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Mary peered at herself in the cheval glass. The modiste and her two seamstresses occupied her dressing room while Maggie and Sally ran about doing their bidding.
The taffeta gown rustled with every movement she made. It was the last of the three gowns she’d ordered. Of a rich blue that was bright against her skin and made the blue in her eyes seem more pronounced, she adored the short, puffed sleeves as well as the low, squared neckline. Jet beads lined the bodice as well as the bottom hem.
“Do you think it too much?” she asked as she turned this way and that in an effort to catch the light, but with the rain, that was nearly impossible. “Too much for a widow?”
“Nonsense, Mrs. Tomlinson,” Maggie said as she helped to fold one of the other gowns. “You are a newly engaged woman. To the second son of a viscount to boot. You deserve to appear bright and bold in society.”
“Bright,” Sally said with a giggle. “She is marrying Inspector Bright.” A blush stained her cheeks. “He is so dreamy I could swoon in his presence.”
The seamstresses tittered.
The maid continued in the same vein. “So handsome. I’ll wager he’s well-hung,” she said in a soft voice, and this time even the modiste chuckled.
One of the young seamstresses sighed. “And his hair is ever so thick. It’s quite glorious.”
“He is well and truly smitten with Mrs. Tomlinson, so watch yourself around him,” Maggie said with slight admonition in her voice.
Biting her bottom lip to prevent a grin, Mary cleared her throat. “Enough of such talk. It is unbecoming from all of you.” But none of it was wrong. After their coupling this morning, she still enjoyed that certain lethargy that lingered in her limbs.
At that moment, Mrs. Pearson came into the room. “I apologize for interrupting, Mrs. Tomlinson, but there is a delivery person at the door with flowers for you.”
She frowned. That was odd. “Just put them in the drawing room. I’ll tend to them once I’m finished here. Send the courier on his way.”
“He refuses to release the bouquet until he speaks directly to you. Special orders of the sender, or some such nonsense.” Clearly, the housekeeper wasn’t impressed. “Perhaps the inspector is up to mischief.”
“Bright didn’t say anything to me about expecting a delivery.” But that didn’t mean he hadn’t planned a romantic surprise. “I’ll run down quickly and see what the man has to say.” She glanced back at the modiste. “Excuse me for just one moment.” To the housekeeper, she asked, “Please bring up a tea service. I’m sure my modiste and her seamstresses would enjoy that.” Ladies in the ton no doubt didn’t serve tea to the tradespeople who came to their homes, but then Mary had never followed a popular stance.
“Of course, Mrs. Tomlinson.”
Once the housekeeper left, Mary sighed. “I’m going down to speak with the delivery man.”
Maggie shook her head. “But you don’t have on slippers.”
“The skirt will hide my feet, and I’ll just be a moment.” She gathered handfuls of her skirting which needed to be taken up a few inches and then proceeded to move along the corridor toward the stairs. So help me, Bright, if you are having a joke at my expense, I will not be amused. By the time she arrived in the small entry hall, annoyance built within her chest.
A man stood in the entry way with quite a gorgeous floral bouquet in his hand. Most of the flowers were roses, but there were a few mundane blooms scattered throughout the mix. But what caught and held her attention was the fact he was dressed all in black with a slouch-style cap pulled low over his eyes. “Mrs. Tomlinson?”
The voice was slightly familiar as was the clothing. She stood her ground halfway into the entry hall. “Is there a message to go along with the flowers? Otherwise, I must ask you to leave.” Unease circled through her belly. There was something off about this man, and why was he stooped over? Had he a deformity or was he trying to hide his true height?
“The man who sent these flowers requests the honor of your presence immediately.”
“Are they from Inspector Bright?” She rather doubted it, and as she eyed the bouquet, she frowned all the more. Gabriel’s floral tributes were usually smaller and more understated. This one held exquisite roses, fully in bloom, yet roses in a garden would still be in the bud stage. They wouldn’t bloom for another week or so. From the hothouse? Perhaps not at this time of the year, unless... She gasped. The roses in the garden behind the butchery didn’t belong to Mrs. Pritchart. They were the son’s project. Perhaps he had others inside that had been forced to bloom early as an experiment.
This changes everything! I need to tell Gabriel, and soon.
