Saving the Soldier's Heart (The Emerald Quest Book 2)

by Beckenham Jane

  The teacup in Clayton’s hand tumbled and rattled in its saucer. He righted it. “Out the back? You mean a gaming room?”

  “It’s what I heard. We don’t see him for days sometimes.”

  “Edward is gambling? Bloody hell.” Clayton shoved up from his chair and stood. “I trusted him.”

  “Yeah, well, I reckon he has a bigger problem.”

  Clayton shot Charlie a questioning look.

  “His daddy was a gambler and so was his grandfather. Just like all them gentry get that easy money and never a workday in their lives. Easy come, easy go, I reckon.”

  Clayton knew that, but thought Edward had segued from landed gentry to the life of a working man. He’d vowed years ago to never imitate his forebears.

  So what had happened?

  Charlie downed the remainder of his tea and firmly placed the tin mug down. “Right you lot,” he said thumbing toward the door. “It’s best we get ourselves back to work. The real boss is in town.”

  One by one, with a nod to Clayton, the men shuffled out of the room.

  A few minutes later Maggie tugged at Clayton’s arm. “Listen, Clayton. Listen.”

  Clayton went to the door and stared out at the warehouse.

  Lights illuminated every corner of the massive building, the gigantic wooden doors were rolled back and the clack of wheeled carts rolling over the cobbled warehouse floor echoed.

  “Charlie.” Clayton called out to the foreman. The man eased his cart down and straightened. “Where were those deliveries stored?”

  “Out behind the latrine in that small bricked-over alcove.” The burley worker hefted a crate on his broad shoulders and dropped it onto his already half-loaded cart. Black stamps of faraway places such as Ceylon and India littered all four sides.

  Clayton caught her staring at them. “Tea,” he informed her. “We bring it in bulk and then the stores decant it into their own tins.” He turned toward a set of rather rickety stairs heading up into the heavens of the warehouse. “Come on, let’s see what state the paper work is in, first. Maybe that will give us a clue.”

  Maggie wondered if Clayton’s use of “us” was simply a slip of the tongue, but it infused a warmth that permeated through her veins. It made her feel part of something again, something she had not felt for a while.

  At the base of the stairs, he waited for her. “Ladies first.” He offered a smile and her heart fluttered and with each step as she climbed the stairs, she felt his closeness and her cheeks heated. At the top, a single door led to an office. He reached past her and opened the door, turning on the light switch at the same time.

  Maggie entered, and then promptly sneezed as a flurry of dust mites took to the air. “I wonder whose job it was to keep this place clean.” She sneezed again and reached for her handkerchief.

  “Edward seems to have slipped up.”

  “On more than cleanliness, it seems.”

  “Hmm. I don’t know what to make of it all. Surely he didn’t know what was going on?”

  “So why isn’t he here now? He was at your meeting with the detective and suddenly he disappears. In my book, that’s a tad suspicious.”

  Clayton shrugged off his heavy coat and dropped it to a chair. His scarf followed. How relaxed he was to expose his visage to her, but yet not to the world. When would that be?

  Soon, she hoped.

  “Shall I call you Sherlock?” Though his words were humor-filled, Clayton’s mouth held no hint of a smile, but pressed into a dour line, eyes as somber as a darkened forest.

  Maggie stood in front of the desk and eyed the mounds of paper work. “I’ll start here, shall I?”

  His mouth twitched. “I knew I could rely on you, Miss Francis.”

  Miss Francis! So formal again.

  Don’t fantasize, Maggie.

  Clayton reached for a ledger and blew the dust off it in the process.

  She shook her head; tendrils falling lose from her beret. Taking it off and her gloves too, she set them down on the cleanest spot she could find, tugged a chair closer, blowing off as much dust from the seat as she could and sat. She stared at the piles of papers. Papers torn from ledgers, invoices, statements and bills of lading lay scattered inches high across the desk.

  Taking a deep breath, she picked up the closest pile and began.

  They worked in companionable silence for several hours, and as she finally put the last piece of paper into alphabetical order, she eased back in her chair with a satisfied sigh. “All done.”

