talbot was paying too much attention to her. She offered the woman a slight smile, and she smiled back.

  Since Charlotte did not wish to encourage Mr. Talbot anyway, she had better be careful around him if Miss Garvey had a fancy for the man.

  It was quite late when Charlotte and Elliot entered her carriage for the ride home. In all, it had been a pleasant evening, with Mr. Talbot very much like she remembered him when he used to visit her and Gabriel, which cheered her. She didn’t like thinking of him as someone evil.

  Miss Garvey remained an enigma, but Charlotte was sure she had feelings for Mr. Talbot, which she found quite interesting.

  To her surprise, instead of taking the seat across from her in the carriage, Elliot chose to sit next to her. The warmth from his body, and the pleasant scent of man, leather, and bergamot, did something odd to her stomach.

  Perhaps she was merely tired.

  As the vehicle started up, he took her hand in his and began to stroke the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrist. “Did you enjoy yourself tonight?”

  His murmured question was lost by the sound of her thumping heart. She was squeezed so far against the wall she was practically climbing out the window. Unfortunately, she had an overwhelming desire to place her hand at the back of his neck and pull his head down for a kiss, although she knew it was not a wise move. The other kisses they’d shared had left her rattled, and unsure of herself.

  “Am I making you nervous, Charlotte?” God help her, he moved even closer.

  “No, of course not.”

  Liar.

  “Good. Because I want to do something that I hope you would welcome.”

  “What is that?” A mouse had settled in her throat to squeak out the question.

  “This.” He released her hand, and his fingers framed her face. His head descended, blocking out the light from the lantern on the wall of the coach. His lips touched hers, and the butterflies in her stomach danced a cotillion.

  …

  “Why are they still traipsing around together? I thought I paid you to take care of that.” M slammed down the glass of bourbon so hard, the liquid sloshed out of the sides, onto the black lacquered table.

  The lumbering ox of a man discharged a stream of tobacco juice in the spittoon M kept by the door. Disgusting thing, tobacco. “You paid me ’o warn ’im. I did. You didn’ say nuttin’ abou’ killin’ ’im. If hats wha’ you wan, ’he price jus ’ripled.”

  Narrowed eyes took in the fool who had been hired to get rid of this Baker fellow. “Whatever you did apparently did not dissuade him.” M turned toward the window. “Leave me now. Be sure to make that delivery.” A nod toward the package on the table drew the man’s eyes.

  “Once you pay me.”

  “I’ve paid you plenty. Make that delivery, and watch them. In three days, report back to me. Then we’ll see about more payment.”

  And what the next step will be.

  Once the obnoxious idiot had left, M dropped into the chair by the fireplace and sighed. This was taking much too long. Did Anne not realize the items left on her doorstep were a reminder of their love, and punishments that had been necessary to remind her to obey? That as a submissive to her master, she held no control?

  How many times had Anne awoken to a dead animal on the pillow—as a reminder that she had been a naughty girl? That she was deserving of punishment for the hurt she’d caused her lover? Until the ultimate betrayal when Anne had been lost forever.

  But she was back. Miraculously alive and well, and living in London. And M would have her. It was only a matter of time before Anne realized her mistake and that she’d been claimed for eternity.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Elliot bade Charlotte a good night, checked the area outside her house, refused her offer o
f the use of her carriage, and began the walk home. He needed the fresh air to clear his head and calm his body.

  What the devil was wrong with him that he kept kissing her? He’d never found a woman irresistible—except Annabelle—and look how that had turned out. Keeping his hands off Charlotte was nearly impossible.

  What he should be doing is narrowing down his suspects to put an end to this terror she was living under. Mr. Spencer, with all his spouting of righteousness and Bible thumping, could certainly believe he was punishing Charlotte for what he perceived was a wanton life. The packages had begun arriving at her doorstep around the same time he’d settled in at St. Michael’s.

  The main problem with Mr. Spencer as their suspect was his lack of wealth. The vicar could not have afforded the expensive jewelry that had been left on the front steps.

