The Pursuit of Mrs. Pennyworth Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover more Amara titles… The Bittersweet Bride

  My Scot, My Surrender

  A Perilous Passion

  The Maiden’s Defender

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Callie Hutton. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 105, PMB 159

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Erin Molta

  Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill

  Cover art from Deposit Photos

  ISBN 978-1-64063-457-2

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition March 2018

  To all the fantastic authors who write romantic suspense, encouraging me to dip my toe into the suspense waters.

  Prologue

  Melbourne Station, England, April 1887

  Miss Charlotte Reading furtively glanced at the clock on the wall in her tiny bedroom. Her heartbeat increased as she mumbled encouragement to herself and shoved her meager belongings into a small satchel. Lord Barton had sent a note around that he intended to return home at four o’clock, and to make herself available.

  Fifteen minutes.

  He didn’t need to say more—she knew exactly why he’d demanded her presence. She tried to hold down the panic as she looked around, grabbed her hairbrush and the small gilded mirror that had belonged to her mother, and shoved them into the satchel. Deciding there was nothing more important than her life, she fastened the bag, grabbed her pelisse and bonnet, and fled the room.

  And the house.

  An hour later, Charlotte took her first deep breath as the train rolled out of Melbourne Station, headed to London. As she’d waited for the train, her heart had seized every time a man had entered the station. She clutched her ticket tightly in her hands.

  Giddy with relief as the train gained momentum, she studied the countryside passing by, carrying her farther from her employment. Tears gathered on her eyelashes, and her chin trembled. She’d made it. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back against the seat and smiled.

  Lord Barton’s face rose in her mind—with the ever-present sneer.

  Dangling a very expensive ruby necklace that belonged to his mother—the woman Charlotte had served as a companion to for almost two years—he grinned. “It seems our chambermaid Molly, found this hidden under your mattress.” He waved the necklace back and forth in front of her face.

  “I am sorry, my lord, but either she is lying, or you are mistaken.”

  His arrogant eyebrows rose. “Indeed? Do you imagine the magistrate will assume I am mistaken, Miss Reading?” He shook his head, a look of feigned pity on his face. “An impoverished lady’s companion, a servant, tired of listening to an old woman’s complaints, decides to help herself to a piece of jewelry to better her position?”

  In the past year, Charlotte had spent almost as much time avoiding Lord Barton, and dodging his groping hands, as she had serving his mother. His mother, who was a demanding, petulant woman, no doubt had taught all she knew to her egotistical, arrogant son.

  Charlotte raised her chin. “I arrived with excellent references, my lord. I have never been accused of thievery in my prior two positions.”

  He walked toward her, the leer on his face threatening to bring up her lunch. “I will be happy to have the magistrate decide for himself.” He moved even closer, causing her heart to beat so loud she was sure he could hear it. “However, if you agree to better your position by accepting my offer of carte blanche, this necklace will automatically re-appear in my mother’s jewel case.”

  “I will not be your mistress.”

  He continued to dangle the necklace, his eyes turning a darker brown. “Oh, yes, my dear. You will spread your lovely legs for me,” he leaned in closer and murmured in her ear, “except when I have you on your knees.”

  To her relief and astonishment, he backed up and gave her a slight bow. “We are not finished with this. Think about my offer. Then think about jail.” He clicked his tongue. “Such a horrible place for a beautiful young woman.” Shaking his head, he turned and left, dropping the necklace into his coat pocket.

  The clicking of the train wheels soothed her, reminding her that every mile it traveled took her farther from the monster. She had saved enough of her wages to see her through a couple of weeks, but she needed to find a position as quickly as possible. Without references, it would be tricky, but she patted the two letters that she had from her previous employers, tucked into her reticule, hoping they would be sufficient.

  She took stock of her situation. She was three and twenty and had been in service for six of those years. London would have many more opportunities. Perhaps a dress shop, or millinery. Maybe she could secure a position in a bank. The prospects were many.

  Lulled by the rhythm of the train, she relaxed and enjoyed the ride, anticipating the new life to which she was headed.

  Chapter One

  London, England—Eighteen months later

  Elliot Baker studied the small calling card in his hand. A charming card, it had a colorful array of flowers, with two doves, on one side. The second side read:

  Mrs. Gabriel Pennyworth

  “You say she is here in the waiting room?” He tapped the card with his finger and regarded his secretary, Mr. Gleason, the man who had been with him ever since he opened his office two years prior. Tall, thin, dressed—as always—in all black, he was the perfect complement to the type of business Elliot conducted.

  “Yes, sir. She said she is aware she does not have an appointment, but it is of utmost importance that she see you.” His sniff told him how inappropriate he deemed the woman’s actions.