“Why don’t you come look for yourself? Whoever sent these to you wishes to have your undivided attention for a moment, don’t you think?” The man held out the bouquet that had been wrapped with pink tissue paper. More often than not, the flowers Bright gave her were wrapped with the same. That meant a sliver of doubt was still dancing about her brain.
“Fine.” The sooner she read whatever was written in the note that was no doubt included within the bouquet, the sooner she could return upstairs and remove the gown. Taffeta rustled as she closed the distance between herself and the delivery man. “Please let me have the bouquet.”
As soon as the man thrust the flowers into her hands, he stood to his full, lean height. When she peered upward into his face, she gasped, for the second she met his gaze, she recognized him. “You!” Why was the younger Mr. Pritchart delivering floral bouquets and dressed as he was? Was this one of those odd jobs he did? Then another thought occurred to her. He was of the same height with the same clothing... “It was you who attacked me the other day.” The bruises on her face were just now starting to heal. Cold foreboding twisted down her spine and she took a step back from him. “Go away or I’ll call for the inspector.”
“Don’t be silly. You and I both know the Bow Street man isn’t here. I watched this house since dawn this morning.”
“What do you want?”
“You are far too intelligent for your own good, Mrs. Tomlinson, and I simply can’t have a clever woman like you mucking about in my life.” Then, he sprang behind her the same time that he tugged a dirty rag from inside his sleeve. Before Mary could react or even run, he clamped an arm about her neck, squeezing her in the vee of his elbow while holding the damp rang to her nose and mouth. “I wish you would have stopped your investigation when I asked you a few days ago. Now I’m afraid you’ll die just like my mother did.”
Mary’s heartbeat jumped in a frantic, erratic rhythm. She dropped the flowers in favor of clawing at his sleeve, but to no avail. Even though he used his left arm—clearly not damaged like he’d indicated during his interview, he was quite strong, and nothing she could do would dislodge the rag from her face.
Herbal scents invaded her nostrils along with an odd sort of cloyingly sweet smell. It clogged her nose, infiltrated her throat. Terror pumped through her veins. She kicked backward at the man, and though one of her bare heels connected with his boot-covered shin, it no doubt gave her more pain than it did him. Every breath she took was of the contaminated rag.
“The more you fight, the quicker the drugs work,” Mr. Pritchart said, and he squeezed his arm tighter at her neck. “This will be the deterrent the inspector needs to abandon the case. And if he doesn’t... Well, there are ways to ensure some of this tincture finds its way into his body. Perhaps through a drink at his club, but it’s tricky, and an overdose could happen...”
“Leave me alone!” But the rag against her mouth muffled the words, and they sounded slurred even to her own ears. Darkness encroached on the edges of her vision. No matter how much she tried to move her head away from that foul scrap of fabric, his hand didn’t budge. Her limbs felt odd, slightly weightless. She was... floating, but that was silly, wasn’t it? People couldn’t fly, unless during intercourse, which brought her thoughts careening back around to Gabriel.
I must fight!
For him, yet her body wasn’t cooperating.
“That’s it, Mrs. Tomlinson, give into it. You won’t feel any pain once you go under.” His chuckle sounded wildly out of place in the moment. “It’s fascinating what one can discover when they begin tending to plants.”
Her fingers and hands refused to obey the commands of her brain. The strength leeched from her legs and her knees would no longer support her weight. “No...” Then the darkness completely consumed her. With a half-sigh half-moan, she sank into that comforting void.
When Gabriel arrived at Mary’s townhouse, it was to find the entire household in chaos. After alighting from the carriage, he didn’t even feel the raindrops as they hit the back of his neck while he lifted Cassandra out of the vehicle.
“What the devil is going on?” A few loping steps took him to the wrought iron gate, but it had been left ajar as if someone had left the property in a hurry. More than that, the front door gaped open. A bouquet of flowers had been trampled on the threshold; rose petals lay scattered all over the floor. “Well, damn.” When he stepped inside, a cacophony of female histrionics met his ears.
“Thank the heavens, Inspector!” Mrs. Pearson bustled toward him, a handkerchief clutched in one hand and tears in her eyes. Fear etched itself over her face. “We are at a loss.”
“What has occurred here?” He glanced again at the mess in the entryway. A scrap of a dirty rag had been dropped amidst the detritus of the flowers.
“Mrs. Tomlinson had been taken!” A torrent of tears followed the declaration.
