The Mail-Order Brides Collection

by Megan Besing

  Mr. Pinkerton clasped a hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder. “And for that, the Pinkerton Detective Agency is very thankful.”

  No more thankful than Jeremiah was to the Pinkerton Detective Agency for allowing him to achieve something other than having been born into the Bingham family.

  One week later, Jeremiah stepped off the train in New Orleans. The heat wrapped around him as the humidity made him feel as if he were stepping into Chicago fog.

  His first order of business after settling in was to walk down to the telegraph office on the corner and send a telegram to Miss May Conrad.

  FORGIVE DELAY. Stop. MEET AT JACKSON STATUE. Stop. 7PM.

  The telegraph operator’s bushy eyebrows rose. “You could just go over and talk to the girl. Dumont Street isn’t that far.”

  “I could,” he agreed, “but I prefer this way.”

  So did the courts when it came to proving who said what and when it was said. Thus, he would see that he had a paper trail and an airtight case.

  Jeremiah made for the door. “You’ll let me know when she responds?” he said over his shoulder.

  The telegraph operator tipped his cap. “Sure and for certain, sir.”

  Jeremiah stepped out into the early afternoon sunshine and paused to get his bearings. With the river over there and the cathedral behind him, he knew exactly where he was. He might have been raised a Texan, but his grandmother had kept a home in this city as far back as anyone could remember.

  Likely that home was sitting empty now, awaiting the next Bingham’s visit. It wouldn’t be him, however. The last thing Jeremiah needed when he was working undercover was to be seen coming out of a mansion on Royal Street with his family crest on the door.

  True to his word, the fellow at the telegraph office was correct. Dumont Street was only a short walk away. A tree-lined avenue with modest homes that once housed the playthings of wealthy planters, Dumont Street ran east to west in a straight line.

  Here it was not as easy to blend in, so he tucked his hat down low and kept his surveillance as unobtrusive as possible. The rubble of a burned-out home gave him good reason to pause and pretend interest as he scribbled notes on his notepad. Any of these homes could be the one where the illegal operation was housed.

  “You there, what are you doing?”

  Jeremiah looked toward the direction where the question had come from and spied a serving girl staring at him over the fence. He put on his most cordial expression and headed her way.

  She couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen though her expression told him she intended to pretend she was much older. “You don’t belong over there,” she told him when he got close enough to see the dirt smudges on her starched apron.

  “And how would you know this?” he asked as he covertly surveyed the property where the maid stood.

  The home was a modest copy of all the others in this neighborhood. Nothing to indicate anything sinister going on, but then mail fraud and matrimonial larceny could happen even in the nicest places.

  “Heard the lot was for sale,” he said, improvising as he stopped a short distance away from her.

  “You heard wrong.”

  The back door opened and a young man stuck his head out. “Violet, the missus is looking for you.”

  “Leave it be over there,” she said before hurrying to the door and disappearing inside.

  Jeremiah made a note of the conversation in his notebook and then tucked it into his pocket. Likely this meant nothing, but he’d been with the agency long enough to know that sometimes the biggest cases hinged on the smallest details.

  Chapter 3

  Sometimes detective work was difficult, and other times the work practically did itself. Jeremiah did not believe in coincidence, although the timing was certainly perfect to be standing within sight of May Conrad’s home when his telegram was delivered.

  If indeed her name was truly May, which he doubted. Nor did he believe she was the Baroness Fleurette, although he had decided she pretended to be.

  “You there,” a distinctly female voice called.

  Jeremiah turned around in anticipation of seeing the surly maid again. Instead, a woman who looked like she stepped out of the marital agency tintypes hurried toward him. Though her stride was not quite unseemly, she did appear to be in a hurry.

  Unlike the sepia tones of the photograph, this version of the woman was very much the opposite. From her honey-toned hair and yellow dress sprigged with tiny blue flowers, to eyes the color of his mother’s favorite jade brooch, she radiated color.

