The Mysterious Miss Flint: Lost Ladies of London: Book 1

by Clee, Adele

  What he was yet to determine was how she knew to use the name Miss Flint. And if she used the alias to acquire Morton Manor fraudulently, then someone else knew that his father had hired a paid companion.

  “Perhaps we should follow her.” Nicole nudged him. “See where she’s going.”

  “Is it not a little cold for you to be walking the streets? And silk slippers are made for ballrooms, not pavements.” The carriage was parked on Norris Street, a two-minute walk away. “Wait with Jackson, and I shall return promptly.”

  Miss Flint glared at him. “My lord,” she began, and he knew he was about to feel the sharp edge of her tongue. “I have been tied to a bedpost by my own kin. Assaulted in my garden by a vain prig with both the breath and logic of a mule. Locked in a haunted manor for six months with no hope of reprieve. I think I can walk a mile in a pair of silk slippers.”

  Despite admiration filling his chest, all thoughts grew dark. “Are you saying that your brother kept you a prisoner, too?”

  “Not exactly, but I was taught to be a dutiful sister, taught to know my place,” she lamented. “But now is not the time to discuss it further.” She gestured to the ladies across the street. “It appears our imposter is on the move.”

  The ladies parted company. Matilda walked a few paces and turned to glance over her shoulder when the theatre door opened and slammed shut. A man doffed his hat and called out, “Goodnight, Miss Murray.”

  “Goodnight, Mr Brown.” Matilda waved and continued on her way.

  The fake Miss Flint, or Miss Murray as they decided to call her to avoid any confusion, hurried along Haymarket, past Charing Cross, to a coffeehouse on the Strand that opened late because it shared the premises with a hotel. A faint orange glow emanated from the tiny square panes on the bow window. People inside sat huddled in groups, sipping their drinks. One candle per table was all the proprietor permitted. The white mist covering the glass made it impossible to identify anyone in particular. Water droplets trickled down to the sill, but no one bothered to wipe them clean.

  “We’ve no hope of watching Miss Murray through these windows.” Oliver cupped his hands to his face and pressed his nose to the glass. “For all we know, she has a room upstairs. We could be waiting out here till dawn.”

  “Let’s go inside,” Nicole suggested. “It’s quite dark in there. I doubt they can see anything other than those seated opposite.”

  “We don’t want Matilda to know we’re following her, not until we discover how she knew my father. We cannot risk rousing her suspicion.”

  “Here,” Nicole slipped his coat off her shoulders. “Take this. It would not do to draw attention to ourselves and snooping through the window in your shirtsleeves is bound to cause a stir.”

  As usual, she was right.

  With some reluctance, Oliver took his coat and shrugged into the garment. She could always huddle into him if she needed to keep warm.

  They were still standing outside the door, debating what to do, when a stage coach rolled to a stop beside them. Two gentlemen jumped down from the box seat. Covered in road dust, they appeared tired and dishevelled. The two seated behind handed down their luggage: a small trunk, leather satchel and case, before climbing down to the pavement to join their friends.

  “Let’s follow them inside,” Oliver said as all four men entered the coffeehouse.

  With no time to waste, Nicole gripped Oliver’s arm and, with heads bowed, they joined the group.

  They meandered through the room, scanning the dark interior. One gentleman summoned a serving girl while the others moved to the only empty table in the house and dropped onto the bench.

  “May we sit here?” Oliver gestured to the empty place at the end. With room to seat ten men, he expected no objection.

  The men glanced at each other. One shrugged. One nodded.

  Nicole slid onto the bench, and Oliver sat opposite.

  “Keep your head bowed slightly.” He brushed his leg against Nicole’s to attract her attention. And because the subdued lighting gave him an opportunity to tease her. “Scan the crowd behind me. Tell me if you see Miss Murray.”

  Beneath hooded lids, her gaze moved between the rows of tables. Though the fire in the stone hearth provided a modicum of warmth, she drew her wrap tightly across her chest. Oliver cursed his stupidity. He should have taken her back to the carriage to fetch her travelling cloak. All this running about at night would give her a chill.

