“Instead, he merely asked us to keep any description of him to a minimum. It does seem peculiar, doesn’t it? Ten pounds is a lot of money for such a simple request.”
“Got a hunch,” Ned said slowly, “that Smith wanted to be certain that the gentleman from London was told that the teacher and her students had a bodyguard.”
“Why?”
“Perhaps because he wanted to warn him off.” Ned rubbed the back of his neck. “But there is another possibility.”
“What?”
“Smith may have wished to distract the elegant man.”
“I don’t understand.”
“If you saw a hungry tiger closing in on a flock of helpless lambs, one way to turn him aside from the kill would be to drag the scent of more interesting prey beneath his nose.”
She tightened her hand abruptly around his. “Must you use the word
kill
?”
“Figure of speech, my dear,” he said quickly, soothingly.
“I wish I could believe that.” She sighed. “I hope we do not see either one of those men again.”
T
he blue and sea green gowns are perfect for Edwina and Theodora,” Concordia announced. She looked at the girls and Mrs. Oates. “Don’t you agree?”
There was an affirmative murmur of approval.
“Lovely,” Mrs. Oates said, studying Edwina and Theodora with warm admiration. “The dresses go ever so nicely with their pretty blond hair.”
Edwina and Theodora held the gowns up in front of themselves and examined their images in the mirror. Their faces were aglow with delight. Behind them Hannah and Phoebe were waiting to take their turns in front of the looking glass.
It was five o’clock in the afternoon. Most of the assortment of gowns that had been ordered yesterday morning had yet to arrive from the dressmaker’s, but enough had shown up a short time ago to provide everyone with a much needed change of clothes.
In addition, Mrs. Oates had made the trip to one of the large department stores on Oxford Street and returned with a variety of ready-made essentials such as shoes, hats, gloves and lingerie.
Dante and Beatrice, who had already become the girls’ constant companions, had been temporarily banished into the hall to avoid any unfortunate canine-related accidents to the pretty clothes. Virtually everyone in the room was bubbling with excitement. Phoebe was the sole exception. She stood defiantly to the side, dressed in the inexpensive boy’s trousers and shirt that had comprised her disguise after the return from London.
“You were right when you specified the yellow and brown material for Hannah,” Mrs. Oates said, looking quite satisfied with the gown Hannah was trying on in front of the mirror. “The color goes very well with her eyes.”
“It has very pretty flounces at the hem,” Hannah said. “I wish Joan could see it.”
Concordia did not like the whisper of sadness that she heard in Hannah’s voice. “Don’t worry, she will see your new dress very soon.”
Hannah brightened. “It would be wonderful if she could have one just like it.”
“Not likely,” Edwina said. “At least, not as long as she’s at Winslow. All of the students have to wear those dreadful gray dresses. You know that.”
“Yes, but when she turns seventeen she will leave and then she can have a gown like mine,” Hannah insisted.
“Joan will become a governess or a teacher like most of the other girls who attend Winslow,” Theodora said in thoroughly squelching tones. “Women in those careers do not get to wear such pretty clothes.”
Hannah’s lower lip quivered. She blinked several times, very hard.
“Please do not cry, dear.” Concordia thrust a handkerchief into her fingers. “When this affair is concluded, we will see about Joan.”
Hannah wiped the moisture from her eyes. “Thank you, Miss Glade.”
“Cheer up now and try on these pretty shoes,” Mrs. Oates said, holding up a pair of pale yellow high-button boots. “They will go nicely with that gown.”
Concordia looked at Phoebe. “What do you think of the pink dress?”
Phoebe scowled at the gown. “I do not want to go back to wearing dresses. I prefer my trousers instead.”
“And you look quite dashing in them, indeed,” Concordia said calmly. “You may wear them as often as you like. But just in case you want an occasional change, what do you think about the pink gown?”
Mollified by the knowledge that she was not going to be forced back into a dress, Phoebe studied the gown with a critical eye. “It will do for tea, I suppose.”
“Right, then, that is settled,” Concordia said.
