Powder of Love (I) (8 page)

She felt impatient to go outside. The spring air beckoned even in the heart of New York, but she would stay in because she knew Miss Renshaw would fall into self-reproach if she left.

Mr. Reed would stop by again. That was worth staying home for.

At about ten a.m., the butler announced a gentleman caller. She bounded to her feet before Beels finished his sentence. “Let him in,” she said.

A moment later, she regretted her impulsiveness. Mr. Clermont strolled in, looking pale, almost ill. Even his clothes reflected his apparent low weather, for he was dressed in a sober gray that even a puce waistcoat couldn’t make festive.

She smiled and hoped he didn’t see her disappointment. “How do you do, sir?”

As he bent over her hand and left a trace of moisture on it, she recalled all that Mr. Reed had told her, and she turned to Beels. “Please ask Murphy to bring her sewing in here.”

Mr. Clermont stood, hands behind his back until she offered him a chair—far away from the one she chose. He sat down carefully as if afraid he might break something in his body. He squinted at her and smiled. “I trust you’re well, Miss Ambermere. You look lovely. Light blue suits you.” His smile grew wider. “So I understand Mr. Reed is doing you a favor, is he?”

Could Mr. Reed have said something to him? She found that hard to believe. “I’m not sure I understand you,” she said.

“The names,” he persisted. “On that paper of his. I recognized a couple of them. Well-known scientists.”

“Ah, yes,” she said. “Those names.”

Beels appeared in the doorway. “A boy is asking for you, miss.” The way he said “boy” made it sound as if he didn’t want to be blamed for such a creature’s existence. “He hopes you will meet him in private. I wouldn’t have disturbed you, but he is quite agitated.”

She excused herself and closed the parlor door behind her so that Mr. Clermont would find it more difficult to simply drift out of the room and make a nuisance of himself.

A skinny newspaper boy stood hopping from foot to foot. “I’m supposed to tell yous when the yellow-haired gent goes out, and he did, but he’s come here. I still get my money?”

“Of course. And, um, who was to tell me?”

“Mr. Gideon, of course.”

For a moment she wasn’t sure who that was, but then remembered Mr. Reed’s Christian name. How interesting he’d allow a street urchin to use it.

“Did he say when he was going to check in again?”

“Anytime now. I’ll just sit here to make sure I get my pay.”

He settled on the wide brownstone stair. She looked up and down the street. No doubt her neighbors would call some sort of authority if a ragged boy sat on her steps. “How would you like a sandwich and some milk? And I’ll see that you get paid.”

She led the boy to the foyer, where Beels stood with two footmen as backup agents. She motioned the group to the small red parlor.

“Mr. Beels will take care of you, won’t you, Mr. Beels? This gentleman is to get fed and receive a dime from the household funds.” She could tell by the boy’s expression of delight she’d overpaid him.

Beels gave her the sardine stare he employed when he didn’t approve, and handed the boy off to Michael, the footman.

She went back into the sitting room.

“Young gentleman?” Mr. Clermont said.

“I lost my cat. And he found what he thought was my cat, but it was a stray. I must beg you will forgive me if I don’t offer you any tea. I best not linger long; my companion is under the weather.”

“Why did you ask Reed for help?”

His smile, wide and friendly, didn’t fool her. Plain speaking up to a point. She arched her brows and pursed her lips, conveying astonishment that an Englishman would be so prying, yet she would never be rude enough to tell him to mind his own business. In her chilliest tone, she said, “He had mentioned he did investigations in England, and I wanted something investigated.”

“I don’t remember that conversation.”

“Don’t you? Perhaps it was while you were out of the room. You were absent for a time.” She smiled at him. “I hope you forgive my rudeness. But I am worried that my friend, Miss Renshaw, is not at all—”

Miss Renshaw was there, in the doorway. She looked pink-eyed and tottered a bit. But her mouth didn’t tremble, and she even managed a small, incoherent greeting.

Mr. Clermont had risen to his feet and bowed to Miss Renshaw. “I’m sorry to hear you’ve been ill,” he said, watching her.

Miss Renshaw, now perched straight-backed on her usual seat, started visibly. She looked at Rosalie, who only smiled and gave the tiniest of headshakes. Mr. Clermont, despite his pallor, was far too alert and would notice the silent exchange.

“I’m better now.” Miss Renshaw spoke falteringly.