  Elliot stood, rolled his sleeves down, and shrugged into his jacket. “Very well. Send in”—he glanced at the card—“Mrs. Pennyworth.”

  He was just settling into his chair when a young, very attractive woman passed through the doorway. As he stood back up, he tried very hard not to notice her full lips, creamy skin, and golden-blond hair, fashioned into a chignon at the back of her head. Her high-necked, well-made black carriage dress did not sport the bustle that s
o many women had returned to, but gathered in the back, pulling the fabric close against her stomach. The style of the dress would draw any appreciative male’s eyes to her fine form.

  Overall, she was of a most attractive countenance, which immediately annoyed him.

  Mrs. Pennyworth cleared her throat, reminding him he had been staring. He flushed at being caught gawking, gave her a slight smile, and waved to the chair in front of his desk. “Won’t you please have a seat, Mrs. Pennyworth?”

  She sat very primly at the edge of the seat, her delicate black lace-gloved hands resting on the handle of her parasol. “Thank you for seeing me without an appointment, Mr. Baker. I will not take up much of your time.”

  He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “How may I be of service, ma’am?”

  Her clear green eyes studied him in cool detachment, telling him nothing. “I wish you to investigate an issue on my behalf.”

  He leaned back, regarding her once again. No wedding ring visible through the lace glove, a black dress, and asking for his services, which was generally done by a man. A widow. Perhaps a recent one. Tenting his fingers together, he tapped his lip. “Indeed? And what is it you wish me to investigate?”

  She glanced off to the side, and a slight flush covered her lovely cheeks. “I am being bedeviled by someone who is making me quite uncomfortable.”

  An alarm sounded in his brain, and his well-earned suspicious nature rose to the forefront. Slow down, Elliot. Not every pretty woman is a manipulator.

  To give himself time to clear his mind, and accept whatever it was Mrs. Pennyworth was about to tell him without prejudice, he pulled a pad of paper toward him, and dipping his pen in the inkwell, looked up at her. “Please continue.”

  She chewed her bottom lip, then taking a deep breath, drawing his eyes to her well-formed bosom, blurted out, “I have been receiving unwanted items on my front doorstep.” She stopped and once more worried her plump bottom lip.

  If the woman needed to be prodded every time she made a statement, the interview would take much longer than her initial promise. However, it was apparent she was upset, and having a difficult time of it. Since he rarely had women for clients, he softened a bit, without letting down his guard, and realized how out of her element she must be.

  Perhaps the formal atmosphere was hindering her. He replaced the pen in its holder and pushed the pad away. “May I offer you tea, Mrs. Pennyworth?”

  She visibly relaxed and nodded. “Yes, that would be quite nice.” She pulled out a fancy lace and linen handkerchief and patted her forehead and upper lip.

  Elliot pushed back his chair and walked around the desk to the doorway. “Mr. Gleason, please bring tea for Mrs. Pennyworth and myself.”

  He attempted small talk while they waited for the refreshments, but it soon became apparent that whatever had brought Mrs. Pennyworth to his office had a firm grip on her sensibilities, and she merely smiled and nodded distractedly at his comments.

  Elliot was greatly relieved when Gleason appeared at the door with a tray of tea things. “Would you care to pour, Mrs. Pennyworth?”

  Once they were settled with tea and plates of biscuits on the narrow table in front of the small wood-burning stove, Elliot said, “Please start at the beginning so I may understand what your problem is, and how I can be of service to you.”

  Taking a sip of tea, she placed the cup in the saucer and folded her hands in her lap.

  “About three weeks ago, I received a bouquet of flowers on my front doorstep. Since I had attended a small gathering the evening before, I assumed a gentleman had sent them over. The odd thing was, it arrived with no card. They were simply left there. Ordinarily, a delivery boy rings the bell and presents them.”

  Time to get some facts. “And was Mr. Pennyworth upset by this arrival of flowers?”

  She raised her chin. “Mr. Pennyworth passed a year ago.” She took another sip of tea. “I live alone in my own home, with a small staff, a bit north of Hyde Park.”

  He made a mental note. Widow. Solid middle-class neighborhood. Her clothes reflected sufficient money and good taste.

  “Go on.”

  “A few days later there were more flowers, but again, no note.” She stared off into the distance, her voice lowering, her words disjointed. “Days followed with more flowers, a lovely plant, a box of chocolates, and an expensive handkerchief—”

  “All with no identifying card?”