  “It’s too difficult to identify faces.” Nicole turned to him. “There’s a lively group in the corner, a few couples, but no women on their own.”

  Oliver cast an assessing gaze over those seated to his right and left. “Then look for a straw bonnet and ebony locks.” Perhaps Miss Murray suspected they were following her and had slipped out through the back door.

  Nicole gave a curt nod and searched again. “There’s a lady of that description sitting with the group.”

  “What is she doing?”

  “Nothing. She’s edged to the end of the table as the man to her right keeps patting and rubbing her arm.”

  Oliver glanced back over his shoulder. His heart pounded. “That’s Miss Murray.”

  “Shall we approach her? Tell her we know she’s a maid and an extremely good actress?”

  “No. Let’s wait a moment. From her rigid posture, I would say she’s not part of the group, hence the drunken gentleman’s eagerness to try his luck. No doubt she is waiting for someone to arrive.”

  They sat in silence, watching, waiting.

  Every person leaving or entering the premises drew their attention. A gentleman with appalling taste in poetry stood and recited a rhyme although his companions jeered and called for him to sit down.

  Oliver’s mind wandered.

  He imagined taking Nicole’s hand beneath the table, sliding his finger down into her glove and stroking circles on her palm. He imagined hearing little gasps and sighs when he caressed her sensitive skin.

  As he sat opposite her in the muted light, his gaze fell to her lips. What was it about her that held him captive? Decency be damned, he thought, as he considered plundering her mouth in front of fifty witnesses.

  “You’re staring at me when you’re supposed to be staring at the door.”

  “Can I help it if I find you far more interesting than those supping coffee?” If they were the only two people in the world, he would never tire of looking at her.

  “I cannot concentrate when your eyes are … are undressing me.”

  “Is that what you think I’m doing?” He was mentally undressing her, stripping off every last layer and picturing the beautiful sight beneath.

  She raised a brow. “This is why we would be useless as enquiry agents. You’re easily distracted, and I cannot think clearly when you stare at me.”

  “Good, for it is a sure sign you welcome my attention. The question is, does my heated gaze make your pulse race? Is your body flooded with warm sensations?”

  She put her hand to her heart as if testing the theory. “Yes. You’re right about my pulse, though it might have something to do with the fact I’m sitting in a coffeehouse at midnight spying on a woman who has stolen my identity.”

  Nicole glanced over his shoulder to the group in the corner. Her smile faded instantly, and her eyes grew wide. She leant over the table and grabbed his arm. “Miss Murray has gone.”

  Oliver shot around to scan the people behind them. The space previously occupied by the maid was empty.

  “Come on.” He jumped to his feet. There was no time to waste. “As she’s not left through the front door, she can only have gone out the back.”

  The corridor at the rear of the coffeehouse provided ample opportunity for a person looking to escape. The foul stench from the pot room forced Oliver to catch his breath. He kicked the door and cast a sidelong glance for fear of interrupting a woman pissing into a pot.

  The room was empty.

  “There’s a cellar.” Nicole pointed to the open door l
eading down into the dark depths of oblivion. “But without a candle, she’d be a fool to go down there.”

  Oliver agreed. Had the woman attempted anything so daring they would have heard clatters and bangs as she stumbled into various objects.

  “That leaves only one option.” He gestured to the door at the end. It led out into a cobbled courtyard. The grey stones were wet and slippy underfoot. “Take my hand,” he said as they checked the coal shed, opened the gate leading to the alley and peered into the darkness.

  “It’s no use,” Nicole said. “We’ve no hope of finding her now.”

  “Damn it all.” It was his fault. He should have watched the woman instead of spending every minute daydreaming about Nicole Flint. Though come to think of it, there wasn’t a moment when he wasn’t conjuring visions of seduction. “There’s a chance she might be hiding. Let’s return to the Strand, keep watch and see if she appears from one of the side streets.”

