Chapter 25
Chapter
“Benjamin, would you mind taking the night shift with Father tomorrow?” Charles dried the next plate atop the growing stack of clean dishes.
Trussed in one of Mother’s frilly aprons, Benjamin scrubbed at a pot in the kitchen sink, suds up to the cuffs rolled at his elbows. His brother smirked. “Why, have you a romantic rendezvous planned with your Miss Knight?”
“She’s not my Miss Knight.”
“Not according to my sources. I have it on good authority that ever since Miss Knight started covering the gala preparations, you’ve taken to returning home quote ‘smiling from ear to ear and flushed from collar to crown.’”
Heat singed Charles’ face as though he’d stepped too near the glowing woodstove warming the room.
Apparently Mother had been telling stories behind his back.
Time for a change of subject. He slipped the dry dish into the cabinet and took up the next plate on the glistening stack.
With a nod, he gestured to the open law books scattered across the dining table.
“If you set all that legal jargon to music, it might be easier to remember.”
Having scoured and rinsed the pot, Benjamin placed it on the counter and snatched up another towel from a wall peg.
“Judge, let it be noted for the record that the witness has attempted to redirect the line of questioning.” Twirling the towel, he whipped the cloth in the direction of Charles’ backside.
Barely dodging the crack of the towel, Charles retaliated with a scowl. “Nosy nuisance.”
“Smitten simpleton.” Benjamin’s smirk broadened as he took up a plate of his own to dry.
Charles heaved a sigh, begging his cheeks to stop smoldering.
“Will you watch Father or not, you pest? I need to do some additional work for Mr. Harrison.” Such as find sufficient evidence to remove the man from a certain lady inspector’s suspect list. If that task just so happened to require his spending a moonlit evening in said lady’s company, well .
. . that information was strictly confidential. Thank you, D.O.G.S. protocol.
“Of course I’ll do it, dunderhead.” Benjamin snatched up the last clean dish, assuming a serious tone as he set about wiping away the gleam of residual moisture on the cream stoneware. “I should start taking more shifts with Father anyhow. To ease the transition next year.”
Transition . . . what transition? “I’m afraid you’ve lost me, counselor.”
“If I’m approved and called to the bar—”
“You’ll be approved.” Charles swatted Benjamin’s shoulder with the dampened towel in his hand before hanging it to dry on one of the wall pegs.
Ben rolled his eyes. “If I’m called to the bar and officially become a barrister, I should have Father’s practice up and running again by the new year.
Which means I’ll finally be able to start contributing financially, and you’ll be able to start living your own life again.
Once my income stabilizes, I’ll be able to afford some help for Mother.
A nurse. A maid. Then you can finally quit secretarial work and return to your music. ”
Charles took a step back. “I’ve no plans of returning to music, Ben.”
“Whyever not?”
Weren’t the reasons obvious? He hadn’t practiced in five years, and he’d gotten too old for the novelty of being a child prodigy to sell tickets. The music world had moved on and forgotten him years ago. More importantly, he’d moved on and grown up. “My place is here. It’s where I’m needed.”
“Not to the same extent. We’re no longer in crisis, Charlie.
The debt Father incurred through those bad investments and taking too many cases gratis are paid.
If I’m called to the bar, I’ll be able to add to our coffers instead of depleting them with educational costs.
Once the practice is running, once I hire help to lighten Mother’s load, you’ll be free to move out. ”
Move out? Charles’ chest tightened. “I can’t just leave the family.”
“Not even to start one of your own? Mother’s not alone in noticing you smiling from ear to ear.
Father and I are corroborating witnesses.
This Miss Knight . . . you like her, Charlie.
She makes you happy. Just as the music once did.
I’m grateful for the sacrifices you made to keep this family afloat during our worst storm, brother.
But the storm has passed. You don’t have to keep bailing water and throwing the things you love overboard to keep us from sinking. ”
In the rolling carriage, Margaret took account of her supplies for tonight’s reconnaissance mission.
Lorgnette opera glasses. Abalone-shell purse.
Pietra dura earrings. Velvet-cloaked birdcage.
It appeared she hadn’t forgotten anything.
Mama had assured her of as much while she’d plaited Margaret’s hair and aided her into a tea gown of midnight blue suitable for blending into the summer night’s shadow.