  Clayton replaced the ledger he’d been holding onto the shelf and retrieved a piece of paper he’d scribbled some notes on. “Do you have any bills of lading for Han Sun.”

  Maggie rifled through the papers in front of her. “No, nothing even remotely sounding like it.”

  “Are you sure?

  “Yes. Here.” She held out the alphabetized pile. “Check for yourself.”

  Frustration rode across his expression and he scrubbed a hand across his eyes, and then shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets. “No, I’m sure you’re right, it’s just bloody confusing.”

  “What is?”

  He nodded to the piece of paper in front of him. “It’s a list of companies I’ve never heard of.”

  “Surely that must mean Edward has brought new business to Bellerose Trading in your absence.”

  “But that’s the rub. He told me about Howard’s, and Carter Woolens, and a few others, but these two—Han Sun and this one, T…something.”

  “Could he have forgotten to mention them?”

  “Hard to believe. But the strange thing is, they’re not listed in the ledgers, but on a page in this notebook, with dates and quantities. Why the hell, if we’re trading with these companies, are they not listed in the relevant ledger?” He pointed to the dates. “Especially when it seems there are shipments every couple of weeks.”

  “The war disrupted everything and he had to use other ship yards and just forgot?”

  “Or perhaps if we’re audited he doesn’t want them known about.” Clayton shrugged and his scarf slid from his broad shoulders.

  Maggie scooped it up and handed it to him. He took it, though for a moment he seemed to hesitate, staring down at the gray woolen garment,

  She watched him.

  Hoped some more.

  Then he wrapped it across his face—again.

  Chapter Nine

  For a moment she simply stared at him. Though he used the scarf as his protective armor, he was still a handsome man. His eyes, when he laughed, sparkled as green as those emeralds Josephine had written about in her diary.

  Josephine.

  Where was the diary? Maggie truly hoped it would turn up. Not only did the story of Clayton’s ancestor intrigue her, but she admired Josephine immensely. Such a strong woman to have set out to far off lands in a New World no one had really known much about.

  Then there was the mystery of the emeralds. Who had given them to her? Where were they now?

  “I think our next step is to try and find Edward. Hopefully he’ll be able to shed some light on this. I still can’t believe he’d stoop so low.”

  Maggie did wonder. There was something secretive about Edward Hindmarch, but then, who was she to disparage a man she’d only met briefly. He was Clayton’s childhood friend. Surely that friendship meant something.

  As they descended the stairs, Clayton in front of her, Maggie’s skirt caught on a nail head. She tumbled forward against Clayton.

  He spun round and clasped her shoulders. “Steady on.”

  Her body slid against his, hip to hip, her breasts pressed against his chest. Her heart seemed to still, then thundered, as he didn’t let her go. In fact his hands slid from her shoulders to her arms, the heat from his fingertips burning through her coat and dress.

  She arched back, her beret falling from her head, hair falling loose from the few pins she’d used to secure it.

  His pensive expression, wrapped with something else, tugged at he
r stomach and sent tiny butterflies into flight. Then just as suddenly, the moment disintegrated as he released her and retrieved her beret. “You’ll need this, the weather is getting chillier.”

  Chilly? Really? So how come she was burning inside and out?

  Swallowing back the strange and irrational sensations, she took her beret from him and jammed it down on her head, ignoring Clayton’s outstretched hand as she descended the last few steps, hearing his soft chuckle as she sidestepped him.

  The foreman lumbered over, his brows creased. “Glad you ‘ain’t gone yet, Mr. Abbott. “We just found something you might like to see.” He crooked his fingers. “Follow me.”

  They followed Charlie silently. He shoved open a wide set of double doors. A blast of icy wind assaulted them as they exited the building. Maggie tugged at the collar of her coat and slipped her hands into her pockets. She found the button again and her fingers curled around it.

  Charlie pointed to a broken down brick shelter. “This is where those weird deliveries were stored.”

  Clayton peered over her shoulder at the site. “But there’s nothing here.”

