by Jen Turano
“You do realize that sounds completely mad, don’t you?” Officer Huntington asked before he bent his head over his pad of paper and began jotting down a few notes. Raising his head as his hand stilled over the page, he caught Gertrude’s eye. “If you’ll just give me a few names, I promise I’ll have the judge go easy on you.”
“Why do I feel as if I’ve suddenly been deposited directly into a dime novel, one complete with an overenthusiastic detective and a dupe of a suspect who seems to be destined to spend the rest of her life behind bars in some derelict jail?”
Officer Huntington simply stared at her for a good long moment before he began writing in a rather forceful fashion.
Drumming her fingers against the table, a nervous habit she’d developed after her father died, Gertrude stilled when Officer Huntington lifted his head and sent her a scowl. Placing her hands in her lap, she cleared her throat.
“Could I perhaps send a note to Mrs. Davenport, asking her to send me an attorney or some type of counsel?” she asked, earning another scowl from Officer Huntington in the process.
“If this Mrs. Davenport was somehow involved in this heist, and if she’s truly a society matron,” Officer Huntington began instead of answering Gertrude’s question, “should I assume she lost all of the money that has allowed her to travel within society and has resorted to theft to maintain appearances?”
For the briefest of seconds, his question gave Gertrude pause, until she recalled that her employer never kept any of the items she stole, and she paid everyone on her staff a more than generous wage. She also, now that Gertrude considered the matter, never had creditors pounding on her door seeking payment for accounts past due.
Gertrude shook her head. “Mrs. Davenport’s finances seem to be in fine order, sir, not that she discusses such matters with me, her paid companion.”
“How did she come by her fortune?”
“Ah . . .”
“Where’s Mr. Davenport?” he shot at her before she’d had a chance to fully think about the first question, not that she knew where Mrs. Davenport had gotten her money. She also didn’t have the least little idea what had happened to Mr. Davenport except to think he’d died sometime in the distant past. Mrs. Davenport never spoke about that man, leaving Gertrude with the impression it was a painful topic for the woman.
“I believe Mr. Davenport is dead,” she settled on saying.
“And he was a wealthy gentleman who left his fortune to his wife?”
“I would assume so, but again, I’m the paid companion, not a confidante.”
Officer Huntington nodded in a satisfied manner before he bent his head and began scribbling furiously on his pad of paper.
“What could you have possible gotten that was worthy of being written down from what I’ve just disclosed?” she asked, leaning forward and trying to make out the words he was still scrawling across the page.
“Resentment is a fine motivator for criminal acts, Miss Cadwalader,” Officer Huntington replied as he continued writing. “I’m beginning to get a clearer picture of what transpired, and I do believe what we’re looking at is a disgruntled employee who was trying to frame her employer for theft.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You wanted to be more of a daughter figure to this Mrs. Davenport, and yet she saw you as nothing more than an employee.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Gertrude said, wincing just a touch when she heard the slight bit of doubt in her tone, that doubt giving her pause.
Had she been holding resentment against Mrs. Davenport?
With her fingers once again drumming a rapid tattoo against the table, she considered that idea, fighting the urge to fidget when truth reared its ugly head.
It could be a distinct possibility that Officer Huntington wasn’t completely off the mark.
She’d convinced herself over the past few years that she continued working for a woman who possessed very peculiar and obviously arrest-worthy pursuits because she needed to earn a wage. But in all honesty, companions in possession of good breeding were difficult to find, so she could have left Mrs. Davenport’s employ at any point in time and found other employment easily, but for some reason, she’d stayed.
Why had she stayed?
“You mentioned you lost your parents at a relatively early age, Miss Cadwalader,” Officer Huntington said, dragging Gertrude from her thoughts. “That right there, if I were to hazard a guess, is what is behind your resentment toward Mrs. Davenport. You wanted her to embrace you as more of a daughter figure than an employee, although I’m sure you were also hoping she’d make you the beneficiary of her estate if she is, indeed, without much family. How old were you when your mother died?”
“Ten,” Gertrude said as Officer Huntington began writing again, far more words than it should have taken to record her age. “I do hope you’re not adding that nonsense about my wanting Mrs. Davenport to make me an heiress.”
Officer Huntington ignored her, writing a few more sentences before he began looking through his pages and pages of notes. “You mentioned Mrs. Davenport suffers from melancholy. May I inquire as to whether that melancholy has increased since you’ve been in her employ, and if so, could you possibly be the reason behind that increase?”
If Officer Huntington wasn’t in possession of a lethal-looking weapon attached to his belt, Gertrude might have contemplated stalking out of the interrogation room. However, since he was in possession of a gun, and she was all but certain he didn’t believe in coddling a prisoner who happened to be a lady, she settled for remaining silent, earning a grunt from him in response before he applied himself to his notes again.
The very idea he’d broached the topic of her purposefully drawing Mrs. Davenport into increased melancholy was laughable. If anything, she’d done everything in her power to lessen the depressed state her employer frequently embraced because, by doing so, she was hoping to find a bit of redemption, as well as relief, from the regret she harbored because of the circumstances surrounding her mother’s death.
