Chapter 3

 

 

 

The three women stood before Colosseum Terrace on Albany Street, and why a duke had called them here past ten o’clock at night was a puzzle indeed. The streetlamps were lit, but a heavy fog and the complete silence gave the location an eerie atmosphere. In the distance, a dog bayed at the moon. Perhaps Althea was right after all, and Eleanora had been too hasty in her insistence that they come here.

“In the rear, the note said,” Sybil specified.

The driver cleared his throat and the horses nickered in response. “Go on ahead, miss. Just behind the main building.”

Eleanora looked up at the driver and gave him a brisk nod. “Thank you.”

Eleanora was struck by the labyrinth of alleys and lanes nestled abaft of the building. A whole other world existed. One could not see it from the street.

St. Regent’s Park was the idea of Prince Regent George IV and developed in the early 1800s. The park opened to the general public in 1835. The area was surrounded by stylish white stucco townhouses like the one they had stood in front of.

“There, Two-A,” Althea pointed. The facade had the same design as Colosseum Terrance. Eleanora knocked, and a man wearing livery opened the door.

“The Galway Agency to see the Duke of Allenby,” Eleanora declared.

The butler, or whatever he was, looked down his nose. “Do you have a card?”

Eleanora whipped one out of her pocket and held it up for the snobbish servant to see. “Don’t leave us standing on the cobbles; take us to His Grace immediately,” she demanded.

The butler had a slight curl to his lip, strange for a servant to show any emotion, especially disdain, but he nonetheless stepped aside.

“This way, sir.”

Granted, they looked like a motley crew with her and Althea still in disguise. The butler gave them a dirty look, though rapidly arranged his features to complete indifference. The disrespect caused Eleanora’s blood to boil, but she fought the response. Focus on the matter at hand. Should she continue to act like a man or reveal her identity to the duke upon meeting?

Following the servant up two flights of stairs, they were led into a large area. This space was obviously the playroom for pampered peers. On either side of the large fireplace was leather settees. Around the room were a few round marble card tables, with two billiard tables against the back wall. Fancy gold wallpaper, velvet draperies, and crystal light fixtures finished the look.

On the opposite side of the room was a bar with multiple crystal decanters and matching glasses. Above it was a large painting of a scantily-clad woman sprawled suggestively on a velvet fainting couch.

Seven men stood by the table, which one was the duke?

Eleanora studied them closely. What an eclectic collection of various ages, heights, hair color, and builds. And levels of attractiveness. Her gaze landed on the tall blond. This had to be the duke; how could it not?

He was perfect, handsome beyond measure. But Eleanora dismissed the notion of him being the duke immediately. Though arrogant in his stance, he didn’t hold the imperious self-assurance she imagined a duke would possess. Blond Greek God was around six feet in height or an inch above it.

Next to him was an equally tall man with black hair. He was attractive in a brooding way and possessed the male beauty of the fair-haired one. His clear blue eyes had a frosty look of disdain. The cleft in his chin was a nice touch. Impeccably dressed, he wore a fancy signet ring on his little finger, evidence of a high-ranking peer.

The others were looking to Cleft Chin for direction. He must be their leader. His expression was not arrogant as such, but self-assured, comfortable in his skin, a man who wanted for nothing. The way he stood with shoulders back, the haughty air—yes, this had to be the duke.

Although…there was another man, older with a touch of silver at his temples, showing the same attributes of a high-ranking peer. But he stood back from the others, with an expression of complete indifference.

The other five men were either tall or medium height, running handsome to pleasant-looking enough.

Cleft Chin held out his hand. “Mr. Galway? I am Christian Bamford, Duke of Allenby. This is Damon—”

“Women? What kind of agency is this?” Blond Greek God bellowed as he pointed at Althea and Sybil.

Before Eleanora had a chance to respond to the duke’s offered handshake, Althea stepped forward and gave the Blond God a murderous look.

“I will have you know that most investigation agencies employ women,” Althea admonished. “Do you think we are not up to the task? Women are as capable as men to investigate, more so even. We are patient, methodical, and intelligent. Attributes most men sadly lack—especially those of the upper classes.”

Oh, Althea, couldn’t you hold your quick temper for this particular meeting at least?

Eleanora thoroughly agreed, but from a business standpoint: not a wise plan. Blond God’s nostrils flared as his eyes narrowed at the insult. He either wanted to throttle Althea or kiss her senseless. How utterly fascinating.