  “Aye. They took it all last night – or at least they thought they did. Whatever skullduggery those blokes are up to, they miscounted.”

  “What?”

  “There’s another box over there.” He nodded toward a wooden crate hidden behind some broken boxing. “Somehow, they picked up the wrong box. So whatever was in them boxes it ain’t what they’re expecting because they’ve got a box of tea to go with it. Ted realized we were one short and went hunting and found this behind those old Ceylonese tea boxes. Once they’re empty, we break ‘em up for firewood. It’s a bit dark round here, so I guess they mucked up.”

  “Have you opened it?”

  “Nope. That’s your business, Mr. Abbott, sir.”

  “I wish to hell it wasn’t.”

  Charlie passed Clayton a lethal looking wrench. “Aye, I bet you do.”

  Levering it beneath the wooden lid at each corner Clayton heaved down so that the nails edged away bit by bit, until finally, as he circled the crate several times, the lid freed completely. He tossed the wrench and lid to the ground.

  Maggie leaned forward eager to see what was inside.

  “Straw!” She hadn’t been expecting that. It littered the top of the box. Scraping away several inches of straw revealed a row of small blue china figurines.

  “Well I’ll be. There’s gotta be over fifty of ‘em things in there. Pretty bloody ugly, I reckon, though I guess there’s no accounting for taste.”

  Clayton tugged one of the Buddha-like china caricatures from the crate, raised it above his head and smashed to the ground.

  “Clayton...” Maggie silenced and stared wide-eyed at the shards of broken china—and what lay around it.

  Bending over the broken ornament, Clayton drew his fingers through the mounds of white powder and brought his fingertips to his nose and sniffed.

  “What the hell is it? I mean...” Charlie glanced at her, coloring as he realized his profanity. “Begging your pardon, Miss.”

  Clayton dusted off his hands and straightened. “This, Charlie,” he said, his voice muffled by his scarf, “is trouble with a capital T.” He turned from the crate and its contents. “Right, bundle the crate back up and lock it securely away. Here are the keys for the small lock-up I have on the other side of the dock. No one knows about it, as it’s rarely used. Stow this lot there and I’ll contact the police.”

  Shock kicked in her belly. “You’re going to tell them?”

  “What else do you suggest? I’ve illegal substances on my premises. Someone will soon realize they got tea instead of opium.”

  “Bloody hell. Oops.” Charlie colored and Maggie gave him a friendly smile.

  “Exactly, Charlie.” Warning bells suddenly rang. “Do you think they’ll come back after it?”

  “Wouldn’t you? It’s worth a lot of money, and people like that are all about money.”

  “And Edward?”

  Clayton swore. “I’ll find him and get the bloody truth.”

  Leaving a few last instructions with Charlie, Clayton beckoned her. “Come on, let’s go.” He didn’t wait for her but strode to the exit, and once again she had to race to keep up with him.

  Outside, Maggie glanced up and down the street, looking for Private Smith. He was nowhere to be seen. “Do you think he’s gone to get a meal?”

  “One would hope so. Though I have my doubts. Many of them saw such horror on the battlefield that drink is the only sustenance they need to get through the day.”

  A raw sadness clamped around her heart. “That bloody war.”

  “My sentiments, exactly.” Clayton took her hand in his. “You are a sweet soul, Maggie Francis. Always wanting to help people.”

  Her heart stuttered. “I do what I can.”

  Clayton glanced to the patch where his comrade had sat and shook his head, sadness coloring his eyes. “There’s thousands of them back from the front. Wounded in both body and brain. The country and its citizens need to heal.”

  She lifted a brow, surprised at his speech. “Such words from you.”

  A sudden deep rumble of laughter burst from his chest. “Touché, Miss Francis. Touché.” He hooked her arm through his. “Come on, let’s go and unravel this mystery.”

  Back onto the thoroughfare that girded the bank of the Thames, Clayton suddenly put two fingers beneath his scarf and to his lips and whistled. The shrill sound echoed as he waved toward an oncoming taxi rumbling closer.