  Then there was the ever-solicitous Mr. Talbot, a close friend of Charlotte’s deceased husband. Mr. Pennyworth had died in an accident after racing in a carriage—acting on a dare from one of his friends. Not the sort of behavior he would expect from Talbot, who seemed meek, and even fussy, in some ways.

  Nevertheless, after time spent together this evening, he was no longer convinced that the pleasant and somewhat banal man would do such a thing. Unless he left the items to frighten her—which they had—so she would turn to him for help—which she hadn’t. And furthermore, were either the vicar or Talbot of a mind to hire someone to threaten his life, if he didn’t leave Charlotte alone?

  That brought him to Von Braun, the newly arrived, mostly unknown, member of the social circle. He was hard to figure since he kept to himself but seemed to spend a great deal of time studying Charlotte.

  What bothered him the most was the niggling belief that none of those men were tormenting Charlotte. Could there be someone so elusive that Elliot had completely overlooked the true culprit? On the other hand, was his assumption that it was someone in her social circle completely off?

  The man he’d hired to discreetly speak with Charlotte’s neighbors and the tradesmen she saw on a regular basis had discovered nothing of interest. Again, he was stumped by the expensive jewelry. There were not a lot of people who could afford such luxuries.

  So far, he had interviewed a number of jewelers in an attempt to unearth the purchaser of the bracelet. What he’d found thus far was a reluctance on the part of the horologists to reveal the names of customers.

  Elliot sighed and waved down a passing omnibus. The walk had not cleared his head but had, at least, taken his mind off how enticing he found his client. Best to get the matter cleared up, and move on to another project that didn’t involve a beautiful damsel in distress.

  The next morning, he spent more than an hour listing his suspects, and the reasons why, and why not, each one could be the antagonist. As he studied the names on the list, he was left with the feeling that he was missing something.

  After cleaning up correspondence with Mr. Gleason that had piled up during this investigation, he took time to speak with three more close-mouthed jewelers. Frustrated at his lack of progress, he headed back to Charlotte’s house to escort her to a card party. Von Braun was expected to be present, which would give him time to study him further. He would also begin looking at other suspects.

  Charlotte was descending the stairs to the entrance hall as he entered her house. Despite the errant curl dangling on the side of her head, and the flattering dark-green two-piece suit with black piping down the front that hugged her body, he promised himself he would keep his hands off her.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Pennyworth.”

  She smiled, no doubt amused at the formality since the last time he saw her, their lips had been locked together, and their bodies pressed against each other.

  “Good evening to you, Mr. Baker.” She smirked, seemingly to confirm her memory at their last meeting. “It appears we are both early. Would you care for a brandy before we leave?”

  “Yes, I would.” He pulled his timepiece from his vest pocket. “We have about a half hour to spare.”

  Once they were settled in front of the fireplace, glasses in hand, he said, “I find I am stymied in my investigation, which annoys me quite a bit. Today, I made a list of my primary suspects, and while each of them have reason to be on that list, I feel as though there is something I am missing.”

  “I assume Mr. Talbot and Baron Von Braun are on it?”

  “Yes, as well as Mr. Spencer.”

  The golden light from the fireplace emphasized her burnished curls and raised eyebrows as she viewed him over her sherry glass. “Do you believe a man of the cloth could do such vile things?”

  “Perhaps this man of the cloth could, but what keeps me from considering him as a serious contender is a lack of money. Very few vicars can afford the type of bracelet that was left on your steps.”

  “True. Mr. Talbot certainly does come across as my unwanted guardian—for lack of a better word—which does concern me. However, I have reason to believe Miss Garvey has a tendre for him. Perhaps him for her, as well? Another thought. You must admit, after his genuinely warm manner last evening, it is difficult to cast him into the role of tormentor.” She shifted in her seat, turning so her knees brushed his leg. “I have always thought of him as a friend—not one to wish anyone ill.”

  Elliot contemplated her words for a minute. “He does present himself in that light, but if we rule out him and Spencer, we are left with Von Braun, who has nothing more to land him on my list other than he is new to your circle of friends, and watches you a great deal.”

