by Clee, Adele
Mrs Gunning failed to hide a grimace. It wouldn’t be the first time she had assumed a supposed identity. She crossed the room and snatched her pelisse from the coat stand. “Not the madam of a brothel again.”
“No, Mrs Gunning.” He laughed. “Not the madam of a brothel.”
The housekeeper gave a relieved sigh. “I’ll let Cook and Sally know I’ll be gone from the house and then meet you upstairs.”
He made to leave but paused. “If you discovered someone had stolen washing from the line, what would be your first instinct?”
Noah had a suspect in mind.
The motive would soon reveal itself.
“That depends on how easy it is to access the garden, sir.”
“And if the only access was through the house?”
“Suspicion would fall on the servants.”
“Indeed.” There were many reasons why the maid might have lied about the stolen undergarments, although he was more intrigued as to how Miss Dunn would deal with disloyal staff. “Until we reach Brownlow Street, you will play the part of Miss Dunn’s maid.”
The thought of beginning a new investigation sent blood surging through Noah’s veins. Yet the excitement filling his chest stemmed from more than a need to feel useful. The reason became abundantly clear when he entered the hall and found D’Angelo pressing his lips to Miss Dunn’s bare hand.
Jealousy reared like a spitting viper.
D’Angelo straightened upon hearing the clip of Noah’s boots on the tiled floor and flashed an arrogant grin. “Ah, the wanderer returns.”
Devil!
Noah ground his teeth in annoyance. D’Angelo was lucky he cared for him like a brother.
“Is it not considered the height of rudeness to leave a lady waiting in the hall?” D’Angelo teased.
“It’s the height of rudeness to interfere in another man’s business,” Noah countered. “If you wish to be useful, write a note to Peter Lydford and arrange for me to meet him on the morrow.”
From the wicked glint in D’Angelo’s eyes, Noah knew to expect a provoking retort. Indeed, the rogue said, “Why? Have you written another book of lewd poems?”
Miss Dunn’s delightful mouth fell open. “You write poetry, Mr Ashwood?” Her excitement rang through the hall, the information feeding her innate curiosity.
God’s teeth!
“Mr D’Angelo enjoys taunting me.” Noah shot his friend an irate glare. “It is merely a hobby. I once wrote a collection of rather salacious poems. Poems unfit for a lady’s delicate ears. Mr D’Angelo persuaded me to publish them, anonymously, of course.”
“They’re remarkably good.” D’Angelo grinned. “So exceptional one can almost feel the poet’s crippling torment when he denies himself that which he desperately craves.”
“How interesting.” Miss Dunn’s animated smile reached her cornflower eyes. “I wonder, might the book be entitled Every Man’s Desire?”
Good Lord! Surely she had not read the volume.
Noah swallowed deeply. “Men are driven by a multitude of passions. They strive to be great landowners, doctors, tailors. Yet their base desires are the same. In that regard, rich or poor, we share an affinity.” He cleared his throat. “That is but one topic explored.”
The lady continued to study him intently. “Fascinating. Perhaps we might discuss your work in more detail.”
“You wish to discuss erotic literature?” Noah spoke past the hard lump in his throat. He tried to ignore the tightening in his groin, tried to ignore D’Angelo’s satisfied grin.
“That would be inappropriate, sir. But I am most interested in your creative process.”
“Trust me, Miss Dunn. You do not want to explore the mind of a man who commits his desires to paper.” It wasn’t just his deepest desires laid bare. His fears and anxieties were evident, too. “Now, I hear Mrs Gunning stomping up the stairs, and so we shall be on our way.”
Noah reminded D’Angelo that he was to send a note to Mr Lydford, then he took his hat and gloves from the console table and escorted Miss Dunn out onto Hart Street.
They walked towards Long Acre in companionable silence, Mrs Gunning ambling behind playing chaperone. A list of unanswered questions bombarded his thoughts, and so he took the opportunity to gather answers.
“May I ask why you came to Hart Street without your maid?” he said, keen to delve deeper into the workings of the lady’s mind.