  They returned to the coffeehouse, were about to leave through the front door when a gentleman entered. He removed his hat and brushed his hand through his hair before thrusting it back on his head. One glimpse of the man’s ruddy complexion was all that was needed.

  “It seems our luck has changed, Miss Flint.” Oliver directed her to the new arrival. “Mr Burrows? It is you. What a stroke of luck.”

  Being a man of average height and build, Mr Burrows looked up. “My … my lord. I did not expect to find you here at this time of night.” He stole a quick glance at Nicole. “Allow me to pay my condolences. I heard about the death of your father. It happened quickly I’m told.”

  Oliver patted Mr Burrows’ arm. “Thank you, Burrows. I was in Italy at the time and never made it back for the funeral. But let me take this opportunity to offer an apology for my father’s stubborn approach to business. Mr Wild tells me he failed to treat you with the respect you deserved.”

  Burrows shuffled from one foot to the other as he nibbled his bottom lip. “Pay it no heed, my lord. Pay it no heed. I fear your father was not at all himself during those last few months.”

  Guilt threatened to flare in Oliver’s chest, but he dismissed it.

  “Do you live locally? I assume you’ve taken another position.” Oliver watched Burrows with interest. Some men were masters of deception. Some men lacked the skills necessary. Burrows’ inability to maintain eye contact confirmed he had something to hide.

  “I’ve taken work with Lord Knowles.” Burrows’ gaze flitted about the room. “A temporary position, for his current man of affairs recently lost his sight and cannot keep his books.”

  “If the position is temporary, then perhaps you might take one with me?” Oliver would lure him to Stanton House and probe him for information.

  “That … that is most kind of you, my lord.”

  “Call round tomorrow at noon, and we can discuss your reinstatement.”

  Mr Burrows inclined his head although the gesture lacked sincerity.

  “Well, I shall not keep you,” Oliver said. “I assume you’re here to meet someone.”

  Burrows bottom lip quivered. “Er, yes. Just a friend.”

  Oliver took Nicole’s hand and placed it in the crook of his arm. “Then I wish you a pleasant evening.”

  Once outside the coffeehouse, Oliver turned to Nicole. “You know what you said about walking a mile in a pair of slippers.”

  “What of it?”

  “Do you think you can run?”

  With wide eyes, she searched his face. “We’ve no chance of catching up with Miss Murray now.”

  “No, but Mr Burrows will. And when he does, they will move quickly to cover their tracks. He knows this was not a chance meeting.”

  “But the hour is late. What do you want to do?”

  “The night is far from over,” he said as he imagined a host of lascivious things they would do once back at Stanton House. He would hold that thought while they dealt with more pressing matters. “And we have another errand to run.”

  Nicole smiled. “Have we not had enough excitement this evening?”

  He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Oh, our adventures have only just begun.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Tell me you’re not serious.” Nicole clutched Oliver’s arm as they stood outside the back door of the solicitors’ office. With the absence of street lights, it was so dark they couldn’t see more than a foot in front of their face. And now a thick fog had descended, creeping into every nook and crevice, bringing with it the vile stench of the river. “No. I don’t like it at all.”

  Oliver patted her hand. “It’s perfectly safe. No one can see a blasted thing in this weather. If you’d prefer to wait in the carriage—”

  “No.” An agonising wait was no good for her heart. “Whatever happens, I want to stay with you.”

  They were discussing the illegal act of entering the property, yet her comment reflected the way she felt about him in general.

  He turned to face her fully and pulled the hood of her cloak more securely around her face. “I won’t let anything happen to you.” He tucked a stray curl back behind her ear and then planted a chaste kiss on her lips.

  “How do you propose to enter without a key?”

  “How would any thief enter? I shall smash a pane of glass or force the door.” With an air of confidence, he moved to inspect the paint-chipped wooden frame. “It’s rotten in places and with a little effort will easily splinter.”

