Night Storm (2 page)

She owed her parents so much for their sacrifices. Rebuilding her father’s business had been the only way she could think of to repay them. Thanks to her own good business sense, and Piper and Felix’s help, the shop was thriving now and Charlotte had begun to anticipate the onset of each new day instead of wondering how she would make a go of it.

“Felix appeared a bit twitchy,” Piper said, grinning. “I wonder why?”

In the last few months, Felix had become fascinated with all things related to the theater. He spent as much time as he could over at the Augusta Theatre. He enjoyed watching the actors rehearse and sneaking into the costume chamber to admire the different outfits. He’d even started collecting playbills of the Augusta Theatre’s many and varied performances.

Every day around four in the afternoon, the almost-seventeen-year-old would start checking the clock on the counter and glancing frequently out the window until Charlotte released him from his duties.

“I would much rather he spend his time at the theater than at some of the less savory places boys his age frequent these days.”

“Indeed.” Piper turned back toward the storefront. “Shall I start preparing the orders for tomorrow morning?”

“Yes, please. I’m all finished here. I’ll come and help.” Charlotte gathered her items and followed Piper into the next room. She pulled an overlarge bottle of laudanum from the cupboard beneath the counter.

Piper checked their order list. “Is the laudanum for Mrs. Cates?”

“This one is actually for Mr. Whitley.” She filled a smaller bottle with the reddish-brown bitter liquid. “I suspect he’s in need of a new supply. I’ll fill Mrs. Cates’s order next.”

Two nights ago, she’d been called to the Whitley home to care for a middle-aged gentleman who’d been stabbed in the chest, the cut barely missing vital organs. Under the guidance of Angus Buchanan, Charlotte had treated a number of similar lacerations. However, Whitley’s had been her first solo effort treating a serious gash of this nature, made all the more difficult by his hysterical wife watching.

No amount of persuasion could coax the woman from her husband’s bedchamber. She’d paced the room, mumbling, “How could you, Harold? What will become of us if you die?”

By the time Charlotte had the damage under control, she’d surmised Mr. Whitley had gambled hard that night, won well, and then lost it all to a footpad.

“Would you like Felix to deliver the laudanum to Mr. Whitley after stopping at Mrs. Taylor’s?”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll check in on Mr. Whitley myself to see how his wound is healing.”

Piper peered outside before turning her attention back to Charlotte. Concern weighed heavy in her beautiful emerald eyes. “Do be careful, Mrs. Fielding. I know you feel safe walking about this area after dark, but this incident with Mr. Whitley makes me wonder how much we really know those around us.”

“No need for you to worry about me. I always keep my head up, my eyes open, and a pouch of pepper in my reticule.” Piper continued to surprise her with the depth of her understanding of the world around her. One day soon, she would be a force to be reckoned with, and a perfect gem for some lucky young man. She smiled and nudged Piper’s shoulder with hers, making the girl chuckle. “How are things progressing with Ian MacGregor?”

Color suffused the girl’s cheeks. “I honestly don’t know. He’s been somewhat distracted as of late.”

“Too distracted to call on you?”

She nodded.

“Has he given you a reason?”

“No, not really.”

“But you have a suspicion as to why, don’t you?”

Piper bowed her head; her fingers toyed with the corner of the order list. “I’m probably making too much of it.”

“Or you could be right.”

“Any time I speak of my duties here or recount a funny comment made by one of our customers, he grows quiet and eventually finds an excuse to leave.”

Hearing Piper’s comment, a dark memory forced its way into Charlotte’s mind—suffocating, mind-numbing, heart-wrenching. Before the past could swallow her whole, she clawed her way out and focused on her assistant. Ian MacGregor wasn’t Cameron Adair. She
would not
let that man’s betrayal influence her counsel to Piper. She couldn’t and she wouldn’t.

But, for the life of her, Charlotte could not divine a reason as to why the polite yet brash young man would act in such a way. “Piper, I do not consider myself an expert on the male mind. However, I learned a difficult lesson a long time ago.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “Tell me, please.”

“Men are fragile creatures.”

“Do not tease me, Mrs. Fielding.”

“I assure you, I’m not,” Charlotte said, smiling. “When I say fragile, I’m not referring to their physical strength. Lord knows they trump us tenfold in that area. I’m referring to their pride.”