  Maggie clamped a hand across her mouth.

  “What?”

  “You whistled.”

  “Easiest way to get attention.”

  The cab drew up and Clayton opened the passenger door for her. “I’ll have you know, I won the school whistling contest two years in a row.”

  “They had a whistling contest?”

  “The senior boys decided it was the best way to get the attention of the young ladies.”

  Maggie took his hand as he helped her into the cab. He followed and the door closed.

  “Marylebone Police Station, please.”

  Maggie looked sideways at him. His voice was strong, full of determination and yet he did not look toward the taxi driver, shielding himself with the rise of one hand.

  “I need to discuss this with the police. If Edward is involved, I want to sort this out before the Bellerose name is broadcast through the sewers of the press.”

  The taxicab took off, and Maggie sat back, but the view held no interest. Not the derelict buildings or the cheerless sight of hungry faces and crippled returned soldiers hobbling the streets hunting work. She turned from the depressing sight. “So were you successful at whistling then?”

  She felt the tension in him ease a fraction.

  “I told you I won.”

  “Oh, no, I don’t mean the competition, but the whistling for your young ladies’ attention.”

  He tapped his nose. “That would be telling and a gentleman never tells.” He leaned close and whispered in her ear. “You’re disappointed?”

  “I am not.” A wash of heat stole across her cheeks and she found herself picking an invisible thread from her coat sleeve. Every nerve cell came alert, alive, expectant, and her mouth suddenly dried. She slid her tongue over her lips, then stopped and pressed her lips firmly together as the thought of Clayton whistling for her attention fired.

  The cab came to a halt outside the Marylebone Police Station and Clayton tapped on the tiny window between the passenger rear seats and the driver. “Wait here, if you please.” He turned to Maggie. “You don’t have to come in.”

  She reached for the door handle. “Try and stop me.”

  His mouth curled. “Your inquisitiveness is showing.”

  “And I do believe, Mr. Abbott, that you said just a short while ago, let’s unravel this mystery. That wasn’t singular, but plural. Not you, but we.” Out of the cab, she took the steps to t
he station entrance, then turned back to look at him. “Don’t dawdle, Clayton.”

  He doffed his hat to her and offered a half bow. “I wouldn’t dare.”

  The inside proved rather daunting and gloomy, painted a sickly green that reminded Maggie of hospital curtains and a sudden nausea rose in her gullet. She clamped a hand over her mouth.

  “Maggie?”

  Clayton stopped beside her, worry darkening his expression.

  At his concerned inspection, she dropped her hand to her side and squared her shoulders. “It’s alright, just the past catching up.”

  His mouth quirked and brows rose, surprise registering in his eyes. “You’ve been in a jail house before?”

  For a heartbeat his words confused her, then she offered him a half smile. “No, nothing so dramatic.”

  “I’m relieved.” He leaned in close to her, and whispered, the wool of his scarf tickling her cheek. “I thought I could read you like a book, and here I am suddenly thinking you have a secret.”

  “No, no, it’s... the color scheme.”

  “You don’t like green?”

  “Not that hospital green. It reminds me of...before.”

  “Ah.” Clayton took her hand in his, fingers linking through hers in a comforting grip. “No explanation necessary.” He turned her away from the colorful memory. “I think we need to head this way.”

  He led them through a set of double doors into a room with a counter centered across one end. A uniformed constable stood behind it. At their arrival he straightened just a bit more.

  “How can I help you…?” He balked, eyes wide, “um…sir?”

  Clayton’s grip on her hand tightened.

  The constable glanced at Maggie, pity shadowing his eyes, and then back to Clayton.

  “I’m Clayton Abbott.”

  “Ah, Mr. Abbott, sir, please wait here.” He rushed out through a door behind the counter, his call to another officer echoing in his wake.

  A sudden tango of nerves caught Maggie off balance, and she tightened her hold on Clayton’s fingers. “What do you think they’ll do?”

  “Are you worried they’ll lock me up?”

  “You can joke about it, but they could.”