Mrs. Oates nodded sagely. “I expect the gowns will need a bit of taking in here and there, but Nan is a fine hand with needle and thread. I’ll send her up to have a look.”
Concordia waved a hand at the unopened packages. “Onward to the gloves, ladies.”
Edwina, Theodora, Hannah and Phoebe tore into the wrappings.
Concordia went to stand next to Mrs. Oates. Together they watched the girls try on the gloves.
“I am very grateful to you, Mrs. Oates,” Concordia murmured. “You did a fine job with the shopping.”
“It was no problem.” Mrs. Oates chuckled. “Indeed, I quite enjoyed myself.”
“I must say, I was astounded that the dressmaker was able to supply so many dresses on such short notice. She must have put off all of her other projects in favor of satisfying this order.”
Mrs. Oates raised her brows and looked knowing. “I’m sure she did precisely that.”
“The dressmaker is a friend of Mr. Wells?” Concordia inquired smoothly.
“A former client more like. She was no doubt happy enough to pay her bill at last.”
Concordia stared at the expensive gowns, shocked. “Good heavens, do you mean to say that the fee Mr. Wells charged for his services amounted to the cost of these gowns?”
“No, no, no, Miss Glade.” Mrs. Oates waved that aside with a chuckle. “Mr. Wells paid full price for the dresses. The favor he asked was that they be made up and delivered as quickly as possible. That was how the dressmaker settled her account with him.”
“I see. Mr. Wells handles his business in a most unusual manner, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, Miss Glade, he does, at that.”
“There is something that confuses me, Mrs. Oates.”
“Yes, Miss Glade?”
“If Mr. Wells does not charge money for his services and instead merely collects favors when he needs them, I assume that he is a wealthy man.”
“He is quite comfortably fixed and that’s a fact.”
“Yet he occupies another man’s house,” Concordia added.
“Oh, Mr. Stoner doesn’t mind him living here.”
“Yet they are not blood relations?”
“No, Miss Glade. Not related in any way. Just good friends.”
“
Very
good friends, evidently.”
“Aye, Miss Glade. That they are, that they are.”
“Mr. Stoner obviously places a great deal of trust in Mr. Wells,” she said as tactfully as possible.
Mrs. Oates rocked slightly, acknowledging the comment. “That he does.”
Very good friends.
Concordia thought about the casual manner in which Ambrose had referred to the possibility that a woman might take another woman as a lover. Was he at ease with the subject because his own personal physical interests were directed at members of his own sex? It might explain the odd connection between Ambrose and the mysterious Mr. Stoner.
It was also, from her purely personal and private point of view, quite depressing.
Then again, it was not as if she had ever had any real expectations of indulging in a passionate liaison with Ambrose Wells, she reminded herself.
“Would you look at the time?” Mrs. Oates gave a small start. “How did it get to be so late? I must be off to see about the preparations for dinner. If you will excuse me, Miss Glade, I’ll leave you and the young ladies to the new clothes.”
She bustled out the door and disappeared.
Concordia tapped one finger against the top of the dressing table, absently listening to the girls discuss the matching of shoes, gloves and dresses.
So much for her attempt to elicit information about the odd workings of this household. Obviously she would have to take a more crafty approach in the future if she wished to learn anything useful.
T
he knock on the library door pulled Ambrose out of a deep contemplation of the garden on the other side of the French doors. He surfaced slowly from the meditative trance.
“Come in,” he said.
He heard the door open behind him but he did not turn around. He remained where he was, seated cross-legged on the carpet, hands resting on his knees.
Mrs. Oates cleared her throat. “My apologies for intruding on you, sir, but I thought you should know that Miss Glade has started asking questions about Mr. Stoner.”
“It was inevitable, Mrs. Oates. With luck, the mystery will occupy her attention while I take care of other matters.”
“If I were you, I would not depend on Miss Glade becoming so distracted that she ceases to pay heed to what is going on around here, sir.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Oates. I will keep your warning in mind.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Are the young ladies pleased with their new clothes?”
“All except Miss Phoebe, sir. I believe she has developed a great fondness for trousers.”