“What was wrong?” he asked.

“We think it might have been bad fish,” Rosalie said before Miss Renshaw could speak—or burst into tears. “Or mushrooms.”

“Such a pity.” He clicked his tongue. “But I won’t take up any more of your time, my most charming Miss Ambermere. I only hoped your lawyer might have passed along my message?”

“Oh, yes.” She smiled brightly. “I understand you are very interested in purchasing the box and its contents. It’s quite safe, I assure you, and I’ll let you know through Mr. Dorsey.”

She risked looking at Miss Renshaw. The companion’s shoulders trembled, but she held her chin high. Thank goodness.

Mr. Clermont beamed, and his bloodshot blue eyes glittered with something—perhaps hungry fascination. “Yes, I am interested. And I don’t know who else has been sniffing around, but I can more than double their offerings. Triple it if need be.”

The front doorbell peeled again, and Rosalie got to her feet, ready to flee the scene. “I’ll keep that in mind. And now, though she is better, I do think I should take Miss Renshaw back to bed.”

Beels entered and announced, “Mr. Reed.”

“Now that is interesting,” Mr. Clermont said.

Reed strode in. When he caught sight of Clermont, his footsteps faltered, and he hastily shoved a small notebook into his pocket. But those were the only signs of surprise.

Clermont was on his feet, a smirk on his face. Suddenly the parlor felt very small indeed. “Good morning, Gideon. What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you, of course. I had thought you would sleep away most of the day.” Reed’s scowl brought the line between his dark brows. It would be permanent within a couple of years. “You ought to leave a note when you take off, Clermont. Hmm? I’ve been looking all over the city for you.”

Rosalie knew he’d come to see her, and she made a mental note: Mr. Reed was an accomplished liar.

“I wanted to visit our delightful Miss Ambermere. She was just telling me how you are doing her a favor.”

She widened her eyes, trying to indicate denial.

Reed glanced at her with apparent boredom. “Yes, I am. But perhaps I am not paying enough attention to my primary responsibilities. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Clermont?”

Clermont laughed. “Perhaps. I was just leaving, and I suspect you should accompany me. Poor Miss Renshaw has been ill.”

“Indeed, I am sorry to hear that.” Mr. Reed bowed to Miss Renshaw. “I hope you’ve recovered?”

Miss Renshaw gave a tiny nod and stared down at her feet.

“Now that I’ve found you, Clermont, we’ll be on our way. Ladies.”

They left, and Miss Renshaw seemed to collapse in on herself, her thin shoulders hunched. “They don’t know.”

“Of course not.”

She gave a tremulous smile. “I have been rather foolish, but that’s come to an end.”

Rosalie gave a silent cry of relief. “I’m glad to see you cheerful again.”

Miss Renshaw shook her head. “No, not that. But I see what I must do.” Once again, she shifted her posture. Shoulders back, chin high.

Oh dear. Rosalie recognized the look of a French aristo en route to the guillotine. “And what have you decided to do?”

“If he is good enough to offer for me, I must say yes.”

“There is no must about it, Miss Renshaw. Unless there is a permanent consequence arriving in nine months.”

For a moment, a confused look passed over her companion’s face. Then she blushed deeply. “Do you mean perhaps a…a…?”

“Yes, if you’re trying to say ‘infant.’” Rosalie winced and drew in a deep breath. “Forgive me, Emily. I shouldn’t have snapped like that.”

“An infant.” Miss Renshaw looked thunderstruck. “I had forgotten. I hadn’t thought.”

Rosalie waited, but Miss Renshaw said nothing else. Her shoulders were back again, her mouth tight to stop the trembling.

Rosalie couldn’t stop herself. “Why else must you say yes? You don’t seem happy about the idea. And is it fair to marry a man when you so clearly don’t wish to?”

“I must.” Miss Renshaw’s voice quavered. “I shall. Will you call Mr. Hawes in?”

“Not unless you promise to say you’ll think about his proposal. Don’t simply say yes to him because you feel you must.”

“What better reason is there?”

“Love?”

“Not for a woman such as I, dear Miss Ambermere.”

“Oh
pfah
. Will you agree to only say you’ll think about it?”

Why was she making such a song and dance about it? She didn’t like the trap set by that stupid powder, and perhaps her sense of responsibility made her want to take charge of the situation. Or, more likely, she was just as bossy and overbearing as either of her parents.