“The devil you say!” Then he remembered Cassandra stood by his side, clutching the stuffed rabbit to her chest and looking at everyone who gathered in the entry way with round eyes. “I apologize for the language, pet.” Then he glanced at the housekeeper. “Perhaps you should explain.”
The housekeeper nodded. “Mrs. Tomlinson had been doing her fitting on the final gown Madame Dupree brought.” She gestured at the middle-aged modiste, who stood slightly apart with her arms crossed at her chest, maintaining an expression of nonchalance that only the French could achieve.
“She was wearing the gown when she disappeared,” the modiste said in her accented English. “I will not replace it if it’s damaged inspector, until the bill is paid.”
“That is hardly appropriate to the situation, but you know I’m good for the coin. Mary has had you in once a month for the last four.” If there was agitation in his voice, he didn’t much care. Fear for Mary coiled through his gut like a snake.
Mrs. Pearson huffed. “There was a delivery. A man with a bouquet.”
“Ah, that explains the mess on the floor.” Again, he glanced at the scattered flower petals and the heads of some of the roses that had been trampled. “When did you first realize Mrs. Tomlinson was missing?”
“When she didn’t return upstairs after I brought a tea service to her dressing room as directed.” The housekeeper dabbed at her eyes. “So I came down to investigate, thinking she’d had difficulties convincing the messenger to leave.”
“Why would you think that?” As he asked the question, Gabriel strode over to the flowers in disarray and crouched near to it, staring at the abstract patterns as if it would hold some sort of clue as to Mary’s disappearance.
“Well, he was one of those shifty sorts of fellows. Dressed in black. Cap pulled low over his eyes so a person couldn’t see the whole of his face.” She erupted into tears. “If I hadn’t had her come down and talk with him because he demanded it, she would still be here!”
He frowned. “Demanded that she speak with him?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Pearson nodded. “Refused to go away.”
“Interesting.” He picked up the rag by a corner, thankful he had on gloves. On a hunch, Gabriel brought the material to his nose and took a light sniff. Immediately, the sickly-sweet scent of honeysuckle invaded his nostrils along with an herbaceous and bitter aroma—laudanum or some other opiate? A slight wooziness assailed him, and he dropped the rag. “Damn it all to hell.”
Mrs. Pearson came toward him. “Are you quite well, Inspector?” When he waved her off, she told one of the maids to fetch a glass of water.
After taking in a few lungfuls of air until the dizziness passed, he poked through the remains of the flowers. Ah, there. A couple of blooms, much like lilies in size and shape, but these were a yellowish-brown hue. “Does anyone have knowledge regarding gardening or perhaps flowers in particular?”
The upstairs maid, Maggie, came forward with fear in her eyes. “I have a bit, Inspector. Learned from my Nan before she died. She said it was important to keep the old ways alive because people would need it.”
“She was quite correct.” Gabriel nodded. “Can you identify these flowers for me?” He poked at one of the blooms.
“Uh...” The maid gathered her skirting in one hand as she kneeled to one side of the scattered flowers. “They look a bit like mandragora.” When she glanced at him and he shrugged, she sighed. “Most know them as the mandrake plant. It’s in the nightshade family.”
“Does it have medicinal uses?”
“Yes, but you must be careful.” She frowned. “The roots can be dried and ground and used in sleeping draughts. Sometimes apothecaries and healer women dispense it for pain management, but it causes unconsciousness if mixed with the right combination of ingredients. Nana always said the nightshades were a dangerous plant family and not to mess with them, not even in jest.”
“Thank you. That is exactly what I needed to know.” He struggled to his feet. The feeling of lightheadedness had passed, but unease sat heavy in his gut. “I’ll wager the honeysuckle was used to disguise the medicinal components.”
“What does that mean, Inspector?” Maggie asked as she gained her feet once more.
“The man who delivered the flowers here had every intention of rendering Mrs. Tomlinson unconscious so he could take her.” He frowned. “Did anyone notice what sort of conveyance he’d come with?”
Maggie nodded. “A wagon. Buckboard. With a large open back meant for hauling things.”
“Thank you.”
Gasps and wailing erupted from the staff and seamstresses gathered in the entry hall.
One of the other maids returned with a glass of water, which she gave to Mrs. Pearson, who then presented it to him.
“Why would anyone want to spirit Mrs. Tomlinson away, Inspector?” she asked with a frown.
