Chapter 4

This wasn’t the first time Beau da Silva had been left breathless by a member of the opposite sex. But it was absolutely the first time he’d been knocked completely out of his senses by one.

He lay in the grass, perfectly still. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice, considering he’d nearly had his breath knocked out of him. He sucked in a gulp of air even as his heart slammed against the walls of his chest. A halo of wild red hair above him blotted out the sun, and a pair of eyes, as hard as emeralds and just as green, stared back at him. Below that was the most remarkable bosom. It was hardly the moment to be distracted by lush breasts, but in his defence they were only inches away from his face, and Christ, if Beau was about to die here, he supposed this wasn’t the absolute worst way to go.

“What in the hell are you doing here?”

He tried to put hand to his eyes to shield himself from the sun’s glare and green-eyed fury kneeling over him, but her hands pressed him down into the ground. For half a second he’d considered answering her question with a charming quip, before his good sense—aided by a strong sense of self-preservation—made him reconsider. He struggled against his attacker, expecting to easily throw off the fury, only to find his efforts rewarded by being held down even harder.

Was he… aroused by this?

Quite possibly.

“I’ll explain once you let me up.”

“You don’t get the privilege of setting the terms,” she replied. “Not here, and certainly not after what you just did.”

Beau blinked. What in the hell had he done? He’d dutifully arrived at the Everwell Manor as directed, even though he didn’t understand the reason why a charity run by, and for, a bunch of widows and spinsters was somehow instrumental to his wellbeing. His aunt had wanted a few moments alone with the proprietors, and since Beau hadn’t had the time to properly stretch his legs since yesterday, it didn’t seem completely unreasonable to bide his time in this rather remarkable garden.

But now he wondered if he should have asked a few more questions.

“I have no idea where here is, and you’re going to have to explain my crime.” Or at least, the one that wasn’t a murder charge.

She plucked the flower he’d just nestled in the buttonhole of his label and held it in front of him like an accusation.

“It’s a flower,” he said. He would have shrugged, if he could move his shoulders. “There were at least another two dozen on that one bush alone. I had no idea it was restricted.”

“Do you have any idea of the damage you could do?” she said through gritted teeth.

Damage? Beau thought. Couldn’t this banshee see that it was Beau who was about to be damaged?

“It’s a plant,” he grumbled, dispensing with any further attempts at charm, which were clearly wasted. “They grow. That’s what they do.”

Actually, he had no goddamn idea what plants did. His family had made a fortune cutting down trees, not growing them.

“Maddy!” Another woman’s voice, calm, but commanding, interrupted them from somewhere nearby. “For heaven’s sakes, let him up.”

Her call drew the banshee’s attention. Even though it made no sense at all, Beau found himself oddly deprived of her attentions, which was ridiculous given she still had him pinned to the ground.

“It’s quite all right,” he called out, which instantly snapped her attentions back to him. He let his gaze wander for a moment from her face down to her generous bosom. Then he lowered his voice and locked his gaze right on her. “I’m enjoying the view.”

Beau had always lived dangerously. But as her grip on his shoulders tightened and a look that was half befuddlement and half fury crossed her face, he had to wonder if his mouth had finally done in him. Maybe this red-haired siren would save a Saint John hangman the trouble.

Instead, he found himself hauled up to his feet. Righted, Beau was able to take in the woman who’d dropped him to the ground. This was not the same demure creature he’d met in the bookshop. Her fair skin was flushed and freckled from the sun, and her hair had come lose from its pins, a fiery crown on an impossibly lush but strong body.

Two women approached them, and for a moment Beau wasn’t certain if he was in the middle of some bizarre Greek play with a female chorus about to judge him for his sins. Except these two at least didn’t seem particularly eager to tear his limbs from body. Indeed, they seemed rather welcoming in comparison. One of them, the fairest of the three, he remembered being at the bookshop.

“Welcome to Everwell, Mr. Da Silva,” the eldest of the ladies said warmly. “I am Mrs. Phillipa Hartley. This is Mrs. Elouise Ashe. I believe you have met her husband, Dominic.”

Mrs. Hartley, a handsome woman with fair skin and keen eyes spoke with a calm but unmistakable authority. He shook hands with her, and then Mrs. Ashe, before Mrs. Hartley gestured to his attacker.

“And I believe you have already met Miss Madeline Murray,” she concluded with the understatement of the year. “We should go to the house. There is much to discuss.”