The duke pointed to the other men. “The misogynist is Damon Cranston, Marquess of Brookton, the freckled fellow next to him is Merritt Redfern, Viscount Tolwood. Next to him is Warren Cowley, Viscount Huxley, Asher Colborne, Baron Wenlock, Mr. Brandon Knight, and standing toward the back, Gideon Broyles, Duke of Watford.”

Sweet Mother, they are all of the peerage, except one. 

And she had guessed correctly, the older man was a high-ranking peer.

“Pleased to meet you, Your Grace.” She turned toward the others. “Your Grace. My lords. Mr. Knight. My assistant, and sister, Althea Galway, and my cousin, Sybil Norton.”

Eleanora removed her hat, which pulled away the few pins holding her hair in place. Her wavy brown locks fell just past her shoulders. She kept her hair shorter than most women, but the length was useful for her laborer disguise as certain men sported longer hair.

Giving a slight bow, she said, “And I am Eleanora Galway, chief owner, and operator of The Galway Agency. Forgive our clothing, Your Grace; we were on a case when we received your note. I’d rip off this fake mustache, but it would remove my upper lip with it.” She smiled at her joke.

The men did not respond. They stood, mouths gaping, staring at her as if she had sprouted another head.

Well, this was an inauspicious start.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Christian could not believe his ears.

Eleanora?

This was a woman?

Credit where it was due, it was an astonishing and convincing disguise. Not one feminine attribute to be seen. Hell, she could practically stare him in the eye. Miss Galway looked as if she could easily wrestle any of them to the floor and pin them there.

Why did that idea send a blast of lust through him?

The shade of her hair was an attractive chestnut brown with a few threads of gold, as if someone had weaved each strand in perfect iridescence. Hard to tell if she was pretty, the huge mustache took up the lower part of her face, and there was grime smudged in places where there was no hair. She stepped closer, and the unmistakable odor of cigarette smoke invaded his senses.

“Your Grace? Your note stated you had a ghoulish delivery? Unless you no longer wish to employ us.”

Eleanora Galway’s voice was deep, husky, even sensual if he wanted to go that far. No wonder he had thought her a man.

“Allenby? You cannot be seriously considering hiring this—agency?” Damon stated, his voice incredulous.

“Well, I am certainly intrigued,” Asher smiled with amusement.

“I agree with Brookton; this is not the done thing,” Merritt whined.

 “Quiet. All of you.” Christian had to think.

What to do? How could women handle a delicate matter such as this?

That was not accurate and completely unfair.

Hell, he acted as if he were as much a misogynist as Damon. Which he wasn’t. Time to prove it and act on his true beliefs.

“Allow me to show you what was delivered. Then decide if you wish to take the case. It’s there on the table.” Christian pointed to the rectangular box. “Obviously, your complete discretion is warranted.”

Miss Galway—Eleanora—stepped forward, as did her sister and cousin. Why he was thinking of this young lady by her first name was indeed puzzling.

They peered inside, exchanged astonished looks, then continued to study the contents of the box.

“Did it come with a card, Your Grace?” Eleanora asked.

Not a flutter or stutter from this woman, he admired that. Nor from the sister and cousin. Christian decided then and there that if they wanted to take on the case, he would hire them. Damn the others’ prejudicial opinions.

“No, only a brown paper wrapping,” he replied.

Miss Norton looked about, and once she located it, bent to pick it up. “To the Rakes of St. Regent’s Park,” she read.

Eleanora met his gaze. “Is that the name of your club, Your Grace?”

Was that amusement or disdain he saw flash in her light brown eyes? Or a combination of both?

“We haven’t an official name, though others refer to us as such,” he responded. “Will you be taking on the case? We want to know who sent this—and why.”

The three women gathered in a small circle and conferred, murmuring quietly.

Warren gave him a look as if to say: “You cannot be serious about this.”

But he was. Deadly serious.

He glanced at the other men. Christian waved Gideon over, and he sauntered toward him.

“What do you think? I’m inclined to hire them.”

Gideon turned so no one could see his reaction. “It’s your club, old sock, do as you please. Might be diverting. I agree this option is far more desirable than bringing in the police. Though I do know one that is discreet. He could make some inquires for us.”

“Hold that thought. If the ladies prove not to be up to the task, we could hire another agency. But I think they will be. I’m convinced this body part is a morbid trick, nothing more.”

Eleanora strode to the table once again, and Christian and Gideon moved closer.

The lady removed her glove and touched the leg with the tip of her finger. “Cold, as if it had been on ice before it was delivered. Pale hair and skin, which could mean the victim has blonde hair.”

