Chapter Two

Four days later, the former Earl of Ashland’s solicitor called, wanting to discuss the changeover.

Time was running out, and it wasn’t because the late earl’s wife and daughter were waiting for him to make decisions or because his tenants on his newly acquired land were in a sort of limbo. It was because Armbruster’s mother knew and she wasn’t going to keep quiet for long. So he met with the man and discussed the estate, most of which was far beyond his knowledge. Jacob knew the law like the back of his hand but crops and rents? That was beyond him. He needed to learn much if he wanted to be successful, and there was no question he wanted to be successful.

He might not desire the albatross of a title, but he would do right by it. People depended on him, after all.

After the solicitor left, Jacob sat in his office, contemplating the change that his very comfortable life was about to undergo. The idea of the challenge excited him, but the thought of giving up his career saddened him. He knew enough to know that an earl could not also engage in work.

His housekeeper, assistant, and general person-who-took-care-of-him-and-his-house entered the front parlor that he had converted into his office.

She wrung the dust cloth in her hands, her white cap askew, wisps of wiry red hair poking out of the sides. Her cheeks were plump and continuously rosy, her nose pert, her eyes small, but always twinkling. She was the bane of his existence and the only person who held his life together.

For some reason, Agatha Smith loved Jacob like a mother loved a son. He’d never understood why, but he relished her affection.

“There’s a lady here to see you,” she said. “I tried to push her off, but she was having none of it. Said she would wait until you were available.”

Jacob closed his eyes and rubbed them with the pads of his thumbs. “I don’t recall having an appointment with a lady.” He really needed a secretary, a man of business, or someone who would organize his life a little better than he did.

Then he remembered that he wouldn’t be a solicitor for much longer and a secretary was not needed. Or rather a secretary like that. Damn, but he would need someone to run his life now that he was an earl. Isn’t that how it was done?

“I tried to tell her she needed to make an appointment, but she said this was an emergency.”

Jacob dropped his hands and looked up at Mrs. Smith, who was still wringing the cloth and looking anxious.

“I don’t do emergencies.”

Jacob Baker was a solicitor, but not the kind who wrote up wills and handled estates. He worked for the barristers, researching cases, interviewing witnesses, tracking people down when needed. He was a quiet man, who lived on a quiet street, in a quiet part of London, who received great satisfaction in working behind the scenes of the city’s courtrooms.

“Send her in, but don’t bring tea. I don’t want her staying too long. I’ll hear her story, send her on her way, and be done with it.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

The first time she’d called him “my lord” he had snapped at her and she had cried, and he’d felt like a heel. He could tell she was proud to be working for an earl now. It was so strange that “sir” had suited him just fine four days ago.

Jacob stood to button his coat, attempting to appear presentable. He normally did not have people come to him. He was the one who tracked people down. So he was interested to see what this woman wanted.

She entered, tall and gaunt, her stiff black skirts creating a rustling sound that reminded him of autumn’s dead leaves. Her face was long and thin, her chin pointed, her eyes cold, dark, and assessing. There was no warmth to her gaze, no smile on her lips.

“Mr. Baker, thank you for taking the time to see me on such short notice.”

Jacob indicated the chair in front of his desk, and the woman rearranged her skirts to sit. As he sat, she took a swift glance around his office, quickly weighing and judging her surroundings, her lips turned down in what Jacob thought was probably perpetual disapproval.

His home, like his life, was simple. The office walls were lined with law books. A fire burned in the grate, chasing away the chill of the rainy day. The only furniture was his desk, the two chairs in front of his desk, and little else.

A few gas lamps lit the corners, spreading a warm glow into the room.

“Mrs. Smith said that your business was of an urgent nature?”

She pulled out a piece of thick paper from her reticule. “I am Dowager Lady Morris.” She paused and watched for his reaction, but Jacob came up blank. He’d never heard of a Lady Morris before. The woman, however, seemed to think that he should have.

“I am the guardian of Charlotte Morris, the late Lord Morris’s niece. His deceased brother’s daughter.”

Jacob folded his hands on the top of his desk and tried to appear as if he were interested in the convoluted family tree of the Morrises. The woman’s attitude and overall nature irked him. She clearly thought he should be impressed by her title, but titles had never impressed Jacob. A person’s nature was far more important than a hand-me-down title.

“Miss Morris has disappeared, and I need you to find her.”

Jacob raised his brows in surprise.

Lady Morris placed the paper on his desk and slid it toward him.

Jacob looked at the paper and was surprised to see a graphite drawing of a very beautiful woman. She was looking over a shoulder, hair tumbling down a back that wasn’t drawn in but rather assumed to be there. Loose, windblown curls were pulled away from her face and pinned in the back. Large eyes, full of laughter, looked at him. It was a rather good drawing with bold lines, swiftly sketched, giving just enough detail but not the full picture. Enough to let the viewer fill in the rest with his imagination.