He brushed the grass off his sleeves, eyeing the women carefully. He shot a smile at the minotaur in the maze, who’d stalked off to retrieve a bucket and — dear Lord— a pair of pruning scissors she must have dropped before she tackled him.

“My apologies,” he repeated. “I have been trapped inside since the newspapers made the rounds. I needed fresh air and to stretch my legs.”

Beau’s next thought was interrupted Dominic Ashe, who approached the ladies with a friendly, unstudied air. The American didn’t seem the slightest bit bothered by Miss Murray and her death stare, which made Beau pause.

“What are you all doing out here?” Dominic asked. “Mrs. Turnbull and the others are waiting.”

“Yes, please get him out of my garden,” Miss Murray said, turning to Dominic, arms crossed. “He took one of the Duc de Cambridge damasks.”

Dominic turned to Beau with a look of simultaneous shock and amusement. “You didn’t.”

“My apologies,” he said, then turned to Miss Murray. “I have a soft spot for beautiful things.”

That line would have worked on any number of women, but Miss Murray, apparently, was not one of them. Indeed, from the taut line across her brow, it had made her more angry.

“Just because it’s beautiful doesn’t mean you can just help yourself to it,” she said. “That bush is full of blackspot. It’s a fungus. Handle it too much and you could spread it.”

There was an edge to her words. Anger to be sure, but Beau knew enough about anger that often behind it, was another emotion. Generally, it was fear.

“Congratulations da Silva,” Dominic said, nodding to him with undisguised amusement. “That’s the most I’ve heard Madeline Murray voluntarily speak since the day I met her.”

“I’m not sure what prize I’ve won,” he muttered under his breath.

Dominic laughed before returning his attention to Miss Murray, his voice warm. He clearly liked the red-haired hellion.

“This will all be worth it in the end, I promise you,” Dominic said.

“It better be,” she challenged, giving Beau a look of disdain so sharp Frank da Silva himself would have been proud. Madeline Murray was stunning, yes, but for all the intoxicating beauty of her soft body, there was a hardness there he was in no mood to tangle with.

Beau parried her disgust with an empty smile, a defence he’d honed early in life to spare himself the worst of the pain from a thousand cutting remarks courtesy of the man for whose measure, despite Beau’s near six feet, he could never quite reach.

“After you,” Dominic said, gesturing to Beau, who fell into step alongside him.

Aunt Vee wished to have a private conversation with the ladies of The Everwell Society, so Dominic took him to his home, which bordered the Everwell property. Not long after their arrival, they were met by Mr. Benjamin Miller, a local journalist who, according to the detective, had good connections across the region. Miller was a squarely built man with a hawkish nose and short reddish hair. His complexion was fair, save for the ink stains on two of his fingers. Beau got the impression that this man knew more secrets about the city than anyone would comfortably admit. The three men settled in the front parlour over a pot of strong coffee as Beau relayed as many details as he could think of about his father’s business, his associates, and where he was the night his father was shot. Beau had gone to his favourite club but left early to prepare for his trip to Halifax the following morning.

“And you don’t have a single person who can account for your whereabouts?” Miller asked.

There was something about the question that grated, for reasons Beau didn’t care to examine. If Beau were to throw a party, half the town would have been at the door. He’d once joked that he probably paid the salary of one of the columnists at the Saint John Tribune who felt the need to report on every party he attended and all the affairs Beau had been rumoured to be involved in. But at a time when he needed to be publicly seen, no one had come forward to support him. In fact, it appeared to be quite the opposite.

“If I did, I wouldn’t be here now, would I?” he said with barely concealed sarcasm. “No one saw me after ten that evening.”

Miller looked over his notebook, then looked over at Dominic. “I’ll start making some inquiries.”

“Thank you,” he replied.

Miller shrugged. “If I crack this, I’ll get the scoop of the year. Maybe even my career,” he said. He nodded, picked up his bowler, then left.

Beau looked over at Dominic. “He’s a real man of the people, isn’t he?”

“He’s a bit rough around the edges,” Dominic said. “I suppose he has to be, given the type of work he does. But he’s good, and he protects his sources.”

“Let’s just hope he gets his story,” Beau said. “The sooner, the better. I’m already convinced Miss Murray will murder me in my sleep.”

His quip brought a sharp burst of laughter from the American detective.

