Page 7 of The Pursuit of Mrs. Pennyworth
She offered him a slight smile and relaxed as they stepped onto the empty front steps.
“Shall I fetch a hansom cab?”
“No. I have my own carriage. Yesterday, I arrived at your office in a hansom because my coachman was down with a chill, but he has recovered.”
No sooner had she finished her explanation when a smart carriage and matched pair rounded the corner from the mews and rolled to a stop in front of her house. Whoever Mr. Pennyworth had been, he’d certainly left his widow in a comfortable place.
Elliot waved at the coachman to stay where he was, opened the carriage door, and helped Mrs. Pennyworth in. He followed her and when they were both settled, he tapped on the ceiling of the carriage, which rolled away, the familiar sound of horses’ hooves clomping on the cobblestones.
“Tell me a little bit about the poetry reading.”
Mrs. Pennyworth laughed, a light tinkling sound. Somehow, he had expected her laugh to be deeper, throatier. However, this appealed to him more, and suited her well. “Do you realize, Mr. Baker, that you wince every time you mention poetry?”
He flashed a grin back. “I am afraid poetry is one form of art that escapes me. If it rhymes, and the writer uses words that make sense, I can understand it. But I find most of it boring drivel.”
“Well, do not hold back, Mr. Baker, please do tell me how you feel.” She tempered her words with another smile.
He offered her a lopsided grin, in return. “I am afraid that is one of my character traits.”
“Therefore, I assume you do not suffer fools?”
“No, not at all.” He hesitated as he studied her. “’Tis something to remember.”
Her raised eyebrows were her only response.
They entered the room where the poetry reading was to take place. Mrs. Pennyworth nodded at a few people, most of whom were already seated. They took their seats, and Elliot looked around at the crowd of about forty people. His attention, of course, was on the men.
From what he could see, none of them were paying any special attention to Mrs. Pennyworth. All those who greeted her were friendly and seemed harmless enough. However, he knew from experience that meant nothing when it came to crime. Some of the most congenial people committed the most horrendous misdeeds.
After about ten minutes, an older lady moved to the front of the room. The feathers in her hair wobbled as she nodded and welcomed everyone and announced the first reader. Elliot groaned inwardly and prayed he could stay awake.
One final sweep of the room revealed no one looking in their direction. Satisfied that, for the moment, he could relax his guard, he gave his attention to the young man at the podium with a sheaf of papers, adjusting his horn-rimmed spectacles.
Let the torture begin.
* * *
Although she would never admitit, Charlotte was no great fan of poetry, herself. In fact, she had rather enjoyed Mr. Baker’s description of it. She also felt if it didn’t rhyme, it wasn’t poetry. The only reason she had accepted the invitation was because her dear friend’s son was offering a reading of his poems.
Mr. Alvin Macon was third in the program, and his mother, Lady Oldridge, was unable to appear due to attending to her daughter in Bath. The woman had just delivered her third child and desperately needed her mother’s presence.
Lady Oldridge had never accepted that her daughter had married a member of the merchant class. As such, she did not live in a grand house, have a horde of servants to see to her every need, and had to actually—gasp—deal with her own children as they did not employ a full-time nurse and governess.
Even so, she had agreed to assist her daughter, with the strict understanding that she would only entertain the two older children, and not deal with the new baby. Charlotte adored the woman, even though she sometimes found her insufferable. She’d never told Lady Oldridge of her own meager beginnings, of being forced into service in a noble’s home when she was seventeen years.
Papa’s older brother, who had acted, rather reluctantly, as her guardian after her parents had perished in a carriage accident, had given her from the age of fifteen to seventeen to find a husband. When no one appealed, she was shipped off to her first servant job. In fact, Charlotte had never told anyone about her background. She still worried about the theft charges brought by Lord Barton. She was certain he had carried through on his threat, and right now there was a warrant for her arrest hovering over her head.
Oftentimes, in the dead of night, she would awaken and think of how her comfortable life could disappear in a blink. She shivered at the thought.
“Are you chilled, Mrs. Pennyworth?” Mr. Baker’s smooth voice brought her back to where she was. Safe in Mrs. Ainsley’s drawing room, among friends and acquaintances, who liked and respected her.
As safe as anyone could be with a strange man leaving upsetting items on her doorstep. “Yes, perhaps a bit.” ’Twas better to say that than explain to Mr. Baker about her past. A past he would surely question, considering what she had hired him for. Former inspectors were not of the ilk to dismiss a pending arrest warrant, nor view the recipient thereof in a favorable light.
“Would you care to change our seats, so we are closer to the fire?”
“Heavens no, I’m too warm already.” Oh, dear God, she was so immersed in her concerns over her possible arrest, she’d forgotten her comment about being a bit chilled. He viewed her with curiosity.
“I’m sorry, I sometimes change from being too cold to too warm rather quickly.” She hesitated. “I am afraid that is one of my character traits.” She grinned at tossing his words back at him.
