Lady Penelope's Christmas Charade, a Regency Romance (3 page)

Chapter Three

"A maid named Cicely? Naw, ain't heard a word." Silent Sam shook his head ruefully. "Wish I could say I had, so's I'd earn the blunt."

"You'll earn it anyway. I pay my informants to keep their ears open." Pierce tossed the bag of coins at him.
Of course, Sam just confirmed his suspicions.
Lady Annand
's maid disappeared because she wanted to. If she had been abducted, Sam would know about it. He knew everything, which was what made him such a valuable informant.
"I'm obliged to you, Sam. Let me know if you hear anything about this maid. Her ladyship is crazy with worry about her."

Sam nodded and rose from his chair. "That I will."

Another question had been gnawing at Pierce throughout the interview but he suppressed the impulse to say anything. As Sam turned to go, he could repress it no longer. "Heard anything about the Gilded Lily?"

Sam's head snapped around, his eyes gleaming. "Eh, now?"

"You heard me." Pierce leaned forward, folding his hands together across his desk.

Sam sat heavily in his chair, looking at Pierce from under beetled brows. "Word on the street is the Runners are closing in. The madam made one too many slips with finding whores that were on the young side."

"I know that." Pierce glowered at Sam. "I don't pay for information I already know. Any thought that Cicely could be mixed up in this mess?"

"Like I said, I ain't heard nothin' about Cicely. I guess she could be. I'll keep my ears open. But all I know is that the madam put a young girl out to service who was a mite too young. And when the Runners caught wind of that—and the number of times it happened before—they decided to shut the place down."

Bile rose in Pierce's throat. What man in his right mind would want to bed a whore who was still only a girl? And worse still, what happened to the girl in question? He took another sip of brandy to steady his nerves. You couldn't get too emotional with a case. In fact, it was better to stay completely out of it, remaining a detached observer. He had gotten used to studying other people, his nose pressed against the glass. It was infinitely easier to be on the outside looking in.

He dated a glance at Sam. "I expect to hear more soon."

Sam nodded, rising. "I'll come round when I hear something."

The door burst open, and
Lady Annand
Annand
bustled into the room. She wore a tailored gray suit that covered her magnificent bosom, and her glorious hair was neatly tucked up under a cunning little hat. Pierce rose, nearly knocking over his chair in his haste. "L-
Lady Annand
," he stammered, setting the damn thing upright and then bashing his knee on the desk as he walked around to the side. "I didn't expect to see you. Not in my office, anyway. And not for at least a week."

She nodded at Pierce and then turned to Silent Sam, who was frankly gawping at her, his mouth wide open. "How do you do? I am
Lady Annand
Annand
," she said politely, extending one gloved hand toward the informant's rough paw.

"Your ladyship." He bowed awkwardly. "I'm Silent Sam."

"Mr. Sam," she replied with a gentle smile, and then withdrew her hand from his grasp.

Sam turned toward Pierce, a blush creeping up his tanned cheek. "I'll be going then, Howe. I'll be sure to check in with you as soon as I hear anything."

Pierce nodded and opened the door wider. "Keep your ears to the ground," he replied.

Lady Annand
sank gracefully into the chair Sam had just left. "What an odd expression that is." She began to peel her gloves off slowly, taking care not to disturb her bracelets as she did so.

He shut the door with a click, eyeing her ladyship. Even in that ridiculously severe costume, she was a sight to behold. And the way she took off her gloves, in a manner that was both innocent and sensual—what would she look like, removing other articles of clothing? Better not to think of that—that led toward other, more dangerous thoughts. He sought the safety and shelter of his desk with alacrity.

"Your ladyship? To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She glared at him, her keen green eyes blazing. "You didn't even ask for a description of my maid. Surely every detective must need to know what he's searching for."

"I have my usual informants and methods, ma'am. As you can see, I just finished meeting with one now."

"Oh really? And what information did he give you about Cicely?" She settled back in her chair with the air of one preparing for battle.

"He has not heard anything—yet," he admitted grudgingly.

"How surprising. Now tell me, sir, just what am I paying you for? This seems a shoddy business to me."

"You are paying me for the benefit of my expertise." He ground it out between clenched teeth. Really, she could be most infuriating.

"Well, you'll forgive me sir, but I see no evidence of your expertise as yet. Are you so rigid in your methods that you do nothing outside of your own experience?" She leaned forward, triumph lighting her expression. "Or do all
lady's maids
look the same to you?"

"If my services are inadequate," he responded, his jaw line hardening, "Then by all means, take me off the case."

"I just want to make certain I get my money's worth. After all, my great wealth often tempts others. More than one person has tried to take advantage of me. I must protect my interests."

That knocked the wind out of his sails. How many times did he, too, find himself obscuring his wealth and background so that others would not be enticed into taking advantage of him? He eyed her levelly across his desk, a newborn respect for her kindling his heart.

"I do understand how precarious your position must be, your ladyship. So let me return your good faith. I will work for nothing. You need not pay me."

She blinked, her mouth opening in surprise. "Oh no, you should receive compensation. I wasn't insisting on
not
paying you, sir. I just—well, I just want to be taken seriously. That's all." She opened her reticule and withdrew a sheet of foolscap. "I spent all day questioning my servants, everyone except Cook. Apparently Cicely was meeting with a young stable lad twice a week. I had no idea." She passed the sheet of foolscap across his desk.

Impressive. She had made notes of her interviews in a tidy, easily-read script. He scanned the foolscap and glanced back up at her. "This is very good work, your ladyship."

"Thank you," she replied with a devastating smile.