It took her a few seconds to reply. “I no longer know who to trust, Mr Ashwood. Indeed, I find myself growing more suspicious by the day.”
“You’re right to be cautious.” Now was a good time to prepare her for the inevitable outcome of their morning visit. “I imagine we will solve the problem of your missing undergarments within the hour. Once your maid has confessed, we will have a better understanding of whether she’s involved in the theft of your boots.”
“My maid!” Miss Dunn sucked in a sharp breath although her gait did not falter. “You’re convinced she is to blame?”
“It seems likely.”
“Kathleen is not a bad person, I can assure you.”
He admired her sense of loyalty. “Good people commit crimes. More often than not, the motive is money. What’s the price of silk stockings? Eight shillings?”
“Twelve, sir, though I suspect three shillings is the going rate for second-hand hosiery.”
He thought it best not to mention that wealthy men with strange obsessions paid more than five pounds for a soiled pair.
“Might a friend not have acted as your companion today? Or do your misgivings stretch to all those of your acquaintance?”
This time, her brief silence was fraught with tension.
“To be blunt, sir, I have no friends. My brother is a lying scoundrel. Decent ladies avoid me like the plague. The only person foolish enough to value our friendship is now paying a hefty price. Indeed, she was sent to live in Northumberland and is not permitted to write.”
The dissolute usually amassed enemies. There would be plenty of people who wished Howard Dunn dead. The innocent were always caught in the crossfire. Indeed, Noah’s father had not thought of his poor wife and child when fighting a duel over his mistress.
“I know what it’s like to suffer because of a selfish man’s deeds,” he said, his body stiffening in anger. It took effort to keep his rage at bay as he told her briefly how his father had died. It might help her to know she was not the only person tainted by the behaviour of another. “I’m sorry life dealt you a similar hand.”
She came to an abrupt halt and turned to face him. Mrs Gunning almost bumped into them, for she was busy looking at the summer bonnets in Farthings’ window.
“Thank you, Mr Ashwood.” Miss Dunn’s blue eyes brimmed with appreciation. “Few people would reveal something so distressing, so personal, merely to put another at ease.”
Heat filled his chest for the umpteenth time this morning. Perhaps he was coming down with an ague. “The actions of family members do not define us, Miss Dunn. I thought it important to remind you of that fact.”
The lady moved to touch his arm but snatched her hand back. “I appreciate your wisdom, sir. More than you know.”
Devil be damned. The tender words penetrated his rapidly failing reserve. Did she have to look upon him with doe-eyed admiration? Could she not say something distasteful to dampen his ardour?
“Let us be on our way before people accuse us of blocking the pavement,” he said lest he spout fanciful sentiments, too.
They arrived in Castle Street moments later, at the clothes shop owned by Bernard Peters. At Noah’s request, Miss Dunn entered first while Mrs Gunning remained outside. The tinkling of the bell brought the beaming proprietor hurrying to the door until he caught sight of her companion and came to a crashing halt.
“Mr Ashwood, sir.” Peters gulped a breath and fiddled with his fat fingers. He shuffled back and reluctantly bid them welcome.
“You know why I’m here, Peters.”
Noah glanced at the array of garments hanging from hooks on the walls—men’s coats and shirts in all shapes and sizes, some new, some carrying the stale, musty stench of old clothes. Gloves and reticules, cravats and stockings, filled the drawers in the glass-fronted counter. An array of dusty hats and bonnets, scuffed shoes and boots, littered the space.
Peters shook his head repeatedly before blurting, “I’ve not bought a thing off Jack Higgins, sir. I swear it on my dear mother’s grave. God rest her soul.”
“Your mother is alive, Peters.”
“Yes, sir, but I’d swear it all the same.”
Noah glanced at Miss Dunn. “Although Peters sells new clothes, he also pays people for their old linens.”
Miss Dunn pressed her fingers to her nostrils. “Yes, I soon discerned that most of his stock is second-hand.”