“There is no one else I would trust with my wife’s life more than her. You don’t have to be friends with her. She doesn’t need to like you. But she will keep you safe. And if you were in a dark corner, you would want her in front of you.”

What would Beau want to do with Madeline Murray in a dark corner? A thousand unholy, delicious things. She was so tempting in a way he really couldn’t articulate. She’d gripped something carnal inside him which made absolutely no sense whatsoever. Beau da Silva liked his women bright. Warm. Open. Pliable. Despite the fiery red of her hair, Madeline Murray was as warm as a February morning.

“It still doesn’t feel right,” Beau said. “I’m not one to sit on my ass while other people take care of my problems.”

Mr. Ashe sat back then, raising his brows in what looked to be a flash of recognition. He put down his pen and leaned forward, elbows on the desk, his hands carefully steepled in front of him.

“Look—let me say, I’ve been in a position similar to yours. I know what this feels like.”

“Then you know I can’t be shoved off into the woods with a banshee while you and a bunch of these Everwell women go off and save my neck,” he said. “They run a school, for Christ’s sakes. A noble effort for sure, but they shouldn’t be putting themselves in harm’s way for me.”

“These Everwell women have the gift of caring for people that no one else gives a sweet damn about. And that includes idiots like you and me. If they do the job—and they will—they will get more resources to keep doing what they do, and you will get that most rare of gifts.”

“Life?”

“A second chance.”

Veronica Turnbull’s presence in Everwell’s parlour reminded Maddy of that scene in Austen’s Pride and Prejudice when Lady Catherine de Burgh visited Longbourn. To be fair, Mrs. Turnbull wasn’t as much a tyrant as Austen’s overbearing aristocrat, nor even an aristocrat at all. Indeed, that title fell to Lady Em. But the strangeness of seeing this woman in their home could not be denied. After all, Veronica Turnbull had, quite unwittingly, seen The Everwell Society of Scandalous Spinsters at work. She had no idea, of course. Elouise had been in a heavy disguise, and when the job was concluded, had the plausible excuse of aiding a detective working undercover for an illustrious and very rich client back in Boston.

Lady Em and Tilda, behind the gracious hostesses that they were, had taken extra care to see to Mrs. Turnbull’s comfort. Indeed, the visit had begun with all the social conventions of a normal afternoon call—pleasantries were exchanged, and cups of tea along with plates of pastries were passed. There had been discussions about the weather and the deplorable state of the spring roads, and recommendations from Tilda, a doctoress with years of experience and recently the very public endorsement of her skills by the private secretary of the Lieutenant Governor, about remedies for a cough that had been troubling Archie Turnbull.

“This has been a most refreshing afternoon,” Mrs. Turnbull said, and for a moment Maddy almost wanted to believe it. She sat on the settee next to Rimple and Elouise, hands folded in her lap, watching their guest. There seemed little familial resemblance between Mr. da Silva and his diminutive aunt, except perhaps for her ability to appear genuinely convivial even when she would rather be somewhere else. “I am sorry for the circumstances that bring me here to intrude upon you.”

“Sometimes the best must be made of an unfortunate situation,” Lady Em said, rising to her feet and waiting for Tilda, who joined her. “We will leave the younger ladies to discuss the details. You are in good hands, and so is your nephew.”

Mrs. Turnbull nodded, her smile placid but not quite meeting her eyes.

“It was a pleasure to meet you,” Tilda said.

“Likewise,” their guest replied, “Thank you for the advice about Archie’s cough. I will speak to the apothecary about a solution.”

“If they won’t do it for you,” Lady Em spoke up, “come see us. Miss Murray grows all the necessary herbs in the gardens. Tilda can mix it up for you if needed.”

Mrs. Turnbull nodded her head to Tilda, a gesture that raised Mrs. Turnbull just a little in Maddy’s estimation.

The Everwell matrons left the room. An uncomfortable silence descended, broken by the rustle of cotton and silk skirts as the women shifted in their seats. Phillipa pressed her lips together, then folded her hands, indicating to the room that the real conversation was about to begin.

“I am grateful you are able to provide some assistance,” Mrs. Turnbull began. “As you can imagine, this is a rather unexpected and difficult time for my family.”

“It is an unfortunate business,” Phillipa replied. “I am quite surprised, however, that you were open to coming here and discussing this with us, given the obvious means at your disposal.”

