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He sighed and followed at her heels like a lackey. Perhaps that is what he had become. It was humiliating, but a damn sight better than debtor’s prison.
She directed him into the small drawing room, where items of various stages of worth were collected.
“From one of your ships?” he questioned.
“Yes,” she said succinctly, but they both knew it was a lie, and the horse, if it came in with the other items, was in too good of condition to have just endured a sea voyage. As usual, none of the items had bills of sale or even papers of authenticity. That was where his numerical expertise came into the picture.
“Lady,” he said, not for the first time voicing his misgivings, “these items should have bills of sale tracing the line of custody from their original owners. This is most irregular.”
“Just remember the sordid little apothecary shop where I found you,” she snarled. “I could throw you right back there in your pile of debts. Now, do your job.” She turned on her heel and left him to his work.
He bit his lip as he considered each piece, making excuses for the irregularities like he always did. After all, there was a thriving market in London for baubles stolen and then put up for sale. Generally, the rich patrons bought them back again with no real harm done, but usually, the person doing the stealing was lifting the items from a place of need rather than greed. Did it really matter why the items were stolen? He was entrenched now and could see no way to free himself.
Lady Lydia had indeed found him in dire straits at his apothecary in Cheapside, tending to the needs of the poor. The thing about the poor, is they rarely had money to pay for his potions and tinctures, and yet he gave them to those who needed them anyway regardless of cost. Perhaps that was his undoing. After all, he did not grow all of the herbs, and many were quite costly. Each month, he seemed to grow more and more in debt.
The lady had approached him about copying the formula for a particular perfume and he had done so, thinking that perhaps this endeavor for a wealthy patron would help him see his way out of debt. Instead, one thing led to another, and he began making more sleeping tinctures than any one woman could need, but he did not question. He knew there was something irregular about the transactions, but he shut his eyes. Her payments allowed him to continue to help London’s poor. Potions of laudanum followed and his work slowly caused him to be beholden to the lady. Once she realized his affinity for numbers and percentages which were useful in the complicated recipes of the medicines, she found a second use for him, cataloging her stolen wares.
Then, just last week, when Mr. Crowley of Crowley and Crowley died suddenly, she offered a proposal that he could not refuse. He stupidly stepped into the deceased Mr. Crowley’s shoes, and so she sprang the trap. But what choice did he really have? He had no way to pay the lady back for her aid in avoiding debtor’s prison. Oh, sure, he could have beggared his brother for the money, but he was loathed to go that route, and now, his path was set. He looked like a man of comfortable means, owning both a solicitor’s office and the apothecary next door. Except he did not own either building. Lady Lydia held the deeds to both of them. She held the reins to his very life.
During the day, he was left to figure out the particulars of goods that came to him through some ill-gotten means, and at night he knew he made the tinctures to drug the hapless guards so that they could be robbed. He was careful to steer clear of anything that could actually tie him to the crimes. After all, he knew that if he allowed the magistrate to know of the arrangement, it was his neck that would stretch, not the lady’s.
Frustrated, he was left to figure out the particulars with too much money and too little information. He still helped the poor when he could, but with all of his new responsibilities to the lady, he was left with less and less time to do so. He considered several of the articles before him, and decided that the steward, Mr. Cushing may have some sort of listing for them. Sometimes Mr. Cushing helped him. Nikolas stood, put on his coat, and gathered up the relevant papers. He headed towards the kitchen where the steward could oft be found.
* * *
Within a few minutes,Marilee and Peggy both had piles of clean dry laundry to take upstairs. Marilee followed the other woman up the servants’ stairs. Voices came to them as they walked up the back stairs. Someone was talking to the cook. Voices were raised, and Marilee paused while Peggy pushed open the door with her hip.
In the next moment, Marilee found herself face to face with a beautiful young man who was questioning the kitchen staff. He was perhaps in his thirties, a half a head taller than Marilee, with a slim build and dark hair. His hair was growing out from a Brutus cut, but other than that, he was impeccably groomed. He carried a handful of papers with him and had an official air. His fingers were long and nimble as he tapped the paper impatiently. His white shirt was clean and starched. Everything about his appearance stated that he did not belong in this wretched house.
“Where is Mr. Cushing?” he asked, but the cook only shook his head mutely and backed away. “Where are the steward’s records?” the man persisted.
Marilee paused just inside the door, still holding the laundry items.
“Do you know?” He turned and addressed Marilee.
She did not know what to say, but she was struck by the intelligence in his dark eyes. For one heart stopping moment, she wondered if she could trust this man. Of course, she could not. She put the folded towels on the table.
Peggy had squeaked and dropped off the clean laundry in a haphazard pile on the table before sprinting for the door.
Marilee hesitated for a moment, glancing at the disappearing Peggy. “I only just arrived,” she said, and the man smiled at her— showing incredibly even white teeth.
She sucked in a breath, considering. What should she reveal to this gentleman? Could she trust him, or was he involved in the kidnapping? What did he know? She could not know. A smile and a kind eye did not necessarily mean a kind heart. “I do not know,” she said. She turned quickly and exited the kitchen, following Peggy back to the laundry.
“Who was that man?” Marilee questioned as they travailed the stairs. “Maybe he would help us.”
“No!” Peggy said, turning on the stair. “Sarah tried that.”
“Who is Sarah?” Marilee asked.
“Nevermind,” Peggy said. “It doesn’t matter. She’s gone now.”
* * *
Once home,Mr. Crowley began his apothecary work. He could not get the woman’s face from his mind. The few curls that had escaped her cap gave promise of a riotous rout of dark curls around her heart-shaped face. He could not be certain of the color, black or brown, but he thought that her hair was a deep earthen tone, like rich brown earth and her eyes were dark and wide set. She looked so startled when she opened the kitchen door as if she did not expect to see him there.
Of course, she didn’t. He was the one who didn’t belong in the kitchen. She did. She was a maid of all work. That was clear. She was carrying cloths to the kitchen, all folded neatly in a pile. She had put them on the table with aplomb, even though it was clear she was startled by his appearance, but what made her startled, he wondered. Had she not seen him before? He knew he had not encountered her. He would have remembered her. There was a gentleness about her that he had not seen in the household staff. The angles of her face were soft and her lips were not pinched with care. Truly, there was something about her manner that bespoke of more elegance than the average maid at the house. No, there was nothing average about her. Nothing average at all, and he did not even garner her name. What a fool he was!
No doubt she would be gone by the time he next visited. There seemed to be a copious turnover of help. Well, that was not unexpected with a mistress such as Lady Lydia. He tried to put the maid from his mind as he pulled out several vials of alcohol and a mortar and pestle with which to grind the herbs. The work soothed him as the mathematical gymnastics he was forced to do to balance Lady Lydia’s books did not. In no time at all, the maid was only a wisp at the corner of his mind, like a guardian angel watching over him, he thought. No doubt, she would be just as ethereal as such a spirit.
