by Lilia Birney
“Think of it as a feather in your cap, then. Or a community service. Either way, you’d be ridding London of an awful blight, and it makes a man proud to know that he’s got what everyone wants. Connections. They’re more powerful than money, in some ways.”
“Exactly so.” Pierce rose, and paced the floor. “Why give up the kind of valuable information it took years to establish? When I started, I had nothing but a keen mind. I didn’t use my title to get here. So why give it all away?”
“Well, I don’t know why you would, if you put it just so. But I am going to do it. Might as well. I’m not getting any younger and the thief-taker lifestyle begins to pall when you get old. I get tired up getting jumped in alley, beaten to a bloody pulp. I’m going to turn respectable, and I’ll finally marry Ruth and make a real home. If you change your mind, tell Dick Ford. He’s waiting to hear from you, by the end of the week.” With that, the old man heaved himself out of the chair and turned toward the door. “Best of luck to you, Pierce. You’re a stubborn young mule, but a good thief-taker.”
Left alone, waiting for Sam, Pierce paced the floor and considered Twist’s offer. If he said yes, then he would be established as a keeper and protector of Society. But if he stayed on his own, he could do as he liked when he liked. He preferred to thumb his nose at the pretensions of polite Society. Where exactly this dubious impulse came from, he didn’t know. But it was deuced fun, and he had no need of respectability or money at the moment.
No, better to refuse the offer. ‘Twas not enticing enough to tempt him.
The only thing that had tempted him, in fact, was the pretty young widow who’d engaged his services. It was far more amusing to stick with her, at least for the time being. The Ice Goddess, she was called in Society. Rumor had it that her marriage to Viscount Annand wasn’t everything it should be. Was there any fire beneath that ice? ‘Twould be quite interesting to find out for himself.
***
Penelope eyed her housekeeper uneasily across the kitchen table. “So let us recapitulate. Cicely was seeing a young man?”
Mrs. Welch nodded, her forehead creasing with worry. “Yes, as far as Cook and I knew. She met with this young man every Tuesday and Thursday night. They would go for a walk together. He always brought her back on time, and always seemed so polite and well-spoken. We thought no ill of him, Lady Annand. Besides which, Cicely occupied her own place in the household. It wasn’t really our place to say anything.”
Blast. There was a young man involved. Well, perhaps that cocky thief-taker knew only one part of the story. She smiled in reassurance to Mrs. Welch. “So, did she see him on Thursday—the night she disappeared?”
“Yes, I believe she did. It was raining, so they sat together in the kitchen for a bit. I left them alone.”
“Did no one chaperone them?” She had been chaperoned for ages, right up until the moment she married. It was how she knew so little of Peter’s real—ahem—character.
“Why would anyone do that?” Mrs. Welch stared at her employer, her eyes widening. “She’s a servant, after all. Hardly a society miss.”
The blood rushed to Penelope’s forehead. She wished the floor would open up and swallow her for such a naïve gaffe. She had so little experience of the real world, and yet covered herself with such a thick cloak of sophistication, that it humbled her whenever her weakness was exposed. “Yes, yes, of course,” she muttered, waving her hands. “My apologies, I forgot about—stations, and so forth.”
“Of course, your ladyship.” The housekeeper had turned a bright shade of poppy, too. Now that she had unnerved her housekeeper, so what was there left to do?
Penelope glanced at the kitchen clock. Soon the servants would be returning to their evening duties: stoking the fires, readying meals, closing the curtains, and the myriad of trifling duties that came with running a big house. She had already questioned most of the people on her staff, but Cook would have to wait until tomorrow. She rose. “Thank you, Mrs. Welch. Tell Cook I should like to speak to her tomorrow, after breakfast and before luncheon. I am trying so desperately to find Cicely that I want to speak to anyone who knew of her whereabouts or her life.”
“Certainly, your ladyship.” Mrs. Welch bobbed a curtsy as Penelope quit the kitchen.