“Pride?”

“It’s as fragile as a strand of cotton and as unbending as the finest steel. Pride’s an inherent part of every man, young or old, and it governs their every action and every thought, good or bad. And it’s the one place a woman can do the most destruction. In my experience, men need to be handled with the softest of gloves.”

Piper stared at her for the longest time, then her attention wandered around the shop, not alighting on anything, just looking, searching. “You think he’s threatened by my apprenticeship.”

Charlotte’s chest tightened. “I don’t know Ian well enough to answer yes or no.”

“But why? Why can’t he be happy for me?”

Why, indeed? “From the cradle, girls are taught that their role in society is to marry, bear children, and take care of the household. Boys, on the other hand, are taught to protect and provide for the family. It’s a strong man who can break free of centuries-old customs and allow the woman he loves to spread her wings and grasp her dreams.”

“Oh, my,” Piper said. “I never realized courtship could be so complicated.”

Charlotte laughed and wrapped an arm around the girl’s narrow shoulders. “Is there anything in this life that
isn’t
complicated, my dear?”

“You have a point.” Piper sent her an assessing look. “So, who was the wretch who broke your heart? Do I know him?”

Silver-blue eyes framed by long, sooty eyelashes and deep, rich brown hair appeared in her mind with a sudden clarity that shocked and surprised her. That
wretch
was someone who was hard to forget. A vise clamped around Charlotte’s throat as she recalled that twice in one day her former beau had surfaced to test the barrier of her resolve to forget him. She wouldn’t fail again.

But before she could wave off Piper’s question with a noncommittal answer, Felix entered, sending the small bell over the door swinging wildly—and saving the day.

“Mr. Anderson’s counter is tip-top again,” Felix said. “But it won’t last. He needs to shift things around a bit, so that he’s not bumping into the corner all the time.” At sixteen, Felix’s blond hair and good looks got him plenty of attention with the local girls. His ready smile and willingness to do just about anything won the hearts of all the shopkeepers on Long Acre.

“Glad to hear it. I’m sure he appreciates your assistance.”

“It’s no bother. Besides, I like hearing Mr. Anderson’s war stories. If he killed all the French he says he killed, France would have to be called something else, because there would be no French people to occupy the land.” He smiled broadly, rattling his coin purse. “It doesn’t hurt that he pays well, too.”

Piper chuckled. “With the way you’re saving your money, you’ll be richest man in Covent Garden by the time you turn one and twenty.”

The smile he sent his sister was broad, toothy, and full of masculine mischief. “That’s the plan, big sister.” He turned a slightly more circumspect look in Charlotte’s direction. “Do you need anything else, Mrs. Fielding?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” His expression fell. “That is, if you have time to deliver this”—she held out a bundle—“to Mrs. Taylor.”

She saw the moment he realized Taylors’ home was but five minutes from the Augusta Theatre. His disappointment turned into enthusiasm.

With package in hand, he saluted Charlotte and Piper. “See you tomorrow.”

The bell over the door chimed wildly with Felix’s exit. Charlotte shook her head. “If he ever makes it to the stage, he’s going to charm the audience till no end.”

“And he’s well aware of that fact,” Piper said disgustedly.

They worked in silence for the next half hour, filling orders for early morning clients. After Piper had labeled the last bottle, Charlotte stored everything in a locked cabinet against the wall.

“Perfect timing,” Charlotte said. “You’ve time to make it home before dark.”

“Are you headed to Mr. Whitley’s?”

Charlotte placed the laudanum and a few other necessities in a black medical bag. “Indeed, I am.”

“Would you like me to join you?”

“Goodness, no. You’ve put in a long day as it is. And I suspect your sister, Winnie, is dying to show you her latest masterpiece.” Twelve-year-old Winnie Scott’s talent with pencil and paper was amazing. She could bring any object to life with the use of shadows and light. Charlotte’s shop displayed one of her drawings, a beautiful rendering of a mortar and pestle and a jar sporting Charlotte’s new label design.

“Winnie can wait awhile longer.”

“There’s no need for you to accompany me. I promise to walk straight there and straight back. I won’t be gone more than half an hour.”