“Thank you.” To be polite, Gabriel took a large swallow of the beverage before handing the glass back to her. “I believe it is because she must have figured out who the killer was on this case with a different clue than what I stumbled upon while I was out with Cassandra.” Only just remembering the girl’s presence, he inwardly cursed himself for a fool. Going down on one knee before her, he peered into her eyes. “Please don’t fret. I am going to retrieve Mary and bring her back.”
Preferably alive.
She roved her ice-blue gaze over his face as if searching for something God only knew. Finally, she nodded. “Hurry, Inspector Bright. If she’s with Mr. Pritchart, she ain’t safe.”
“Do you know where the younger Mr. Pritchart made the bone meal?” For he now suspected if the son dabbled in drugs and other medicinal plant life as well as prize-winning roses, he was the one who made the meal.
“The butchery.”
“How do you know that? Have you seen it?”
Fear jumped into her eyes. “Once. When Mrs. Pritchart brought me inside and gave me a blanket. I looked into another room. There was a large metal thing with a hand crank on a table. A bucket beneath. Blood was dripping.”
“Ah. All right. You needn’t tell me more.”
When she briefly rested her delicate gloved palm against the side of his face, his heart trembled. “Go rescue her, like she rescued me.” There was wisdom in that statement as well as deep down in the depths of her eyes. Clearly, this was a child who had seen more than her fair share of life and human nature. “I ain’t seen many good men, but you’re one I guess.”
“Right.” Responsibilities rested heavy on his shoulders as he stood. It had been an age since Henry was small enough to depend upon him for everything... or even think he was a hero. Now, he didn’t wish to disappoint the girl. With a pained glance to the housekeeper, he urged the child forward. “Please make certain Cassandra is taken care of. I don’t want her running out in the attempt to search for Mary herself.” Because he didn’t put it past the girl. She had a stubborn streak that reminded him of the widow. “I might be gone for an extended bit of time.”
Oh, God, if he lost her... He couldn’t finish the thought. I should have been here.
The other maid, Sally, came forward a few steps. “How can you be sure Mrs. Tomlinson was taken, Inspector Bright? Perhaps she went out for a walk.”
Maggie snorted. “She didn’t have slippers or boots on, you silly goose. Why would she do that?”
“It was a valid question, nonetheless.” Gabriel was hard-pressed not to chuckle. “However, Mrs. Tomlinson adores flowers. She would never treat a bouquet in such a manner, and see here?” He skirted around the mess on the floor to point to the door jam. “There’s a splinter here that caught a portion of her skirt.” A jagged strip of blue, perhaps two inches in length and half an inch in width, clung to the wood. “I’ll wager once she wakes, she’ll be livid to see that her gown is damaged.”
If she was fortunate enough to wake, before...
I’m not strong enough to lose you, Mary.
“I’ll look after her myself. Best of luck to you, Inspector.” Sadness filled the housekeeper’s eyes. “Do you know who took her?”
“I’ll wager I do, and when I find that man...” He cleared his throat, for Cassandra was still present. “Well, I will bring him to justice.” Then he looked at the girl as he walked her over to Mrs. Pearson. “Be a proper little lady. Mind Mrs. Pearson, and you can ask Cook for a sweet if you want.” His chest was so tight he feared he wouldn’t be able to breathe.
“Everything will be well here, Inspector.” Mrs. Pearson rested a veined hand on Cassandra’s shoulder. “I’ll have this mess cleaned and keep the kettle on for when you return with Mrs. Tomlinson.”
“Thank you.” Did he have time to run by his rooms to retrieve his pistol? He rather doubted it. “Madame Dupree, if you could please create another gown to replace the one she is wearing? It is my hope to surprise her with it after... things.” If she had something to look forward to, if he made plans for the immediate future, then perhaps she wouldn’t already be... dead. He had to believe she was fighting, even now.
I must have faith.
“Of course, Inspector.” The modiste nodded. “I think a nice saffron or perhaps burnt orange...”
“I have to go.” His voice was a choked affair as he dashed through the still open doorway and then ran down the walkway. The carriage had already been sent back to his brother’s house, but that didn’t matter. He would use whatever vehicle Mary kept in the mews. His only mission at the moment was rescuing her and sending her kidnapper to hell... or at least close to it.
The damned government can decide his fate once I’m finished with him.