He smiled. “Ours is an unconventional household. She is free to wear them here.”
“Yes, sir. Will you be dining in tonight with Miss Glade and the young ladies?”
“I am looking forward to it.” He paused. “But I intend to go out later after our guests are in their beds. There is no need for anyone to wait up for me. I will likely be quite late.”
“Very good, Mr. Wells.”
The door closed with a hushed sound. Ambrose went back to his meditation on the garden. The past whispered through his thoughts.
H
E HAD JUST
turned eighteen the night he entered John Stoner’s elegant town house through a rear window on an upstairs floor.
His career as a burglar had begun his first night on the street. But his survival instincts had been keen, even at the age of thirteen. He made his way to the nearest cemetery, burgled the lock on the back door of the small chapel and spent the remaining hours until dawn holed up behind the altar.
He did not sleep that night for fear of the dreams he was certain awaited him. He knew, even then, that the events of the night would haunt him for the rest of his life.
He forced himself to do what his grandfather and father had taught him to do before tackling a new enterprise. He made a plan. When it was finished he allowed himself the cold comfort of a few tears.
The next morning, taking to heart the old axiom that the Lord helps those who help themselves, he helped himself to some of the church silver. He selected a rather nice pair of candlesticks and two cups, said a prayer and set out to make his way in the world using the family talents. He knew full well how to go about pawning the items. His father and grandfather had visited the pawnshops often enough in the past when business was not good.
On the whole, a life of crime had proved to be an excellent career choice, he thought as he paused to study John Stoner’s bedroom. It was not as if he had not been raised and trained for the work. He came from a long line of professional swindlers, fraud artists and cheats.
The room was empty, as he had anticipated. He had done his research carefully, watching John Stoner for nearly a week before making his plans. In that time he had learned that his intended victim was a scholarly man who had, in his younger days, spent a great deal of time in the Far East.
This was the night the servants had off. A survey of the house a short time ago had disclosed the information that the lights still burned downstairs in the library.
Through the crack in the curtains he had glimpsed Stoner, dressed in an expensively embroidered maroon dressing gown, sitting in front of a comfortable fire. He had a glass of port by his side and was deeply involved in a weighty tome.
Ambrose opened a drawer. The first thing he saw was a pocket watch. He recognized the unmistakable gleam of gold, even in the dim moonlight.
He reached for the watch.
The door to an adjoining room opened without warning.
“I do believe your eyes are even better than my own were at your age,” John Stoner said from the shadows.
It was the first time he had been caught while going about his business, but Ambrose had known that sooner or later disaster might strike. He had practiced for just such an eventuality, just as his father and grandfather had taught him. And, as they had always admonished, he had not one plan but two.
Speed and agility formed the basis of Escape Plan Number One.
He did not stop to think, let alone grab the pocket watch. He leaped for the open window and the rope he had left secured to the sill. It would take only seconds to get to the ground.
But he never reached the window. His legs went out from underneath him. A split second later he found himself flat on his back on the floor. The jolt of the fall stunned him and stole his breath.
“Do not move.”
Ignoring the command, he sucked in a lungful of air and hauled himself to his knees. His only thought was to reach the window.
A booted foot caught him at the ankle. He plunged headlong back to the floor.
Before he could rise a second time, Stoner leaned over him and seized first one of his wrists and then the other. Ambrose tried to struggle. He
was much younger and stronger than his opponent. In addition, he was desperate. He should have had every advantage. Yet in seconds his hands were bound behind his back by a strong cord.
He kicked out with both feet. Stoner sidestepped easily.
“I admire your determination, young man, but I am not going to let you go. At least not yet.” Stoner looked down at him. “There is an old saying, ‘Do not hurl yourself against a fortress wall. Dig a tunnel beneath it.’”
Ambrose fought the panic that threatened to overwhelm him. He knew that it could destroy him as quickly as any bullet.
Time to fall back on Escape Plan Number Two. He started talking. Fast.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that old saying. Shakespeare or Proverbs, perhaps?”