Nodding, Piper gathered her personal effects from Charlotte’s office and brought out both of their coats, mufflers, and gloves.

“I must say, I already long for spring.” Charlotte slipped on her gloves and lifted her bag off the counter.

“Don’t wish it here just yet, please. I want to enjoy Christmas first. For the first time since my father left us, we’ll actually be able to have a nice dinner and even a gift or two.”

“I hear your mother’s creations are growing more popular?”

“Yes.” Pride filled Piper’s voice. “The shop where she sells her handbags can’t keep them in stock.”

“How wonderful. I’m so happy for your family.” She pulled the door closed behind them and clicked the lock into place. “I’ll see you in the morning, Piper.”

Her assistant hesitated. “Are you sure you don’t want company?”

“Quite sure.” Charlotte waggled her fingers at Piper. “Go home, get some rest. We have a busy day tomorrow.”

# # #

By the time Charlotte made her way back home, night had fallen over the city. Thick cloud cover created an impenetrable blanket over what Charlotte knew to be a near full moon. She resisted the urge to tuck her chin deeper beneath her woolen muffler.

To an extent, Piper had been right—she did feel comfortable enough in this area to walk about alone. However, she didn’t confuse that notion with being safe. Although many knew and respected her in this area of Covent Garden, she was careful not to invite mischief by staying alert and avoiding all appearances of weakness.

In the distance, she spotted the simple, white-lettered sign that marked her destination.
Apothecary
. The tension she’d been carrying in her shoulders since entering the Whitley residence loosened its biting grip. The strain between husband and wife had not lifted in her two-day absence. If anything, it had grown worse now that Mr. Whitley felt well enough to defend himself.

Charlotte’s brisk pace slowed. A man was slumped on the pavement between her shop and the boarded-up bakery next door. He sat with one leg stretched out across the walkway, the other bent at an angle. The brim of his hat protected his face from identification. So too did the long black woolen coat and matching muffler around his neck.

The tension in Charlotte’s shoulders returned in full force. Even though she could not identify him, she knew what he wasn’t—a beggar. Everything about him was too refined for him to be living in the streets. She glanced around, checking the evening shadows as best she could with only lamplight to aid her. Anderson’s lending library, Patterson’s coffee shop, Gertrude’s lace boutique, Tilly’s former bakery—they all stood silent and free of loitering troublemakers and customers. If she cried out for help, would the shopkeepers hear her from their snug, upstairs apartments?

She considered entering through the back of her building, an area normally reserved for deliveries, but she couldn’t bring herself to venture down the dank, narrow alleyway at this time of night. Drawing in a calming breath, she reached into her reticule and pulled out her pouch of pepper. A poor defense, she knew, but she always kept it, thinking it would give her a small chance of escape if thrown in an assailant’s face.

Increasing her pace, she stopped in front of her shop’s weathered door, the color of a cloud-streaked blue sky. The man remained motionless, silent. Eerily so. She experienced a moment of indecision. Should she nudge him? Could he be hurt and in need of assistance? Or should she continue on to the inside her own shop and mind her own business?

“Hello, Charley.” The voice was unmistakable.

A chill started at the base of her neck and swept through her body. Bone deep and breath stealing. With slow, precise movements, her gaze lowered to the source of the too-familiar voice. A voice that belonged to the only man who had ever called her Charley.

The man’s uplifted face revealed itself. Thick, bold eyebrows stood out on a pale, pain-filled face. A once-beloved face.
Cameron Adair.
What little air she had left disappeared at the sight of Cam—Cameron. Other than a brief glimpse of him a few months ago, she hadn’t seen him for years. But she would have known him anywhere. The shock of seeing him held her immobile, terrified in a way she hadn’t been since the early days of their falling out.

“Charley, I need your help.”

His words, laced with a strain born of hard-fought control, snapped her out of the past and plunged her back into the present. Cameron Adair was sprawled at her door, hurt, needing her help.

She slid her key into the lock. Metal scratched against metal until she heard a familiar click. Setting her bag inside the door, she returned outside. “Are you able to get to your feet?” She managed to keep her voice calm, unaffected. But inside, a violent tremor began and a maelstrom of questions flooded her mind.
Why come to her? Where is he hurt? Why show up on her doorstep after complete and utter silence for five miserable years?