“I was not at all certain as to Mr. Ashe’s suggestion,” Mrs. Turnbull said. “But in the end, there is no one I can trust. We pay people well, but for such a sum as is being offered for Beau’s return, there is more than enough incentive to alert the authorities to my nephew’s whereabouts.”

Phillipa stopped to take a sip of tea, her next statement pleasant, but direct.

“And what makes you trust that we wouldn’t?”

A corner of Mrs. Turnbull’s mouth tweaked up, betraying her amusement at Phillipa’s directness.

“He was very helpful with a private matter for one of Archie’s employees last month,” she replied with equal directness. “I don’t think he would risk his reputation by suggesting you.”

Phillipa nodded, accepting her answer, when Mrs. Turnbull continued.

“Beau has offered to pay you five times the amount offered for his capture.” She paused, taking her teacup in her hand, prepared to take another sip. “And any expenses related to the imposition on your operations.”

Five times? With that sum, she could build a small greenhouse and fill it with exotic plants. She’d always wanted one, where she could attempt to stretch out the growing season for some of her more tender plants.

“That is quite generous,” Phillipa agreed, “since you have no idea what those expenses may be.”

“He is man with considerable means at his disposal, Mrs. Hartley,” she replied, her gaze straying to Maddy, “as you are perfectly aware.”

Maddy congratulated herself on remaining calm even as she felt heat prickle at the back of her neck. If Mrs. Turnbull only knew where that book had gone.

“Aside from the expenses incurred, we will accept no fee. We will send our most appropriate staff to stay as a housekeeper for your nephew and do our absolute best to ensure no harm comes to him,” Phillipa said. “Too often we must protect Everwell and the vulnerable who come here from those with difficult and even violent intentions. This person is well trained in many of the martial arts and will come in handy. We will be very discreet.”

“I have little doubt.” Mrs. Turnbull’s eyes narrowed slightly as she seemed to be taking the measure of Phillipa’s offer. “But no fee? That hardly seems reasonable given your charitable work. He can afford to pay you.”

“I have little doubt,” Phillipa said with such directness it appeared to soothe Mrs. Turnbull’s indignation. “But it is not his money that will seal this arrangement.”

Before Mrs. Turnbull could say another word, Phillipa flipped open the copy of yesterday’s issue of the Halifax Chronicle and presented the incriminating society column to Mrs. Turnbull. The slightest bit of pink rose from her dark blue collar.

“I want you to publicly repudiated these harmful rumours about The Everwell Society,” Phillipa said, her voice calm.

Mrs. Turnbull paused, then put down the paper. To her credit, she kept her voice and manner steady.

“Mrs. Hartley,” she began, in a soothing tone they’d expected. “I would not worry yourself about such trifling gossip. Everyone knows that half the words printed in that column are utter nonsense.”

“That trifling gossip is coming from an organization that has a certain degree of standing in the community,” Elouise interjected, her voice calm, but firm. “And the nature of those rumours are not trifling. They are criminal in nature.”

“It is nothing at all,” Mrs. Turnbull protested, attempting to wave away Elouise’s concerns with a flick of her wrist. “Do you think I would be here if I believe for a moment this was a den of thieves?”

“You arrived in a hired cab,” Rimple said, her normally bright demeanour a little more pointed. “And just a moment ago you stated that you don’t really trust anyone. It matters to us what the people reading these papers think of us.”

Phillipa cast a glance at Elouise and Rimple, before turning her attention back to Mrs. Turnbull.

“It makes it difficult, if not impossible, to place our students with families in respectable homes when an organization with the clout of the New Women’s League, which you helped found and currently oversee, is publicly saying such things about us. It is damaging in the extreme,” she said. “Find the source of the rumours and publicly discredit them. We can trade on reputations—your nephew’s innocence for our own.”

Quiet descended again, as Mrs. Turnbull assessed the measure of Phillipa’s challenge. For a moment, Maddy wondered if the woman would waver. She was clearly a proud woman. Hopefully, she was not a petty one. These rumours needed to be quashed and only Mrs. Turnbull had the power to do it.

“Just because I say something doesn’t mean they will go away.”

“Just because we are sending one of our best people to guard your nephew doesn’t mean we will be successful,” Phillipa countered.” But we will do our very best and stake our reputation on ensuring it doesn’t happen. We will try to help, at least.”

Mrs. Turnbull took a sip of tea, her eyes glancing down at the paper once more. Though the room was full, it was quiet save for the gentle clink of the porcelain cup as she set it down on her saucer.

“We have an agreement.”