  She was of medium height and slender build, and she wore no jewelry or bonnet. A pink flush stained her cheeks and traveled down her neck as she seemed to be searching for something to say.

  Most intriguing was how young she looked. No more than twenty or possibly a few years past. Oh, but those eyes, they held the weight of something that aged her.

  Jeremiah decided to take the lead, intentionally omitting any introductions. “I suppose you’re wondering why I was asking about the house next door.”

  “Actually,” she said matter-of-factly, “I was merely wondering what amount you considered fair for making the purchase.”

  He certainly hadn’t expected that sort of forthrightness from someone who profited from fraud. “You are the property’s owner?”

  “I am.” She paused. “Have you an offer to make, or were you inquiring for someone else?”

  He looked into her eyes and expected her to flinch. She did nothing of the sort. Instead, she returned his stare and appeared ready to wait for his response.

  “What happened?” he said, intent on watching how she handled diversionary tactics.

  “It is a mystery.” She barely blinked as she continued to study him. “Should you decide to purchase the property, you may inquire with a note at the home next door. I would wish any discussions regarding this matter remain private between the two of us.”

  Either May Conrad was running yet another scam or she was just a very private person. In his experience, the former was the most likely scenario. Standing here watching her closely, he was tempted to claim the latter.

  She tipped her chin slightly, a gesture that ought to have made her look haughty. It would have had her eyes not told him another story. It was almost as if they pleaded with him to help her.

  In that moment, he wished with all he had that he could.

  “Thank you,” he said as he tipped his hat. “I will remember this. And to what name shall I inquire?”

  She paused only a moment. “The owner of the property at 4310 Dumont will suffice for a name. Now if there is nothing further, I will apologize for the interruption and say good day.”

  “Good day to you as well,” he said with a smile that May Conrad quickly returned.

  Knowing he would have questions to answer should she respond to his telegram, Jeremiah tipped his hat. “May I do you the honor of escorting you home, then?”

  “No need,” was her hasty response. “Again, good day, sir.”

  She turned and walked back in the direction she came from, her back straight as a schoolteacher and her pace still quick for a woman of obvious quality. Out of courtesy as much as curiosity, Jeremiah continued to watch her until she opened the gate and stepped inside.

  If she saw him, she made no indication of that fact. Rather, she continued toward the front door and stepped inside just as a buggy emerged from the side of the house. A woman of middle age sat like a queen on her throne while a lad of twelve or thirteen listened to a litany of complaints about his ability to drive the buggy.

  Laden with enough jewels to embarrass a raja, the woman’s garish clothing and obvious wealth were in stark contrast to the modest home where May Conrad appeared to reside. Or did she?

  Jeremiah gave that question a moment’s thought. If the marriage fraud business was as lucrative as the letters of complaint made it appear, then wouldn’t those who profited from it live in splendor and not in simplicity?

/>   He looked down the road to where the buggy had not yet made its turn and decided to see what he could discover. Knowing the alleys in this area of the city helped him to reach the main road first. Thus, when the poor lad and his passenger appeared a few blocks south of where Jeremiah stood, they were easily seen.

  Waving down a hack, Jeremiah showed his Pinkerton credentials and gave the driver instructions to follow the buggy at a discreet distance. For the next two hours, he followed the older woman as she went about the business of dining, shopping, and finally arriving at a row house adjacent to the Jackson Square on St. Ann Street.

  Jeremiah wrote the address in his notebook, paid the driver, and set off on foot toward the buggy. By the time the lad had returned from helping the flamboyant older woman inside, Jeremiah was waiting.

  “A minute of your time?” he said to the boy, showing a coin as he inquired.

  “Don’t suppose it’d hurt,” he said. “You’ll have to ride with me to the Old Spanish Stables on Hospital Street. Ma’am doesn’t keep a carriage house here.”

