Page 49 of The Pursuit of Mrs. Pennyworth
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Elliot watched Charlotte as she dashed up the stairs and made a right turn into her bedroom. With a thud that rattled the house, she slammed the door.
“Mr. Baker, what should I do with the box?” Her face pale and eyes wide, Bridget held the container away from her body as if it would bite her.
Perhaps it would.
Although he was sure there was something unpleasant in the box, he preferred to talk Charlotte into viewing the contents with him when he opened it. “Place it on the low table in the front of the sofa in the drawing room, then you may return to your duties.”
She gave a slight curtsy, and with a sense of relief returned the box to the room.
Elliot stared at the stairs for a minute then decided propriety be damned, Charlotte needed him. He took the stairs two at a time and tapped on her bedroom door. “Charlotte, open the door.”
Expecting to be ignored, he was surprised when the door opened only a few inches. “You can’t come in here. It is not proper.”
“Then come back downstairs so we can discuss this.”
She shook her head and backed up, giving him the opportunity to join her. He closed the door gently since Charlotte looked fragile enough to shatter into pieces. Her knuckles were white, and the rapid rise and fall of her chest worried him that she would soon pass out.
He held out his hand, giving her space, allowing her to make the decision to accept his comfort. “Come here.”
Thankfully, she closed the few paces between them. He opened his arms and she settled against him. She began to pant, and fidget, finally pushing him away. “I can’t get enough air. I can’t breathe.”
“You are getting plenty of air. In fact, too much. Come.” With his arm around her shoulders, he led her to a blue and white striped settee in her sitting room, anything to get her away from the sight of her bed and lowered them both to the seat. “Stop breathing so hard.” He rubbed her back, but she continued to gasp. “Take slow breaths in through your nose and release them out your mouth.” He kept up the slow circles on her back. “Relax.”
After a minute or so when things did not seem to be getting any better, he said, “Stand up.”
“Why?” She barely got the word out.
“Just do as I say.” He pulled her to her feet, then turned her and began opening the back of her dress.
“What are you doing?” Again, the words barely made it out of her mouth.
“Don’t speak. Just try to relax.” Once enough buttons had been undone, he quickly undid the cord of her corset, pulling the sides of the garment apart. She immediately relaxed, taking in a deep breath.
“Why women torture themselves with these things is beyond my comprehension.” He turned her to face him, and pulled her into his arms, his hand still stroking her back as she slowly grew limp against him, and her breathing eased.
Elliot helped her back to the settee. He sat next to her, drawing her back to his chest. He leaned his chin on her head, the scent of wildflowers, honey, and Charlotte drifting from her hair. She was soft against him and with his arm around her waist, he was sorely tempted to move his hand up to caress her breast.
Not now. He would not take advantage of her anxiety, although a good session between the sheets would definitely release some stress and take her mind off the package downstairs.
“We must look in the box, and not just to see what he is up to now. There could very well be a clue.”
She turned, the misery in her green eyes tearing at him. “I shall post someone at the door all hours of the night and day to catch whoever is leaving these packages.”
“I had a man watching your house for weeks, but somehow he never saw anyone approach the front door. I am thinking whoever is doing this has hired another to watch the house and when no one is about, a box gets left. Although, this time, Bridget said a delivery boy walked right up the steps and knocked on the door.
“Another reason to open the box is this might not be from our suspect. Remember you had those flowers from an admirer that we never identified—although given what I just learned about the vicar, it could very well have been him.” A true would-be beau complicated the entire mess.
“Lord help me. Why can’t I be left alone? I don’t want admirers, I don’t want diamond bracelets, or flowers.”
To his horror, she covered her face with her hands and dropped her head into her lap and sobbed as though her heart would break. He did what most men did in such circumstances. He mumbled stupid platitudes and stroked her arm. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a clean, white handkerchief. He handed it to her, and she took it with a mumbled, “Thank you.”
After a few minutes, her sobs turned to slight hiccups. She took a deep breath and stood to adjust her gown. Raising her chin, she looked him in the eye. “Please fasten my gown, and then we shall see what’s in the blasted box.”
He grinned at her change in demeanor. Charlotte, his fearless, independent woman was back. Perhaps she’d needed that cry to release some of the tension surrounding her life recently. Women apparently handled such things in that way, while a man would go to one of the boxing clubs and pound away at something hard.
Obviously, women were smarter than men, since the only result of their tears was a blotchy face that faded in a few hours, where a man could carry bruises for a week. They made their way back downstairs to the drawing room. The box sat exactly where Bridget had left it. He laughed at himself, wondering if he’d expected the container to have special powers, and leap from the table, or disappear in a puff of smoke.