Papa had reassured her as he’d given her a hand up into the carriage and placed the birdcage onto the seat across the way.
Waving at the departing carriage, they’d combined their parental comfort with repeated assurances spoken in dulcet tones that soon faded into the evening quietude. She hadn’t forgotten anything.
She was a competent lady inspector, and she was not without support.
When apprised of the latest developments in the case, prompting tonight’s covert objective, the chief deemed it prudent to recruit a source Jane had acquired in her investigative journalism work to serve as their means of transport.
As one of London’s few female cab drivers, Mrs. Carol Hackney was accustomed to navigating the dangers that loitered about the city’s nooks by day and lurked about its crannies by night.
Skilled at evasive maneuvers, her mind contained a veritable map of escape routes, and her beloved horse, Misty, could ride like the wind when called upon to make a quick getaway.
This made her a valuable covert asset. Should anything go amiss, Mrs. Hackney could be counted upon to ferry them to safety or summon the other inspectors for aid in a trice.
In addition, her cab was extremely comfortable.
Said cab stopped outside a middle-class residence momentarily, allowing Margaret’s other means of support to climb inside and settle on her right. “Good evening, Mr. Noble. Any troubling making those alternate arrangements for your father’s care?”
“No more trouble than is expected from a younger brother, I think.” With a shake of his head, Mr. Noble rolled his eyes heavenward. His gaze landed on the seat across from them, and he blinked, leaning back against the plush seat. “Is that a birdcage?”
The man’s perplexed tone coaxed a smile from Margaret. “Indeed.”
“You’ve a reason for bringing it along, I suppose?”
“Oh yes, I never bring a birdcage along without a very specific reason.” With a rap of her lorgnette against the ceiling, Margaret signaled Mrs. Hackney to drive on, and the carriage promptly set forth.
As they traveled toward Innovation Park, Margaret was relieved to find herself still at ease in Mr. Noble’s company.
After he’d found her in the foreman’s office, frazzled and frightened and frail, she’d worried the mutual respect they’d forged would be weakened by, well .
. . her weakness. She hadn’t meant to share so much.
Her accident had long been a raw wound she’d recoiled from touching, but for some reason, she’d not quailed from speaking of it to Mr. Noble.
More shocking, her raw vulnerability hadn’t changed the way he looked at her.
If anything, judging by his manner with her tonight, it seemed to have strengthened their comradery.
Perhaps Professor Quimby was right. Perhaps allowing her D.O.G.S.
sisters to know the extent of her pain would make them closer instead of causing them to walk away.
“Have you any new information on the money being sent to the account of J. Dawkins?” Mr. Noble angled toward her as the cab made a smooth left turn onto another street.
She did, though what Jane had discovered left Margaret with more questions than answers.
“Whilst at Mr. Dawkins’ bank in disguise, one of the other lady inspectors learned of special arrangements in place for his funds.
Every time a royalty check from Alvan T.
Harrison, Incorporated is deposited into Dawkins’ account, it’s automatically transferred to a charity that banks at the same branch. ”
“Great Scarlatti! Every shilling and sixpence?”
“Down to the last halfpenny. The totality of J. Dawkins’ earnings are donated to the Benevolence Legacy.
” Which, oddly enough, was the same charitable organization generously providing the Cogsworths with an income supplement.
A coincidence that clearly indicated some yet-to-be-explained connection, one Jane was now determined to sniff out.
“Needless to say, my fellow lady inspector has begun looking into the Benevolence Legacy.”
Departing from the city of Greater London proper, the streetlamps became few and far between, cloaking Margaret and Mr. Noble in a darkness that encouraged silence.
Soon the only light peering through the windows belonged to the moon and the miniature metropolis in the distance that was Innovation Park.
According to prearranged instructions, Mrs. Hackney steered the cab off the main road and reined Misty to a stop outside the Park’s boundary walls amid a cluster of trees whose branches formed a canopy of shadow.
The location Margaret had specified was far enough away to avoid detection by the guards at the main gate but near enough to be in range to operate the gadget on which their mission relied.
She blinked, allowing her vision to adjust.
Shifting closer on their shared seat, Mr. Noble whispered hesitantly, “Now what?”