  Ten minutes later, Jeremiah had written three full pages of notes regarding “Ma’am” and her several homes. Though the lad wasn’t certain of the old woman’s name, he could say with some measure of assurance that there was a mister and that there was also a young lady who used to live next door now residing in the Dumont Street home.

  Yes, he did take an overlarge amount of correspondence to be posted, and yes, he did deliver an equal amount of responses to that correspondence to Dumont Street. But no, his employer did not live on Dumont Street.

  “That’d be the business house,” the lad said. “This’n on St. Ann is where they live, her and the mister.”

  “And what of Miss Conrad?” he asked as the boy deftly steered the rig through traffic down Hospital Street. “Does she live there, too?”

  “That’d be the lady who stays at the business house?” At Jeremiah’s nod, the boy continued. “Nice lady, that one, but I don’t know her well enough to say more than that.”

  “Does she run things? By that, I mean who is in charge of these letters, and more important, is she the one who profits from any responses mailed to her?”

  The boy clamped his mouth shut, obviously deciding what to say. “She’s a nice lady,” he repeated, his eyes on the road ahead.

  Jeremiah sat back and tried to decide what other information he could gain from the lad. Finally, he retrieved another coin and held it where the boy could see. “All right. Miss Conrad is a nice lady. I’ve met her and would likely agree. So, who is writing those letters? Is it the lady you just delivered to St. Ann Street or Miss Conrad? Or perhaps someone else?”

  “Miss Conrad, of course,” he said.

  “So you’ve seen her writing to gentlemen who might wish to marry her?” The boy nodded, giving Jeremiah clearance to continue. “And you deliver those letters to be mailed?”

  “Now hold on here,” he said as he pulled up at the stables. “I’ll talk to you all day long as you pay me for my time, but I won’t be saying anything that gets me into trouble.”

  Jeremiah closed his palm with the coin still in it. So the boy knew there was wrongdoing occurring. Just how much he knew remained to be seen.

  “And if you were guaranteed immunity from prosecution?” The lad looked confused. “What you tell me goes no further,” he amended as he opened his palm. “I’m not looking to make trouble for you, but if Miss Conrad is doing something wrong, I am here to see that it stops.”

  “I doubt she does much wrong,” he said as he climbed down from the buggy and handed the reins to the stable hand. “Seeing as Ma’am has me lock her in every night.” He climbed down and caught up to the boy. “Lock her in the house?”

  “No,” he said, stopping to look up at Jeremiah. “In her bedchamber. How many more questions do you have?”

  Jeremiah handed him the coin. “How many more questions will you answer?”

  “As many as you have coins for,” he said as he nodded to a food stand adjacent to the stables. “Though I wouldn’t turn down an oyster loaf and something cold to drink.”

  “How do I know you’re not feeding me lies while I’m feeding you coins and a sandwich?” Jeremiah said, giving him a sideways look.

  “Because I know things. Like why Miss Conrad’s house burned to the ground and who Baroness Fleurette really is.”

  An hour later, Jeremiah had a signed affidavit from the lad he now knew as Damien Girourd, and he had a plan. Though Damien’s knowledge of the marriage fraud was limited to what he had seen as a driver and houseboy, it was sufficient to send a coded telegram to Mr. Pinkerton to let him know there could soon be an arrest warrant issued for Madame Fleurette and her accomplices.

  As he stepped outside, he allowed himself to consider what Damien told him in regard to May Conrad, the beautiful young woman with those timeworn eyes. The anger that had burned toward May was now directed at those who were using her for their own gain.

  Or at least that was how things appeared. Jeremiah had learned that the only way to find out what a woman really wanted was to ignore her words and watch what she did.

  He intended to use that principle to determine just which of these females was guilty. And if the Conrad woman was indeed innocent, he vowed he would do all he could to help her.

  Jeremiah Bingham was here in New Orleans and he wanted to meet her. Twin feelings of anticipation and dread rose as May folded the telegram and stuffed it back into her pocket.