Miss Norton took notes, her stub of a pencil writing furiously as Eleanora spoke in a professional, detached tone.

“A tattoo of a butterfly on the ankle,” the sister interjected.

Eleanora leaned in closer. “Blue in color, black trim on the wings. Tiny and poorly done. Amateur work. Not done by an artist. The toenails are ridged, showing pitiable health, and not kept neatly trimmed. Could be an unfortunate.”

A street prostitute.

So far, Christian was impressed by her deductive skills. She certainly had all their attention now, for Damon, Warren, Brandon, Asher, and Merritt had moved nearer, hanging on her every word. She even had Gideon’s attention.

“A clean amputation using the circular-cut sawing method. Not frenzied. Reasons for medical amputation: gangrene. A deformity. Untreatable ulcers, arterial diseases, diabetes mellitus, and/or the complications therein. An accident resulting in a crushed leg, though not the case here.”

“Can we lift fingerprints?” Althea Galway asked.

“Not certain it is feasible on skin. Make a note,” Eleanora stood up straight and met his gaze. “Did anyone touch this limb, Your Grace? Besides me, obviously.”

“Are you taking the case?”

“We are, Your Grace.”

“Good. Then cease with the ‘Your Grace’ and no ‘my lords’ either. It grows tedious. Call us by our title names. And no one touched the thing, though one of us touched the top of the box and the brown paper,” Christian replied. “Will a fifty-pound retainer be adequate for a start?”

She smiled, showing brilliant white teeth under the fake mustache. “More than adequate.”

Thankfully, Christian happened to have a roll of pound notes with him. He held it out to her. “There are close to twenty pounds there. I will have the rest delivered to…?” Damned if he could remember the address.

“One forty-nine Cleveland Street. We will be taking this leg with us.”

“Please make use of my carriage once again. Merely instruct Michaels to take you home. It would be a good deal safer than trying to hail a hansom or walking at this time of night,” Christian said.

“Thank you, much appreciated.”

“If I may ask,” Christian said as he stepped closer. “What you are going to do with the leg?”

“We have a surgeon that we use in various cases, and we will ask him to perform a thorough examination. He’s Canadian, late of the North-West Mounted Police.”

“Police?” Merritt cried. “We said no police!”

“I assure you, Tolwood, the man is not affiliated with any police here in London,” Eleanora stated firmly.

She remembered the names of their titles after hearing them only once. Christian liked that she spoke with bold confidence. An amused smile formed at the corner of his mouth.

“Who delivered this package?” Miss Norton asked.

“Our servant, Phillips,” Damon answered, taking a step closer to Miss Norton. “Actually, he is part of my massive staff—of servants.” He winked, but Miss Norton chose to ignore his feeble double entendre. “Well, he works for us here a few hours a week for extra recompense.”

Miss Norton poised her pencil. “His full name?” she asked coolly.

“Blast it if I know—Huxley?” Damon replied.

Warren ambled toward the wall and pressed the button. “How would I know a servant’s given name?” he mumbled.

As they waited for Phillips’s entrance, Eleanora covered the box with her sister’s shawl and tucked it under her arm. Althea Galway folded the brown paper and tucked it into her reticule. Miss Norton was still scribbling notes. An awkward silence settled over the room.

“We will be conducting interviews with each of you shortly. We will send word when we require a meeting. It will take place at Cleveland Street as we have our office there. Please give Miss Norton the addresses of where you are currently residing,” Eleanora stated.

The cousin marched up to each of the men and scribbled the addresses when Phillips entered the room.

“You rang, Your Grace? My lords?”

“Miss Eleanora Galway has a couple of questions for you regarding this box. Answer her truthfully,” Christian said.

“Your full name and address?” she asked.

Phillips gave her a surprised look but arranged his features into servant indifference. Christian’s lip curled. He had never cared for this man. Though he was adequate enough in his duties, perhaps it was time to find someone more suitable to work here. One he could at least tolerate.

“Aloysius Phillips. Currently, I am employed at the Marquess of Brookton’s townhouse in Mayfair as third footman, and have been doing extra duties here for the past eight months.”

Footmen were often referred to by their first name; he could see why Aloysius used his last.

“And this parcel?” Eleanora asked.

“Delivery took place about eight o’clock by a dirty-faced youth. They are often used to delivered parcels and letters. That rabble all look alike under the filth of the streets.”

He was not the only one who didn’t care for Phillips’s manner. Neither did Eleanora, for it was plain by her expression.