The moment that idea took hold, Gertrude realized it was nothing less than the truth, but before she could contemplate the idea further, there was a brisk knock on the door. A second later it opened, revealing Harrison, who immediately strode across the room, clear temper in his eyes.
Bracing herself for the anger she knew was about to be directed her way, and not blaming him for that anger because she’d been caught red-handed on board his ship with his sister’s possessions and had gained entrance to that ship by spouting a lie, she could only blink in stunned surprise when he sent her a small smile and then turned his attention to Officer Huntington.
“I’m here to see Miss Cadwalader released.”
Officer Huntington pushed back his chair and stood up. “Who are you?”
“I’m Mr. Harrison Sinclair of Sinclair Shipping.”
Officer Huntington seemed to size up Harrison, and as he did so, Gertrude did the same. What she saw caused a laugh to bubble up in her throat, one she forced right back down again.
Harrison was dressed in one of the most outlandish outfits she’d seen him wear to date. A pink jacket brought attention to the darkness of his face, while the most unusual trousers she’d ever seen on a gentleman were done up in blue with tiny little clovers marching all over the fabric. His hair was pulled into a knot on the very back of his head, tied with a piece of frayed rope. Knee-high boots splattered with mud and in need of polishing completed his outfit.
Even though he didn’t possess an ounce of what those with any fashion sense would call style, to her, he was the most stylish and handsome gentleman in the entire world at this particular moment. And . . . she realized, even if she’d never admit it out loud, that she’d fallen ever so slightly in love with the man.
Releasing a smidgen of a sigh, Gertrude forced all thoughts of what would only be unrequited love aside right as Officer Huntington gave a telling tap on his gun.
“Forgive me if I don’t si
mply release Miss Cadwalader into your company, Mr. Sinclair, because, forgive me again, but I highly doubt you’re related to the Mrs. Sinclair who caught this woman stealing. You’re more likely one of Miss Cadwalader’s associates, presenting yourself as a carnival hawker if I were to hazard a guess, unless you’re truly a carnival hawker, which goes far in proving my theory you’re another confidence artist.”
Harrison narrowed his eyes on the officer. “Where in the world did you get the idea I’m a carnival hawker?”
“No self-respecting gentleman I know would be caught dead in pink, let alone wear pants like that. But I’ve seen carnival hawkers in my day wearing flashy items to drum up business.”
“I originally thought my jacket was orange, and I’ll have you know, I bought these clothes over in Paris a few months back. Granted, they were highly discounted, but the salesman told me this look was still slightly in style.”
Officer Huntington’s brows drew together. “If I thought that was the truth, I’d say you were swindled, but since I don’t, do know that telling me you traveled to Paris isn’t exactly enough evidence to convince me you’re Mr. Sinclair.”
Harrison threw up his hands in clear frustration and walked Gertrude’s way. He reached her side before she could blink, and then she found herself pulled out of the chair and straight into his strong arms.
Wonderful warmth spread through her as her knees went a little weak, a direct result of having a gentleman come to her rescue for the very first time in her life, if she discounted the time Harrison had swept her up into his arms because she hadn’t truly been a damsel in distress at that particular moment, simply winded from a tightly laced corset.
Burrowing her nose into the fabric of his shirt, she breathed in a scent that reminded her of lime mixed with the sea. Releasing a breath, along with a good deal of the tension she’d been carrying, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the feeling of safety she’d not felt in a very, very long time.
When unexpected tears stung her eyes, she drew in a shaky breath, but when she tried to step away from Harrison, he tightened his grip on her and bent his head.
“Are you all right?” he whispered in her ear, the feel of his breath caressing her cheek causing her knees to go weaker than ever.
“I’m fine,” she managed to whisper back, her words muffled because her face was still pressed into the hardness of his chest. “Especially now when it doesn’t seem as if you’re furious with me.”
What sounded exactly like a growl was his first response and then he eased her away from him and looked at her. “Why would I be furious with you?”
“Because your mother caught me with items I think might belong to Margaret.”
Harrison’s lips curved into a smile. “Which is troubling to be sure, but I know there’s a completely reasonable explanation as to what you were doing with those items, and not an explanation that ends with you admitting you’re a thief.”
“How do you know that?”
For what seemed like an eternity, Harrison simply looked into her eyes, the kindness resting in his unusual blue eyes drawing her closer. Another sigh escaped her lips, and then his gaze drifted to those lips, and everything faded away.
She was no longer standing in the middle of an interrogation room, but standing on the deck of one of his ships, feeling the breeze wash over her and anticipating what it was going to feel like when she received her very first kiss, given to her by the man she now knew . . .
A loud clearing of a throat had her stepping away from Harrison even as he blinked, blinked again, then turned his attention to Officer Huntington once more, temper flashing through his eyes again.
“I don’t mean to interrupt what looked like a most touching moment, but now is hardly the time and place for gestures of a romantic nature,” Officer Huntington said. He nodded to the door then looked back at Harrison. “Now then, if you’d be so kind as to wait outside until I’m done questioning Miss Cadwalader, I will allow you to say a proper good-bye before I escort her off to a cell because I’m not completely heartless.”
