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Chapter One
London
April 1899
You simplyhadto have the office with a view of the river, no matter how distant,” Captain Henry Harris muttered to himself as he slowly mounted the stairs to the top floor of a building in a quiet corner off the Strand. It had been a more fanciful indulgence to be sure, but after spending so much of his adult life at sea, Henry found even the most fleeting glimpse of water comforting. That combined with an enticingly low monthly rent had made him dismiss the four flights of stairs. It wasn’t much of an inconvenience—usually. But today he wasn’t so lucky.
Henry paused to massage his knee before entering his office. If his secretary, Miss Delia Swanson, caught him doing so, she would only make a fuss. It was being particularly bothersome after he had spent most of the last week tailing a woman suspected of being unfaithful to her husband. Henry hadn’t uncovered any evidence that suggested the lady in question had a lover, only that she appeared to have an excessive amount of time to spend in department stores. Privately, Henry concluded that his client would be better off actually talking with his wife rather than hiring a private investigator. But in his experience, clients rarely wanted his advice. Just results.
He released a breath as the ache subsided and opened the door markedHARRIS INVESTIGATIONS.
As usual, Miss Swanson was already at her desk, typing away. She looked up at his entrance and flashed him a bright smile. “Good morning, Captain Harris! How are you today?”
“Fine. Thank you,” Henry grumbled as he leaned his cane against her desk to hand her his coat and hat. No one should be that chipper at half past eight in the morning, but the young lady’s incessant cheerfulness had been one of the reasons Henry hired her, even though it never failed to make him feel like an old curmudgeon by comparison.
“I’ve left the morning’s post on your desk. Will you be wanting coffee?”
“God, yes.”
Henry retrieved his cane and made his way to his office. No doubt Miss Swanson’s sharp eyes had already noticed he was favoring his right leg more than usual. Her attention to detail was an admirable trait in a secretary, but one that caused him a considerable amount of grief. It had been nearly two years since he had injured his leg during a mission gone awry while serving the Crown abroad, and though he had initially balked at using a cane, Henry had grown quite attached to it—not to mention that it came in rather handy when he found himself in a rough part of town.
Henry sat down heavily in his chair and glanced up as Miss Swanson breezed into the room with a tray bearing a shiny coffee pot, a cup, and a plate of something that promised to be delicious.
“Maude made a batch of her famous scones last night specially for you, sir, after I told her how much you enjoyed the last ones,” she explained unprompted. Maude Covington was Delia’s flatmate, among other things.
He frowned as she set down the tray and began pouring the first of the many cups of coffee he needed to get through the day. “She shouldn’t have done that.”
“Oh, come now,” she said with a wink. “Everyone likes to be spoiled a little.” Her hazel eyes sparkled as she passed him his cup.
Henry took it and began riffling through the pile of mail on his desk. “Not me.”
Miss Swanson laughed a little and returned to her desk. She was an attractive girl, and more than one client had assumed she was his wife, which Henry was always quick to correct. Besides, even if he had been interested, Delia was perfectly content to keep company with Maude. Together, the two women practically tortured Henry with their considerateness and constant stream of invitations to Friday evening gatherings with their eclectic group of friends, Sunday roasts, and holiday fetes.
One of these days he would have to put a stop to it. But until then he would suffer with a competent secretary and a stream of baked goods.
Henry set down the mail and took a sip of coffee before biting into a buttery scone. He couldn’t help the little moan of delight that rumbled through him.
“I heard that!” Miss Swanson called out from her desk.
He responded by picking up his cane and using it to push the door shut. It was time for a little morning privacy. The muffled sound of Miss Swanson diligently typing up his reports wafted through the door, but Henry had come to find that comforting. A busy secretary meant business was good. He resumed his perusal of the mail: several bills, a letter of thanks from a satisfied client, and something with a postmark from Brighton. Henry didn’t need to see the return address. He recognized the handwriting immediately. As he ripped open the envelope and scanned the short note, his chest grew tighter and tighter. Then he set it down and stared out the window.
The contents of the note were much the same as the one he received two months ago, and the one that came three months before that. It began with giving thanks for his previous generosity and extolling his virtue as a man of honor before getting to the point: His cousin Dale had lost yet another job, and his wife, Deborah, the writer, was again appealing to him for a loan. They both knew Henry would never get his money back, yet they kept up the pretense in their correspondence to save her the embarrassment that came from asking for help. The trouble was that Henry had already lent Cousin Dale nearly twenty pounds this year alone, a not insignificant sum, especially given that he had opened his business only a little more than a year ago. All in all, things were going well. Though clients had initially been attracted by his status as a naval hero, Henry had quickly earned a reputation as a thorough and discreet investigator. But he wasn’t exactly rolling in excess funds, and this could be a precarious business. He needed to be careful. Conservative.
And yet, despite all these perfectly salient points, Henry still heard his mother’s voice chastising him. Though she had been gone for nearly half a decade, her remonstrations were still very much alive in his mind:But my dear, youmusthelp your cousin Dale. It isn’t his fault he drinks. His father was the same way, bless him. Think of his poor wife and all those children.
Henry bit back a sigh and picked up the note. Deborah had added a postscript asking for twice the amount he sent last time, as their youngest child needed an operation. It had been years since Henry had visited the Brighton branch of his late father’s family. Back then Dale had a decent job at a tire factory nearby and three boisterous children, with a fourth on the way. In truth, Henry had been a little envious of their obvious happiness, both with life and each other. But then the factory had closed without warning, as the owners discovered they could triple their profits if they moved operations abroad. Dale had never found a comparable position and thus began his slow descent into drink. Henry wasn’t even sure Dale knew that his wife wrote to him. He glanced at the unopened bills on the desk and rubbed his eyes. There was never any doubt that he would send them the money. Henry just didn’t know how he would scrape it together this time.
The comforting tap-tap-tapping of Delia’s typewriter suddenly ceased, and he heard her speaking. Someone must have entered the office. Henry quickly set aside the mail and moved his cane to a more covert spot.
Delia entered the office. “A Mr. Fox is here to see you, sir,” she said as she handed him a card. “He doesn’t have an appointment.”
Henry frowned as he took it, noting that it was made of heavy cardstock and embossed in glossy ink. Fox was a common enough last name; perhaps this man wasn’t—
But Henry hadn’t time to convince himself, as Reginald Fox trailed behind Delia.
“Hello there! Do you remember me? We met at Lady Harrington’s house once. I was there visiting my sister during her season.”
Georgiana Fox.