“Second-hand but all above board, miss. Those thieving rascals won’t get a penny for their booty here.” Peters gestured to the oak barrel full of walking canes and swordsticks. One did not need a vivid imagination to picture how he might use them. “And I check the pockets of any coat what comes in, for soil and the like.”
“Soil?” Miss Dunn’s curiosity was piqued.
“I caught Peters selling a dead man’s clothes. A man last seen wearing them in an open coffin.”
Miss Dunn frowned and glared at Peters. “You bought clothes from a grave robber? Had you no thought for the deceased man’s family?”
Peters pressed his chubby hands together in prayer. “If I’d have known that canny devil and his crew were digging up the dead, I’d have told him to sling his hook.”
Once again, they were straying from the point.
“We’re not here to discuss your previous misdeeds,” Noah said curtly, “but rather to determine if you purchased a petticoat and stockings early this morning.” Miss Dunn’s house was a two-minute walk from the shop and an ideal place for a maid to dispose of stolen goods quickly. “The petticoat will bear the embroidered initials E. D.”
Miss Dunn touched his arm and whispered, “How do you know the garment bears my initials? I am, after all, the only lady in the house.”
Noah stole any opportunity to explain his logical deductions. And he needed something to distract his mind from the dainty fingers resting on his coat sleeve.
“Because you were keen to inform me that Kathleen is a good person. One might assume that she stole an old garment, one that would not be missed as much as a recent purchase.”
“Yes.”
“And because I believe your godfather’s last poem, Castle of Corpses, relates to the time he took you to stay at Briden Castle two summers ago.”
It was a poem about an angel made to suffer the company of the undead. A battle to remain pure and uncorrupted. Becker had mentioned his charge in the acknowledgements but not named her.
“When attending a large house party,” he continued, “a maid would want to ensure no personal items went astray.”
Miss Dunn’s eyes remained wide. “While some would argue that you make sweeping assumptions, I find your insight rather remarkable.” She continued to stare. “And yes, a month spent with pretentious prigs takes its toll.”
Peters cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I opened late this morning. You’re the first people to walk through that door.”
Noah dragged his gaze away from Miss Dunn. “Then you won’t mind if I inspect your stock.”
“No, Mr Ashwood, sir. Do as you please.” Peters gestured for Noah to come behind the crude counter. “The lady is welcome to rummage through the drawers while you search the cupboards out the back.”
“Wait here, Miss Dunn. Scan the rows of shoes. See if any seem at all familiar.”
To keep Peters on his toes, Noah strode into the storeroom and searched through the petticoats. Based on Peters’ sudden burst of confidence, he knew the maid had not hurried to the shop to sell her ill-gotten gains.
Upon his return, he found Miss Dunn examining a rack of old boots, her pretty lace handkerchief pressed to her nose to mask the foul stench that resembled rotten cabbage.
“Anything of interest?”
“No. Nothing.” She straightened and tucked her handkerchief into her reticule.
Peters’ smile filled his chubby face. “As I said, sir, you’re the first people I’ve seen this morning.”
“Then let’s hope you speak the truth. I shall be in a devil of a mood if forced to return.” Noah captured Miss Dunn’s elbow and guided her towards the door.
Touching her only deepened his attraction.
“Where to now?” She looked up at him and held his gaze. The tightness around her eyes revealed a sense of unease.
“Now we question your maid.”
Chapter 4
They covered the brief walk to Brownlow Street in silence, though Eva’s mind was far from quiet. Her chaotic thoughts had nothing to do with her worrying situation. On the contrary, the confident gentleman striding beside her commanded her attention.
Eva studied his handsome profile.
Mr Ashwood embodied a wealth of contradictions. His neat beard and devilish grin gave him a rugged appeal. That of a man capable of beating a villain to death with his bare hands. Yet his powerful jaw and proud bearing spoke of his upstanding moral character. He was serious in his approach to work. Determined. A man to admire. Yet it was the teasing way his golden brown hair curled at the nape, and the playful glint in those alluring green eyes, that fed her curiosity.
“You’ll have a crick in your neck if you keep staring, Miss Dunn.” Mr Ashwood did not look at her but continued to survey their surroundings as they approached the Lying-In Hospital.