  “But will it not be more difficult to repair?” Poor Mr Wild was so weak he didn’t need any more problems. “If you’re determined to examine your father’s file, find a way that causes the least stress for Mr Wild.”

  Oliver sighed. “You’re right. In my desperation to prove Matilda Murray is a fraud, I’d forgotten about Wild.” He bent down and peered through the keyhole. “I’ll break the small pane near the handle. Thankfully, some fool has left the key in the door.”

  Nicole stepped back while Oliver used his elbow to force the glass. The wood holding the pane in place was rotten, too, and the window fell through with ease.

  “There’s broken glass on the floor.” He squeezed his hand through the gap and turned the key. “Mind where you walk in those slippers.”

  As soon as Oliver opened the door, swirls of thick yellow fog invaded the new space.

  Nicole stared at the patterned floor. “I can’t see any glass.”

  “Here, allow me to assist you over the threshold.”

  With no word of warning, he scooped her up into his muscular arms and held her tightly against his chest. A faint gasp left her lips. Unable to resist the urge to snuggle into him, she placed her head on his shoulder and inhaled his musky scent.

  Heaven was the only word to enter her mind.

  His shoes crunched on the broken shards as he bowed his head and navigated the narrow entrance. They walked through a storage area filled with wooden trunks and cabinets, through a small kitchen and followed the corridor out into the hall.

  “I think it’s safe for you to put me down,” she said, despite wishing she could stay in his arms forever.

  Forever?

  What did it mean? That she wanted to be with him always? That she could not imagine any other man touching her, kissing her?

  Was Oliver Darby the one she’d been waiting for?

  Oliver’s heated gaze travelled over her face, and his mouth curled into the rakish smile she loved. Releasing his grip on her legs, he lowered her slowly down the length of his body until she found her feet. Her heart was thumping so loudly he must surely be able to hear it.

  “I would smash every window I came across for another chance to hold you close.”

  “And I would not object.”

  They stared at each other in the musty corridor. The surrounding air came alive as it always did when they spoke so openly about their feelings.

  “But let us address the matter of your father’s file,” she continued, “before we find ourselves carted off by a cons
table and thrown into a damp cell.”

  Taking a firm grip of her hand, Oliver led her to Mr Jameson’s office. The cluttered room was a death trap in the dark. Grey shadows loomed large. But it soon became apparent that they were bookcases. The white quill feather stood straight in the ink pot guiding them to the desk like a beacon. The surface was littered with books, papers, and an oil lamp though they could not risk lighting it.

  “Jameson keeps his files in that cabinet.” Oliver pointed at a nondescript object in the corner. Taking care where they placed their feet, they came to stand before the tall tower of drawers. “If memory serves, it should be in here.”

  With his head bent low he scoured row upon row of papers, muttering the word Benting many times before eventually retrieving the file and waving it in the air. “Now we have what we came for we can leave.”

  “Leave? But I thought you wanted to examine the document?”

  “I intend to take the file with me. In order to delay the fake Miss Flint from taking possession of the property that was meant for you.”

  Nicole shook her head. “You cannot steal the file. It’s enough that we have broken a window. I’ll not see you accused of robbery.”

  “Morton Manor belongs to you, and I am determined to see that you get it, by whatever means necessary. Hell, I’ll take the matter to the Court of Chancery if necessary.”

  She was flattered by his determination for it showed that he cared. But stealing from one’s solicitor was the most preposterous thing she’d ever had cause to witness.

  “Do you know what will happen if you’re caught?”

  “Nothing.” An arrogant chuckle left his lips. “I am the Earl of Stanton, simply looking over my father’s documents. All I need to do is mention the word fraud, and there’s not a judge in the land who’d see fit to condemn me.”

  Nicole sighed. “Then I pray you’re right.” Life was so simple when one possessed a title. So simple when one wore breeches. “When Mr Jameson discovers the file is missing he will suspect you.”

  Oliver tapped the tip of her nose with his finger. “And yet he will not have the nerve to accuse me.”