“I p-promise.” Miss Renshaw clasped her hands in her lap and stared out at nothing—over the heads of the crowds she passed in her tumbrel, Rosalie thought and was ashamed of herself for thinking it.

Poor Hawes and poor Miss Renshaw, trapped together just because Miss Renshaw had had a peculiar…illness. Event. What could one call it?

But before she could decide if she should summon Hawes or quietly drag Miss Renshaw out to the mews, Mr. Reed appeared again.

He tipped his hat at the two ladies. “Good morning, again. I left Mr. Clermont in some, ah, congenial company, and thought I could return here to discuss the assignment you gave me, Miss Ambermere.”

He must have noticed Miss Renshaw’s ashen complexion.

“Oh, Miss Renshaw, I beg your pardon. I forgot you are under the weather.” He sounded kind, concerned, and not at all curious.

“Yes, please don’t worry, Emily. I shall be fine with Mr. Reed. Do go lie down.”

Rosalie expected an argument, but Miss Renshaw tottered to the door. “I shall send Murphy to you.”

“Yes, please,” Rosalie said, distracted.

Mr. Reed waited until Emily’s footsteps faded. He turned and dropped his hat on top of the piano.

“Do sit,” she said. “I paid your agent, but I should have left him on the front steps to warn you.”

“My agent?”

“The boy who was watching Mr. Clermont for you.”

“Ah. Peterkins. A good lad, the best I’ve found. He’s going to be a baggage smasher soon and won’t have time for my work anymore.”

“A baggage smasher?”

“At the train station,” he said, as if that explained everything. He pulled his notebook from his pocket. “I have found several men, but the one who’s perhaps the best… I met him…” He stared down at the open notebook.

How would he respond if she got up and rubbed the crease between his brows? “Go on, what’s wrong with him.”

He flipped the book closed. “He’s young. And…perhaps too…young.”

“It’s most important to make sure he will treat the matter properly. I shouldn’t wish to give the powder to someone who doesn’t understand the threat of the chemical.”

He shoved his hands into his jacket almost violently. “I have two hours before I must return to Clermont.”

“That reminds me. You were very calm and believable—I mean, when you came in and found him here.”

“He didn’t believe me, of course. He knows why I came here. All the more reason to make sure that damnable substance goes into a safe place.”

She checked her first retort—that it wasn’t his problem or concern—but then recalled the strange smile on Clermont’s face and the way her hand felt after he kissed it. She nodded. “Yes, the sooner I get rid of it, the better.”

“The young doctor I found might be the answer, because his name wasn’t on the list. Last night Clermont saw the list, and I suspect he knew what it was for. That’s why he came today to confront you.” He looked her up and down, a strange expression on his face. “I underestimated his abilities, and I dare not underestimate his determination to get his hands on the stuff.”

“You look even more thunderous than usual, Mr. Reed, and apparently it has something to do with me?”

His smile made his face appear even tighter. He might have been in pain. “No, of course not. I’m distracted. Forgive me.”

Maybe he wasn’t such an accomplished liar after all, because she didn’t believe him.

He paced, then stopped near her. She rose to her feet. For a long second, their gazes held. His lips parted as if he was about to speak, but he said nothing.

She asked, “I wonder if you might tell me how much you remember of yesterday’s visit?”

“All of it.” And the heat in his eyes made her tingle, as if he caressed her naked skin with that look.

He looked away, down at his hands. “Forgive me. I am still not myself.”

She had some trouble with her breathing, but it had to be said. With their worries and desires out in the open, they might be able to work together more easily. “I haven’t gone near the box, and I can feel something. An attraction.”

“Maybe there is a trace of the substance in the air.”

“When we shook hands the first time, the silly powder wasn’t here. It didn’t come into my life until several days later.”

“Ah.” He gave a crooked smile. “You felt something then, did you?”

Now why on earth had she admitted that out loud? She suddenly realized the power she might be handing over to him. “Yes, but”—she spoke briskly—“it doesn’t matter. I mean, that’s not important.”

“Since we are making admissions…I had thought…” He hesitated. “When we were in the library, when you spoke, or moved, or even looked at me, it was as if your body called to me. I’d thought it was my inflamed imagination. If I’d known—”

Murphy came into the room, carrying a basket of sewing.