“I find you somewhat of an enigma, sir.” And she did so love a puzzle.
“Then we have something else in common, madam, other than our feckless fathers and a love of books.”
He came to an abrupt halt opposite the hospital. The building might have been mistaken for a row of townhouses were it not for the grand entrance supported by Doric pilasters and a vast Greek pediment.
“Something else in common?”
“With shocking frequency, I’m surprised by elements of your character, too.” He studied the sash windows covering the hospital’s facade. “I’ve never met a woman like you.”
Thank goodness he wasn’t gazing into her eyes when conveying what sounded like a compliment. “Being considered an original comes with its problems.”
“I fail to see how,” he said before his attention drifted. “Excuse me a moment.”
Without another word, Mr Ashwood dashed across the road and came to the aid of a heavily pregnant woman struggling to carry her valise. He took hold of her bag and let the woman grip his arm as he helped her hobble towards the entrance.
A matron appeared, and a lengthy discussion ensued. Mr Ashwood motioned to Eva, no doubt explaining that he was not the father of the unborn babe but a mere bystander offering assistance.
“The men call him Dauntless,” Mrs Gunning said, admiration for her employer evident. “Dauntless because of his strength and courage they say. It doesn’t do him justice in my humble opinion.”
“No,” Eva mused as she watched the gentleman approach. She imagined any woman witnessing the act of kindness might fall a little in love with Mr Ashwood. “I suspect there isn’t a word to sum up the complex nature of his character.”
“Forgive me,” the gentleman said, joining Eva on the pavement. “What husband lets his wife make the journey to hospital alone?”
“A negligent one.” Eva glanced at the hospital, the place paid for by wealthy subscribers to care for impoverished pregnant women of reasonable social standing. “Although some ladies who arrive are unmarried and have forged the paperwork.”
She had heard many sad stories, seen many desperate women attempt to gain entrance without having first submitted an affidavit of marriage and the necessary letter of recommendation.
Guilt flared as her thoughts turned to Miss
Swales.
Eva knew she shouldn’t blame herself for what happened. Had she known of the secret assignations, of the lies and deceit, she would have intervened. Yet every time she stepped out onto the street to see another woman heavy with child, she was reminded of her brother’s wickedness.
Perhaps Howard had journeyed to Northumberland to reunite with the woman he had used so callously. The need to know the truth was yet another reason she had sought professional help. And yet she hadn’t found the strength to speak to Mr Ashwood of her family’s shame.
“Marital status shouldn’t matter when a woman is in dire straits,” he said, sounding cross. “Not when some men are slow to keep their promises.”
Something in his tone suggested he spoke from experience. It was the sort of bitter comment made by an illegitimate son. Yet while waiting in the hall at Hart Street, Mr D’Angelo mentioned that Mr Ashwood was Lord Hawkridge’s nephew.
“Some men have no concept of responsibility,” she said. Indeed, Mr Ashwood’s disdain for rogues was the reason she decided to hold on to her secret a little longer. “My father being a prime example.”
“A fate we share, Miss Dunn. Now, let us continue with our business. You said you live opposite the hospital.”
“Yes, here.” She motioned to the black door behind her.
“You live at Number 11?”
“Indeed. Why? Is something wrong?”
“I live at Number 11 Wigmore Street, off Cavendish Square.”
“How remarkable,” she said, slightly surprised by the growing number of coincidences. “I don’t know why, but I presumed you had rooms in Hart Street.” The house belonging to the Gentlemen of the Order seemed more like a family home than a business premises.
“I have a room there should I wish to stay, but every agent has his own house in town.” He spent a few seconds surveying the road. “Am I right in saying there is no way to access your garden from the street?”
“No obvious way, no. But if you enter the alley leading to Castle Street, you might scale the wall into the garden of Number 12.”
If a man could clear the first wall, there was no reason why he couldn’t climb into her garden. Although she doubted a thief would think it worth the effort. Not when it increased the likelihood of getting caught.