Harrison reached out, drew Gertrude closer, then settled his hand at the small of her back, almost as if he’d known her knees were trembling over the very idea she might soon be carted off to a cell.
“I’m not waiting outside, nor is there any reason for you to hold Miss Cadwalader, let alone cart her off to jail. My mother, Mrs. Sinclair, has sent me here with a letter to have all charges dropped against Miss Cadwalder, because my mother has come to the conclusion she’s made a horrible mistake.”
Officer Huntington arched a thick brow Harrison’s way. “Not that I believe you, but how did Mrs. Sinclair arrive at that decision?”
“I explained to her that Mrs. Davenport, Gertrude’s employer, has a peculiar habit of picking up items that don’t belong to her. She’s a little—” Harrison tapped a finger against his forehead—“touched in the head if you get my meaning, that condition brought about because of her age. She’s quite elderly.”
“Not so elderly she apparently wasn’t capable of pulling off a heist of a considerable amount of jewelry.”
“She’s wily, I’ll give you that.”
Shaking his head, Officer Huntington pointed toward the door. “And I’ll give you credit for having a glib tongue, but I don’t believe your story.”
As Harrison opened his mouth to obviously argue that point, the door opened with a resounding creak, and another gentleman entered the room.
“Agent McParland!” Gertrude exclaimed, smiling at the Pinkerton detective she’d met a few months before, and one who’d helped save her, Harrison, Asher, and Permilia from a madman intent on a killing spree. “Good heavens, it’s wonderful to see you. Harrison and I are in desperate need of your assistance again.”
To Gertrude’s confusion, Agent McParland did not return her smile. Instead, he inclined his head to Officer Huntington. “What seems to be the problem?”
By the time Officer Huntington was finished explaining, Agent McParland was looking somewhat frightening, the normally pleasant attitude of the detective nowhere to be seen as he kept sending downright chilly glances her way. Taking a moment to shake Officer Huntington’s hand, Agent McParland then stepped up to Harrison and shook his hand, but failed to offer even the slightest courtesy to Gertrude.
“He really is Mr. Harrison Sinclair?” Officer Huntington asked.
“He is,” Agent McParland returned. “Which means the letter from his mother that Harrison turned in to the officer at the front desk is acceptable for having Miss Cadwalader released. All of the charges against her have been dropped.”
“Wonderful,” Harrison said, turning to Gertrude. “Shall I see you home?”
“I’m afraid that while Officer Huntington is done with Miss Cadwalader, I’m going to need her to stay for a little longer because I have some questions for her,” Agent McParland said. He then walked Officer Huntington to the door, thanked him for his time, then firmly shut the door.
“What’s this about, Agent McParland?” Harrison asked.
Agent McParland turned to Gertrude. “Do you want me to tell him, or shall I have him leave the room so you and I can continue this in private?”
Apprehension stole through Gertrude’s veins. “Harrison is more than welcome to stay with me, Agent McParland, although I have no idea what you believe I need to disclose.”
Instead of answering her, Agent McParland gestured to the chairs, waited for Harrison to help her into a seat, then took the chair Officer Huntington had been using. Sitting down beside her, Harrison reached out and took hold of her hand, giving it a good squeeze.
“I’m a man with a reputation of being a good judge of character, Miss Cadwalader,” Agent McParland began, “but I must say, you had me fooled. Why, with those delicate looks and that charming attitude of yours, I truly believed you were a lady above reproach. However, you fooled us all, didn’t you?”
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage” was all Gertru
de could think to say.
“I believe it’s the other way around, Miss Cadwalader,” Agent McParland countered. “From what I can surmise, you’ve had everyone at a disadvantage, duped into believing you’re simply a retiring wallflower, companion to an elderly lady whom everyone knows is odd.” Agent McParland leaned forward. “But that’s not the truth, is it, Miss Cadwalader? You and Mrs. Davenport are in league together, performing heists all over the place, while muddying the waters by returning some of the items but not all.”
Harrison rose from the chair, a tic throbbing on the side of his cheek. “You go too far, Agent McParland. I demand you apologize at once as well as cease this ridiculous interview. It’s past time Gertrude was allowed to leave.”
Instead of responding to Harrison, a risky move in Gertrude’s opinion because Harrison wasn’t the type of gentleman most men would want to go up against when he was in a temper, Agent McParland leveled cool eyes on Gertrude. “You’re good, Miss Cadwalader—very, very good. But you shouldn’t have stolen from the Manhattan Beach Hotel. One of the victims identified you and Mrs. Davenport as suspicious characters, and to be clear, this victim is a credible one. She told us that you and Mrs. Davenport showed an inordinate amount of interest in her tiara only an hour or two before it went missing out of her room after she’d retired for the night.”
Gertrude drew in a breath, fighting to keep the panic that was now flowing freely through her veins at bay.
Mrs. Davenport had shown a marked interest in the tiara the woman who’d joined them on the veranda had been wearing, but . . . she couldn’t have taken it, because . . .
“What I’d like to know is how this woman identified Mrs. Davenport and Gertrude,” Harrison said, his voice filled with steel. “There were hundreds of guests roaming about that hotel the night we were there.”