Really, she had no idea that Cicely had a young man. Penelope rubbed her temples. Cicely knew everything about Penelope’s life—right down to the truth about Peter’s own, well, proclivities—that Penelope simply assumed they were mutual confidantes. Now she was finding out how very little she knew about the girl who had been her caretaker for so long. It was a humbling and somewhat troubling revelation.
She mounted the stairs slowly. Her bedroom beckoned. She was weary and developing a headache. A handkerchief soaked in perfume and a rest in her downy bed would be just the thing. She flung open the door to her room, savoring the peace that enveloped her like an embrace whenever she walked into the room. Her favorite books, her most prized heirlooms, masses of yellow roses, and a bed piled high with pillows and a satin counterpane—how luxurious and yet simple her boudoir was. With shaking hands, she wrung a handkerchief with rose water and lay on the bed, draping the cloth across her forehead.
She closed her eyes, breathing deeply of the dusky scent. As she drifted, free-falling through her own consciousness, Pierce Howe’s handsome, angular face flickered across her mind. What lovely hair he had. What would it be like to run one’s fingers through it? Or to trace that rigid jawline? She sat up, pulling herself back to reality.
Really, Penelope, she scolded herself. It’s like you’ve never seen a handsome man before. She was in danger of becoming an archetype, a love-starved widow ready to fling herself at an eligible man’s head. Or—eligibility be hanged—just any man would do, the handsomer the better. Perhaps some romance could be welcomed into her life. After all, Peter had been dead for two years. Surely she could move on. And of course, their relationship wasn’t exactly orthodox when he was alive.
Her friends had taken lovers before. Jane had enjoyed an entirely satisfactory fling with a poet some months ago, and Elizabeth prided herself on keeping a line of beaus on a string. Only Penelope had risen above matters of the heart—or put more bluntly—matters of the bedroom, thus earning her soubriquet of The Ice Goddess. Despite how Peter had deceived her, she loved him and appreciated all he did to make things right. Because of his generosity, she was now entirely free to do as she pleased. Free as he himself had never been.
She reclined against the pillows again. Hang romance, it would bring her nothing but trouble. By steering clear of matters of the heart, she had done rather well for herself. Rather than satisfy her baser instincts, she should work on improving herself in other ways. Perhaps she could prove herself as more than a love-starved widow and a thoughtless, wealthy pillar of society by finding Cicely. It was worth a try, after all. And Jane and Elizabeth promised to help. Maybe if she went to Mr. Howe and showed him how much she had done, questioning the staff, he would be more assured that she was serious about the case.
After all, that dratted man didn’t even get a description of Cicely before bounding out of her home last night.
That tore it.
Penelope bolted out of bed, flinging the handkerchief onto the floor. With two short steps, she rang the bell-pull with all her might. Then she hurled open her wardrobe, rooting through it for the perfect gown. Heavens, where was it? And why was everyone so slow around the house today? She scurried over to the bell-pull and rang again.
Grace, one of the downstairs maids who had been recruited to fill in for Cicely, popped her head round the door. “Yes, your ladyship?”
“Help me change into my gray dress. I am going to see Mr. Howe. And order my carriage. Have it brought round to the front as soon as possible.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Grace pilfered through the wardrobe, and found the fashionable but severely tailored dress Penelope sought. It was just the thing to show Pierce Howe that she was serious. A woman to be
reckoned with. All business. No one to be trifled with or laughed at.
Certainly not a lovelorn, affection-starved widow.
Chapter Three
“A maid named Cicely? Naw, ain’t heard a word.” Silent Sam shook his head ruefully. “Wish I could say I had, so’s I’d earn the blunt.”
“You’ll earn it anyway. I pay my informants to keep their ears open.” Pierce tossed the bag of coins at him. Of course, Sam just confirmed his suspicions. Lady Annand’s maid disappeared because she wanted to. If she had been abducted, Sam would know about it. He knew everything, which was what made him such a valuable informant. “I’m obliged to you, Sam. Let me know if you hear anything about this maid. Her ladyship is crazy with worry about her.”
Sam nodded and rose from his chair. “That I will.”