  …

  They finished their drinks and left the house, settling into the carriage. Deep in thought, Charlotte stared out the window at the misty evening. The gaslights along the way loomed in front of them to brighten a small area on their passage, then the carriage was plunged back into darkness once more until the next light appeared.

  She felt as though her life followed the same path. She had wonderful friends, an active social life, and enough money to provide her with the essentials and even some luxuries. Then the first disturbing package had arrived, plunging her into darkness.

  She turned her head to view Elliot, who studied her closely. “I do not think of myself as a coward, although I am not foolishly brave. Nevertheless, I have been considering leaving London, and possibly finding a small house in Bath, or the countryside.”

  He seemed to consider her words as his fingers tapped a cadence on his thigh. “I can certainly understand your desire to put this all behind you. However, there is no guarantee that whoever is harassing you will not follow you to the next town.”

  She gasped. “Do you think this vile person is so determined to frighten me that he would pick up and move to another town, merely to keep this up?”

  “Charlotte, at this point we have no idea who this is, and therefore, no solid idea of his motivation. Can you once again assure me there is nothing in your background that would precipitate this? No one who has a grievance against you? A past lover whom you scorned?”

  She continued to dismiss the idea of Barton. He would never be so subtle—not that dead animals fell into the subtle category.

  If only she could tell Elliot about the incident in Melbourne Station, even to merely assure herself that Lord Barton was not the person behind this. But, given his history, she had no reason to trust Elliot with that information.

  “No. Nothing,” she answered. “And as to your statement about a scorned lover, please remember, I am not free with my affections. There have been no lovers in my past, scorned or otherwise. Only my husband.”

  Maybe every widow he knew was taking lovers, but no man had appealed to her in that way. Her heart gave a thump when she realized the man sitting in the carriage with her could very well be the first man she would consider. But lovers needed to trust each other, and she didn’t trust Elliot, and she was certain, based on his questions, that he did not trust her.

  The vehicle came to a stop, and as she took Elliot’s hand to ste
p out, a few raindrops landed on her face. Bones opened an umbrella over them, and they hurried up the pathway to Mr. and Mrs. Glenmoor’s house.

  The townhouse, set on Grosvenor Road, sat nestled among a row of townhomes belonging to London’s upper crust. This house sported a red front door, with a black and gold knocker.

  A staid butler let them into a tasteful entrance hall, with a highly polished wooden floor, covered by a red print Aubusson carpet. Dark red wallpaper covered the area, leading to an oak staircase.

  A maid took their coats and hats and directed them toward the drawing room where several tables had been set up. Charlotte spotted a handful of friends standing around, drinking lemonade. The table along the wall was arrayed with drinks and tidbits of food for the guests.

  “Thank you so much for coming out on this nasty night.” Mrs. Glenmoor bustled across the room, a smile on her cheerful face, her hands extended. A pleasant, plump woman, she and Charlotte had been friends since before she’d married Gabriel. Her husband was a retired globetrotter and had held the group captive many a night with tales of his adventures, and the places he’d visited.

  Charlotte had always desired to travel, but first she couldn’t afford to, then she was grieving her short-lived marriage. Now that she was free to enjoy her independence, perhaps once this messy business was cleared up, she would take a trip to the continent. Or even, perhaps to America.

  Mr. Glenmoor joined his wife, giving Elliot a slap on the back. “The ladies have lemonade set up, but I have a fine French brandy, or a Scotch whisky. What’s your favor?”

  “The idea of brandy on this cool fall evening sounds like just the thing.” Elliot followed Glenmoor as he led the way, waving his hands about, no doubt with another story.

  Mrs. Glenmoor watched them walk away. “Mr. Baker is such a pleasant man. We are all so happy for you to have found companionship since dear Gabriel is gone.”

  Charlotte felt a bit of a fraud since Elliot was not a companion, as such, but someone she hired. Although, given the kisses they’d shared recently, it had become hard for her to remember she was merely his client.