“Did you bring it upstairs immediately?” Eleanora asked.

“No, miss. I was busy seeing to the food and drinks. I brought it here about thirty-five minutes past eight.”

“That will be all for now. We will be questioning you later and in more depth.”

Phillips gave her a brisk nod.

Turning to him, Eleanora said, “I believe that we have all we need for the moment. I will be in touch soon. Good evening.” With a slight bow, she departed, her sister and cousin following close behind.

“What in hell just happened?” Asher asked.

“Phillips, you may go. In the future when there is a delivery, it is to be brought up immediately, understand?” Christian barked.

“Yes, Your Grace.” With the footman’s exit, the others turned toward him, all talking at once.

Christian raised his hand. “Let us sit and continue to eat. Besides, I need a drink.” He grabbed the whiskey decanter and splashed a generous amount into his tumbler. Once the men were seated, he passed it around.

“What possessed you, Christian?” Warren asked. “An all-female agency? I admit it is unique, but what if this is not some gruesome joke, but something far more nefarious and treacherous?”

“I agree,” Damon murmured, slumped in his chair, sipping his whiskey. “A bad business.”

Gideon slipped on his gloves, then tucked his walking stick under his arm. “I’ve had enough of this meeting; I am off to visit my other clubs. Brandon? Are you coming with me?”

“Yes, I believe I will. I need a diversion.”

“Then we wish you a good evening,” Gideon said. The two men departed.

Christian took a generous gulp, the burn tearing its way down his throat. “Listen, all of you. It’s time to adjust your various prejudices toward women. They are capable of more than men give them credit for. Allow them a chance to prove their talents.”

“That was a cracking good disguise,” Asher exclaimed. “Had no idea it was a woman under all that. Blasted tall, too. Looks as if she could hold her own.”

“Maybe Galway isn’t a woman. We didn’t see actual proof,” Damon stated laconically. “Perhaps they have perpetrated a complete scam, and they just walked out of here with all our names and addresses and twenty pounds as well.”

Merritt laughed. Then he sobered. “What if Damon is correct? They’ve got the leg, too.”

Christian picked up the newspaper and passed it to him. “Then it is an expensive scam indeed. Look at the ad, it isn’t cheap. And the business card. Easy enough to check. Twenty pounds? Mere pocket change to us. Believe me, I will be checking into them first thing tomorrow morning.”

“This drama has put me off this gathering. I cannot even remember what it was we were discussing,” Damon pouted.

“Spare us your bragging of yet another orgy,” Warren snapped irritably. “Your adventures grow tedious in the telling. I rather wonder if you are embellishing in most cases.”

Damon snarled at Warren, and Christian rolled his eyes. You would swear they all were still ten years of age and wearing short trousers. This sniping, usually teasing in nature, was getting well out of hand.

“No sexual tales tonight. We are in a crisis in more ways than one. Warren wishes to retire to his country estate due to exhaustion, and God knows what else. What is to be done?” Christian looked around the table at the other men. They didn’t reply. “Warren, I believe you should not venture to your country estate until this situation with the morbid delivery is resolved,” Christian said. “Will you stay in London?”

“I am not certain,” he replied, rubbing his forehead. “But I refuse to attend any upcoming social events. What is on our calendar this coming week?”

Christian reached for the notebook and flipped through the pages. Personally, he would have to attend one event as it would placate his mother. “Tomorrow night is the musicale at Asher’s townhouse.”

“I can postpone the bloody thing,” Asher interjected.

“Not at all. Merritt and Damon will attend.”

“Yes, by all means, pencil me in,” Damon replied drolly.

“Friday night is a ball at the Earl of Pembroke’s. I will attend that one.” Picking up the pen and dipping it in the bottle of ink, he scribbled his name next to the event. It should be crowded enough he can become lost in the throng and slip out early. “Anyone else has anything?”

“It appears you will be our representative for outside society this week, Christian. All I want to is to go to my townhouse and sleep for a week,” Warren declared. “Contact me when you have news. Otherwise, all of you leave me be.”

Though tempted to interrogate Warren, he would respect the privacy that he had asked for. As for this damned ball, Christian was heartily sorry now he had volunteered to attend. No matter. A brief appearance, then he would slither out and do as Warren said—sleep for a week. There would be no one there to interest him at any rate.

Tomorrow?

Check into The Galway Agency and the fascinating women attached to it. But the most fascinating of the trio to him?

Miss Eleanora by far.