“This is Miss Charlotte Morris?” he asked as he picked up the sketch. The eyes. Those eyes seemed so familiar.

“It is.” There was a pinched look around Lady Morris’s mouth. Jacob sensed disapproval. Of him or of Miss Morris?

He put the sketch down and folded his hands again. “I’m sorry, Lady Morris, but I’m not in the business of finding people. Perhaps a person employed in private investigatory work would better suit your needs.”

“I want you, Mr. Baker.”

Jacob’s irritation flared, but he tamped it down. “I’m a solicitor, my lady, not a private investigator.”

“I will pay you well.”

Jacob took a deep breath for patience. “It’s not about the money. It’s about my time, and it’s about my current obligations.”

Obligations that had now taken a severe right turn.

Lady Morris flicked the edge of the drawing with a long, yellowed fingernail. “My niece is missing. I need to find her. Surely you can understand my concern.”

Not really. Probably because he did not see concern coming from her. He thought that maybe she negotiated with the fishmonger with more passion than she was conducting this interview.

“Has she been kidnapped? Taken against her will?”

“I don’t believe so. No.”

“Run off with a lover?”

She scoffed. “Hardly.”

“Miss Morris simply walked away and never came back?” He hardly blamed the girl if she’d been forced to live with this woman.

“I don’t know what happened to her, Mr. Baker. That is why I am here to hire you.”

“You cannot hire me when my services are not for sale.”

She pressed her lips together, and deep lines gathered around them. “Name your price.”

She was truly something, wasn’t she? To people like her, people like him always had a price.

“Why me?” he asked. “Surely, a woman with a strong constitution like yourself would have done your research, and you would know that this type of work is not what I do.”

“I have done my research, and you came highly recommended from Sir John Lewis.”

Jacob paused. Sir John Lewis was a meticulous barrister, well respected, with a fine reputation in the law community. Jacob had worked with him on several cases, and he felt a touch of warmth that Lewis would recommend him for anything. But how in the world did Lewis know this woman?

“He was an acquaintance of my late husband’s,” she said, as if reading his thoughts. “He said you would be the best person to help me.”

Jacob didn’t want to turn down anything that had John Lewis’s name attached to it, but he felt uneasy about this woman.

“What do you think happened to Miss Morris?” he asked, glancing at the sketch again.

Those eyes.

“I don’t know.”

He thought of the women pulled from the Thames, sans head and hands.

“There have been…” He cleared his throat. “Some unfortunate events these past few weeks. Women found—”

“The dead women. I know what you’re speaking of. And you think my niece could be a victim?”

He’d been reluctant to broach the subject for fear of frightening her. He should not have been. This woman had to be made from steel. Or she was curiously without any compassion or feeling, for her question indicated interest, not concern or horror.

“There is that possibility,” he said softly, with a strange pang that such a beautiful girl’s life could be so brutally snuffed out.

“If I thought that I wouldn’t be sitting here, would I, Mr. Baker?”

He looked at her, surprised at her cold tone.

“I suppose not, Lady Morris.”

“So, you will help me?”

He glanced at the drawing again.

What happened to Charlotte Morris? A lover? A lover’s spat? An argument with the hard, cold woman sitting before him?

But he pushed all of that from his mind. Even if he wanted to take this case he couldn’t. He had the earldom’s books to go over, the widow and her daughter to meet. He had so much to learn about his new life that taking this on would not be fair to Lady Morris nor Miss Morris.

“I’m sorry, Lady Morris, but I can’t take this on. Finding people is not my specialty. You should hire a professional.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed, and he bit back a smile. Did she think that she could change his mind just by glaring at him? Did she think that she could walk into his office, his home, and dictate his actions? Tell him what to do? Demand he be her servant?

He suppressed a shudder at the thought of working for her, but a bit of remorse lodged next to the anxiety of his new life. He really would have liked to have had the opportunity to find Miss Morris, even if it was just to get the chance to meet her and see those eyes in real life.

He stood and looked down on Lady Morris until she had no choice but to stand as well, else things become awkward. She lifted her pointy chin as she rose.

“I will leave the drawing and pray you change your mind,” she said. “You know where to find me.”

Actually, he didn’t know where to find her, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. Instead he nodded.

Jacob listened to her make her way through the entryway and out the front door. He stepped to the window and watched through the rain streaming down the outside glass, the wavy form of the tall, thin woman as she hurried through the rain, umbrella nearly useless, and climbed into a waiting carriage.

He waited until the carriage pulled away before turning back to his desk and looking down into the eyes of Miss Charlotte Morris.