  She nodded. “Last week, however, I received a single black rose, a blank card attached, with what appeared to be a drop of blood on it.” She patted her upper lip with her handkerchief once more and looked directly into his eyes. “This morning there was a dead bird on the steps.” She chewed her lips and shivered. “With a knife through its poor little body.”

  What he had begun to think was merely a man too shy to approach an attractive woman, swiftly changed to something more sinister. “And still no note?”

  She shook her head. “None.”

  He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Have you notified the Metropolitan Police?”

  “Yes. I just came from there. They dismissed my concerns. The man at the desk suggested I had an admirer, whose attentions I should be enjoying.”

  He shook his head in disgust. “And the bird? What did he make of that?”

  “That it was merely some rough youths playing a trick. He then informed me that unless I lived in Whitechapel and plied my trade on the street”—she winced—“they had no time for me since they are busy with that horrible man committing all those murders of prostitutes.”

  Bloody hell of a way for an officer of the law to speak to a woman. “Yes, the one the newspapers have given the moniker ‘Jack the Ripper’.”

  She swallowed visibly and took another sip of tea, her hand shaking slightly. “I don’t know what to do. I have not reached the point where I am afraid to leave my home, but I must admit to having twinges of fear each time I open the front door.”

  “Do you mind if I take some notes?”

  “Not at all.” Her eyes followed him as he rose and retrieved the pen and pad from his desk. “Do you think you can help me, Mr. Baker?”

  Prior to the incident with the woman Annabelle, that had led to his resignation from Scotland Yard, he would not have hesitated to help a woman in need. However, time and experience had taught him to go carefully with pretty women. Even though he’d tried many times to tell himself all women were not like Annabelle, he was cautious in his answer. “I am not sure. What is it, exactly, you wish me to do?”

  “Find out who is doing this, and stop these things from coming to my front door.” Her voice rose, and her face flushed. “I apologize for shouting, but I am quite stressed.”

  He looked down at the pad to give the poor woman a moment to compose herself. “Tell me, is there a pattern with the arrival of these items? For example, you mentioned the first flowers arrived the morning after you had attended an event. Is that true for the other packages? Or maybe after a specific type of event you attend on a regular basis? On certain days of the week, perhaps?”

  “Yes. I have noticed they mostly arrive the morning after I have been to a social event. However, there have been times when nothing came the morning after.”

  “Which means your tormentor might not have been at that event.”

  “I thought of that and tried to remember who was not there, but so many of the events have people coming and going all night, it is hard to keep track.”

  He nodded and made some notes. “Any particular type of event that did not have a package left the next morning? For example, the theater, a dinner party, garden party, etc.?”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t believe so.”

  “Have you ever had a package arrive the morning after you’ve had an evening alone, at home?”

  She considered for a minute. “No. I don’t believe so.”

  Elliot continued to look down at the pad. “Is there a gentleman who has offered his at
tentions that you have spurned?”

  Her body stiffened. “I am just coming out of mourning, Mr. Baker. Any gentleman who offered his attentions has been spurned.”

  He nodded. Either she was a good actress, or she lived by a decent moral code. Until he knew her better, he opted for actress. “And yet you attend social events.”

  If she saw any condemnation in his words, she didn’t show it. “Since I recently passed the anniversary of Mr. Pennyworth’s death, I have been accepting invitations, but only those of a more sedate nature. Smaller assemblies, no large balls or gatherings.”

  “And those in your circle of friends and acquaintances would be aware of your situation? Of the fact that you are coming out of mourning?”

  “Of course.”

  Still reluctant to take on Mrs. Pennyworth’s case, he asked, “Have you no men in your family to champion you?”

  He did not imagine her miniscule change in demeanor. The slight tension in her body, the hesitation, as if considering her words carefully. What is she hiding?

  “I am an only child, with no male relatives.”

  Leaning back, he regarded her. If he were to help this poor frazzled woman, he would need to spend time with her, which he did not relish. Once burned, and all that.

  “May I ask what brought you to my door?”

  “The constable at the Metropolitan Police. He said you were a former Inspector.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  …

  Charlotte attempted to calm herself, so Mr. Baker wouldn’t think she was a swooning, hysterical female. When she had first decided to take the constable’s suggestion and visit with Mr. Baker, she had been expecting to meet a middle-aged paunchy man, with thinning hair, beady eyes, and thick spectacles.

  Instead, she found the private investigator to be young, handsome, and someone who did not seem to confine himself to sitting behind a desk. He filled out his coat quite well, and the peek she’d gotten of his well-formed legs bore witness to time spent in active pursuits. His deep-blue eyes seemed to look right into her soul. A lock of light-brown hair fell over his broad forehead, which he kept pushing back with his fingers. To no avail.