"As I said, I will work for nothing. I am happy to help you find your missing servant. If you will give me a description, then I will use these notes and her likeness to begin tracking her down." He smoothed out the foolscap and searched for a quill in his desk drawer.

"Cicely is of medium height, with brown eyes and black hair. She is about twenty years old. She does have a birthmark on her left arm. Does that help?"

He scribbled down some notes. "Yes, it does."

"But I must insist on payment of some kind," she rejoined. "After all, it's not fair to ask you to work for free. Moreover, I would like to help you. May I come along on some of your interviews?"

"Absolutely not," he responded. "It could be far too dangerous, and I cannot guarantee your safety."

"That's no bother," she replied airily. "My husband taught me to shoot a pistol."

A potent mixture of emotions swirled inside of Pierce. A desire to be close to
Lady Annand
, a desire to know her better, and a desire to put her in her place all fought for primacy. She was delectable and alluring and infuriating all at once.

"If you come with me, I cannot agree to payment. We will work together. I am no longer your employee and need no longer answer to you. If, on the other hand, you agree to stay out of it and let me follow my methods, then you may pay me whatever you see fit. You must choose, your ladyship."

Was that a flicker of apprehension that crossed her face? Surely not. She smiled regally and extended her hand. "Very well, Mr. Howe. Consider this a partnership."

***

Penelope swayed slightly in her seat, gazing thoughtfully at her new partner. Heavens, the carriage was going a bit fast, wasn't it? Surely it wasn't her nerves. She had agreed to this crazy scheme—had formulated it herself, in fact. So there was no need to be missish about it, for it was her idea. She smiled apologetically at Pierce. "I apologize, sir. Sometimes my driver is a bit, well, hasty."

"Not at all." He lounged against the bench, his legs sprawled out casually. "As yo
u know, I find it most astonishing
that we are taking your carriage at all, ma'am."

"Oh, bother! We aren't going to go over this again, are we? My coach was there, waiting in front of your office. You said we needed to go meet an informan
t. Surely you will admit this
was the most practical thing to do, given the situation." Penelope sat back, crossing her arms over her chest. They had already argued about the matter. And she had won, after all.
It
was poor form of him to still be angry about it.

"In future," he replied, a dark tone creeping into his voice, "I would prefer to hire a hackney."

"Whatever for?" she exploded. "They're expensive, and untidy, and many of them smell quite awful."

"True," he snapped. "But they are also unremarkable. Untraceable. Your carriage, and your servants for that matter, could easily be recognized, especially if we continue to sleuth together."

Penelope smiled, forgiveness lighting her heart aglow. He had just said there would be more such occasions. And he had explained matters to her fairly, not as though she were a reca
lcitrant child. "I am sorry, Mr. Howe
. You are right, of course. Next time, we will hire a hack. And I shall look on it as an adventure."

He blinked as though taken aback by her sudden change of attitude. "Very well."

She smoothed her skirts out over her lap. "Now, tell me. Where are we going?"

The corner of his mouth quirked downward. "I am going to question a few stable lads who work at the Gilded Lily."

"Stable lads? Do you think one of them was Cicely's beau?" She leaned forward in excited anticipation. Her heart was even beating faster. Heavens, this was much more stimulating than going about in society as Viscount Annand's bereaved widow.

"Perhaps. There's a lot going on at the Gilded Lily. Matters that might come in handy further down the road, even if they don't directly link to Cicely's disappearance."

"I see." Her brows drew together. "What is the Gilded Lily? Some sort of club, like a gaming hell?" Peter had joined a few clubs in his day. Some more notorious than, well, others.

"It's a whorehouse. A brothel." He pronounce
d the words with a flourish. "Do y
ou
comprehend
why I wanted to hire a hack so desperately now, ma'am?"

"Well, yes." Thank heavens the darkness covered her blush. She was supposed to be a worldly-wise widow, not a green girl who blushed at the menti
on of the unmentionable.  "But
you didn't explain the entire purpose of our visit when we were having our debate."

"Oh, do forgive me." His tone was mocking. "Nex
t time I shall be
more explicit."

She sighed. How could she recapture that spark of warmth, of comradeship she had felt toward him just moments ago? She wanted to be equal partners. She craved that kind of stimulation. Life was terribly lonely without it. She eyed him carefully, then crossed the carriage floor and sat beside him.

"Please don't be angry," she pleaded, taking his hands in hers. Heavens, his hands were so large. She ignored the tingle that shot through her body at his touch, and turned to the solvable problem.  "I was trying to help when I insisted on taking the carriage. I didn't mean for it to be such an ordeal."

He grinned suddenly, and gripped her hands in return. "I apologize too. I'm used to working alone. I don't usually have a companion to question or challenge me."

"Forgiven?" she queried, a smile hovering at the corners of her mouth.

He nodded. "Forgiven."

She tried to release his hold, but he held her tightly. "Now, when we go to the Gilded Lily, you must promise me one thing. Do not leave your carriage. I shall have your coachman standing guard. It's far too dangerous a place for an unescorted woman, and I am concerned for your safety."

"But—how can I help if I shan't be there to question the lads with you?" Frustration began to well in her chest.

"They may not be willing to talk as frankly with a lady standing about," he replied in a measured tone of voice. "If they are speaking as one man to another, they may be more willing to share."

Well, dash it all, that did make sense. "Very well. I promise."

He released her hands and then traced the bridge of her nose with one forefinger.

She drew backward at the touch of his rough, slightly calloused fingertip. "You are very pretty, you know," he murmured. "One could see how you got your nickname."