  Rising from her desk, she upset the stack of letters awaiting her response. As she gathered up the dozen or so correspondences, she thought of how different Mr. Bingham’s letters had been. Succinct and to the point, he was. A man who seemed to waste no words, unlike the flowery absurdity she received from other suitors.

  She sighed. The other suitors would have to be notified that she was no longer interested in continuing correspondence with them. Even if Mr. Bingham did not end up making an offer of marriage, May knew she just couldn’t imagine being yoked to any of the other men who had written to her.

  May thought briefly of the handsome man who had inquired about the now-empty lot next door. If only this Bingham fellow turned out to be half as attractive as he.

  As soon as the thought occurred, she pushed it away. Just as she hoped her plainness would not matter to Mr. Bingham, so she hoped she would not care about Mr. Bingham’s appearance.

  With that decision still taking root, she tackled the job ahead of her. Mrs. Baronne was still out when May finished writing her responses to this week’s letters. All the better, for the older woman would not be happy if she read the gentle but firm letters of rejection May had written to these men.

  Mrs. Baronne had put the men’s gifts away for safekeeping—presents of anything from money to jewelry and even the deed to a plot of land—but May had carefully cataloged each one. She would see that each item was returned.

  Perhaps not the cake one suitor had baked in hopes of not only swaying her favor but also showing his multitude of talents outside of blacksmithing and carpentry work.

  Unfortunately for him, the cake had not arrived in any sort of edible manner. In truth, she hadn’t known what the foul-smelling porridgelike concoction was until she read the poor man’s letter boasting of using his late wife’s favorite recipe.

  May tucked the letters into her reticule and walked over to open the door only to find it locked. “How strange.”

  She tried the knob again and found it would not turn. Checking the clock on her bedside table, May decided the hour was far too early for this sort of thing.

  She had discovered the disturbing fact that she was locked in at night sometime during the first week of staying in her borrowed bedchamber. Always the lock turned exactly twenty minutes after May had extinguished the lamp.

  Not a minute before or a minute after.

  She had mentioned her concern to Mrs. Baronne, who said seeing that all interior doors were locked was merely a safety matter
owing to the suspicious fire next door. That May might be unable to escape should this home catch fire seemed not to matter to the older lady. Rather came the reminder that this was Mrs. Baronne’s home and she would conduct business inside in the manner she wished.

  Of course, May had agreed. To disagree meant she would be left with nothing but a pile of rubble to call home.

  So May had concocted a plan that kept her from feeling like a prisoner even as she played along with Mrs. Baronne’s disturbing rule. Slipping out the back window was most improper, but it was the only way to get out of her bedchamber before daylight.

  Until now she had only made the attempt with the idea of learning whether it would work. This afternoon, however, she would use her newly learned skill to escape the house and post these letters.

  She might even stay out long enough to meet her suitor later this evening and not tell anyone where she had gone. May smiled. Yes. Why not? How utterly scandalous.

  Not that it was, really, but Mrs. Baronne would certainly find it so. But then Mrs. Baronne was so intent on seeing that nothing happened to May until she was properly wed that she did tend to be overzealous.

  May tried to think of the older woman’s kindness of taking her in, of seeing that she found a good match to a man who would care for her. Thinking on these things, the good things as the Bible said, kept her from dwelling on the tiny voice that told her Mrs. Baronne did not have her best interests at heart.

  The afternoon was quiet, uncharacteristically so, as May carefully let herself down using the thick ropelike branches of the wisteria vine that climbed up the trellis on the back of the house. There was no sign of Violet in the outdoor kitchen or either of the young men who were also employed as servants to the Baronne household.

  All the better to escape, and yet it still was decidedly odd.

  When her feet touched the ground, May straightened her skirt and adjusted her sleeves. It would not do to look untidy despite the fact she’d just climbed down the back of the house using only a vine instead of a proper ladder.