Another question had been gnawing at Pierce throughout the interview but he suppressed the impulse to say anything. As Sam turned to go, he could repress it no longer. “Heard anything about the Gilded Lily?”
Sam’s head snapped around, his eyes gleaming. “Eh, now?”
“You heard me.” Pierce leaned forward, folding his hands together across his desk.
Sam sat heavily in his chair, looking at Pierce from under beetled brows. “Word on the street is the Runners are closing in. The madam made one too many slips with finding whores that were on the young side.”
“I know that.” Pierce glowered at Sam. “I don’t pay for information I already know. Any thought that Cicely could be mixed up in this mess?”
“Like I said, I ain’t heard nothin’ about Cicely. I guess she could be. I’ll keep my ears open. But all I know is that the madam put a young girl out to service who was a mite too young. And when the Runners caught wind of that—and the number of times it happened before—they decided to shut the place down.”
Bile rose in Pierce’s throat. What man in his right mind would want to bed a whore who was still only a girl? And worse still, what happened to the girl in question? He took another sip of brandy to steady his nerves. You couldn’t get too emotional with a case. In fact, it was better to stay completely out of it, remaining a detached observer. He had gotten used to studying other people, his nose pressed against the glass. It was infinitely easier to be on the outside looking in.
He dated a glance at Sam. “I expect to hear more soon.”
Sam nodded, rising. “I’ll come round when I hear something.”
The door burst open, and Lady Annand Annand bustled into the room. She wore a tailored gray suit that covered her magnificent bosom, and her glorious hair was neatly tucked up under a cunning little hat. Pierce rose, nearly knocking over his chair in his haste. “L-Lady Annand,” he stammered, setting the damn thing upright and then bashing his knee on the desk as he walked around to the side. “I didn’t expect to see you. Not in my office, anyway. And not for at least a week.”
She nodded at Pierce and then turned to Silent Sam, who was frankly gawping at her, his mouth wide open. “How do you do? I am Lady Annand Annand,” she said politely, extending one gloved hand toward the informant’s rough paw.
“Your ladyship.” He bowed awkwardly. “I’m Silent Sam.”
“Mr. Sam,” she replied with a gentle smile, and then withdrew her hand from his grasp.
Sam turned toward Pierce, a blush creeping up his tanned cheek. “I’ll be going then, Howe. I’ll be sure to check in with you as soon as I hear anything.”
Pierce nodded and opened the door wider. “Keep your ears to the ground,” he replied.
Lady Annand sank gracefully into the chair Sam had just left. “What an odd expression that is.” She began to peel her gloves off slowly, taking care not to disturb her bracelets as she did so.
He shut the door with a click, eyeing her ladyship. Even in that ridiculously severe costume, she was a sight to behold. And the way she took off her gloves, in a manner that was both innocent and sensual—what would she look like, removing other articles of clothing? Better not to think of that—that led toward other, more dangerous thoughts. He sought the safety and shelter of his desk with alacrity.
“Your ladyship? To what do I owe the pleasure?”
She glared at him, her keen green eyes blazing. “You didn’t even ask for a description of my maid. Surely every detective must need to know what he’s searching for.”
“I have my usual informants and methods, ma’am. As you can see, I just finished meeting with one now.”
“Oh really? And what information did he give you about Cicely?” She settled back in her chair with the air of one preparing for battle.
“He has not heard anything—yet,” he admitted grudgingly.
“How surprising. Now tell me, sir, just what am I paying you for? This seems a shoddy business to me.”
“You are paying me for the benefit of my expertise.” He ground it out between clenched teeth. Really, she could be most infuriating.
“Well, you’ll forgive me sir, but I see no evidence of your expertise as yet. Are you so rigid in your methods that you do nothing outside of your own experience?” She leaned forward, triumph lighting her expression. “Or do all lady’s maids look the same to you?”
“If my services are inadequate,” he responded, his jaw line hardening, “Then by all means, take me off the case.”
“I just want to make certain I get my money’s worth. After all, my great wealth often tempts others. More than one person has tried to take advantage of me. I must protect my interests.”
That knocked the wind out of his sails. How many times did he, too, find himself obscuring his wealth and background so that others would not be enticed into taking advantage of him? He eyed her levelly across his desk, a newborn respect for her kindling his heart.
“I do understand how precarious your position must be, your ladyship. So let me return your good faith. I will work for nothing. You need not pay me.”
She blinked, her mouth opening in surprise. “Oh no, you should receive compensation. I wasn’t insisting on not paying you, sir. I just—well, I just want to be taken seriously. That’s all.” She opened her reticule and withdrew a sheet of foolscap. “I spent all day questioning my servants, everyone except Cook. Apparently Cicely was meeting with a young stable lad twice a week. I had no idea.” She passed the sheet of foolscap across his desk.
Impressive. She had made notes of her interviews in a tidy, easily-read script. He scanned the foolscap and glanced back up at her. “This is very good work, your ladyship.”
“Thank you,” she replied with a devastating smile.
“As I said, I will work for nothing. I am happy to help you find your missing servant. If you will give me a description, then I will use these notes and her likeness to begin tracking her down.” He smoothed out the foolscap and searched for a quill in his desk drawer.
“Cicely is of medium height, with brown eyes and black hair. She is about twenty years old. She does have a birthmark on her left arm. Does that help?”
He scribbled down some notes. “Yes, it does.”
“But I must insist on payment of some kind,” she rejoined. “After all, it’s not fair to ask you to work for free. Moreover, I would like to help you. May I come along on some of your interviews?”
“Absolutely not,” he responded. “It could be far too dangerous, and I cannot guarantee your safety.”
“That’s no bother,” she replied airily. “My husband taught me to shoot a pistol.”
A potent mixture of emotions swirled inside of Pierce. A desire to be close to Lady Annand, a desire to know her better, and a desire to put her in her place all fought for primacy. She was delectable and alluring and infuriating all at once.
“If you come with me, I cannot agree to payment. We will work together. I am no longer your employee and need no longer answer to you. If, on the other hand, you agree to stay out of it and let me follow my methods, then you may pay me whatever you see fit. You must choose, your ladyship.”
Was that a f
licker of apprehension that crossed her face? Surely not. She smiled regally and extended her hand. “Very well, Mr. Howe. Consider this a partnership.”
***
Penelope swayed slightly in her seat, gazing thoughtfully at her new partner. Heavens, the carriage was going a bit fast, wasn’t it? Surely it wasn’t her nerves. She had agreed to this crazy scheme—had formulated it herself, in fact. So there was no need to be missish about it, for it was her idea. She smiled apologetically at Pierce. “I apologize, sir. Sometimes my driver is a bit, well, hasty.”
“Not at all.” He lounged against the bench, his legs sprawled out casually. “As you know, I find it most astonishing that we are taking your carriage at all, ma’am.”
“Oh, bother! We aren’t going to go over this again, are we? My coach was there, waiting in front of your office. You said we needed to go meet an informant. Surely you will admit this was the most practical thing to do, given the situation.” Penelope sat back, crossing her arms over her chest. They had already argued about the matter. And she had won, after all. It was poor form of him to still be angry about it.
“In future,” he replied, a dark tone creeping into his voice, “I would prefer to hire a hackney.”
“Whatever for?” she exploded. “They’re expensive, and untidy, and many of them smell quite awful.”
“True,” he snapped. “But they are also unremarkable. Untraceable. Your carriage, and your servants for that matter, could easily be recognized, especially if we continue to sleuth together.”
Penelope smiled, forgiveness lighting her heart aglow. He had just said there would be more such occasions. And he had explained matters to her fairly, not as though she were a recalcitrant child. “I am sorry, Mr. Howe. You are right, of course. Next time, we will hire a hack. And I shall look on it as an adventure.”
He blinked as though taken aback by her sudden change of attitude. “Very well.”
She smoothed her skirts out over her lap. “Now, tell me. Where are we going?”