A Match of Wits (25 page)

“I’ve been a complete and utter fool in regard to you,” he said quickly.

“I’m sorry?”

“You have no reason to be sorry, but I on the other hand . . . Agatha, can you ever forgive me?”

“I’m not certain I understand where you’re going with this.”

Zayne couldn’t help but notice the room had gone remarkably quiet. He took a step closer to Agatha. “You’ve always been there when I needed you most, and yet I have never once told you how very dear you are to me.”

“Yes, you have. You told me I was one of your dearest friends.”

“I misspoke.”

Her eyes widened. “You don’t want to be friends with me?”

“It seems I just misspoke again. Of course I want to be friends with you, but . . . ah, hmmm . . . You see . . .”

“Your pocket, Uncle Zayne, your pocket,” he heard Piper yell from somewhere in the midst of the crowd.

His niece was probably more than a little annoyed with him since she’d been forced to step in even though she’d wanted him to do this completely on his own.

“Was that Piper?” Agatha asked.

“Yes, and I don’t think she’s pleased with me. I’m forgetting our plan.”

“You have a plan?”

“Indeed, but I probably shouldn’t have told you that. I don’t think Piper wanted you to know she’s been helping me.”

“Uncle Zayne, just get on with it,” Piper yelled.

“Ah, right. I should get on with it.” Fumbling in his pocket, he retrieved the ring he’d stashed there before he’d gotten out of the carriage. He looked up and found Agatha watching him warily, although there was also a trace of something that almost looked like excitement in her eyes.

“I know I’ve gone about this in a horrible fashion, Agatha. And I know that everyone has made excuses for me because I’m shockingly naïve when it comes to matters of a romantic nature, but . . . this was my grandmother’s ring, and she told me, when she gave it to me, that I was only supposed to give it to—”

“To me. You’re supposed to give it to me.”

The whispers began immediately, even as dread settled in his stomach. Slowly maneuvering his crutches around, Zayne found himself facing none other than Miss Helena Collins.

She was dressed, not for a ball, but for traveling, her light hair looking untidy underneath a huge hat with some type of bird attached to the crown. Two bright patches of pink stained her cheeks, and her expression was decidedly agitated.

Even though she’d been the lady he’d thought he was going to spend the rest of his life with, he felt the most uncommon urge to shake the woman since she’d just ruined what should have been one of the greatest moments of his life.

“Surprise,” she said through lips that barely moved.

“What are you doing here, Helena?”

“I’ve come to marry you, of course, like you promised me.” Her eyes began shooting sparks. “What I’d like to know—given that you are
my
fiancé—is why it almost seemed as if you were about to propose to someone else.”

Before he had an opportunity to address that bit of nonsense, a loud squeal pierced the air, and Matilda charged into the room. She set her sights on Helena, and then . . . chaos erupted.

H
ardly half an hour after the humiliating fiasco in the ballroom, Agatha snatched up the handkerchief she’d placed on the seat of the carriage and dashed another annoying tear away. She held up a hand when Francis opened his mouth. “I’m fine.”

“Of course you are,” he murmured in a very soothing, very un-Francis-like tone. “And might I add that you’re looking quite lovely in that revolting frock of pink. I must say, you’re one of the few ladies I know who could pull off that particular shade.”

A snort took her by surprise, even as Drusilla rolled her eyes and continued tucking her hair underneath a dark wig that had seen better days.

“She’ll
be
fine,” Drusilla said, bending over to take a mirror out of Agatha’s black traveling trunk. “But she doesn’t want, or need, coddling. Both of you should remember that.”

“I haven’t tried to coddle her at all,” Jeffrey Murdock said from his place beside Francis.

Agatha caught Jeffrey’s gaze. “And I thank you for that, Jeffrey, and also thank you for the use of your carriage.”

Smiling, Jeffrey shrugged. “Well, I didn’t really see that I had much choice in the matter, considering you jumped in it as I was pulling away from your house. I decided it would be less than chivalrous to throw you out.”

“You could have gone on your way after I went back into my house to get my disguises.”

“True, but given the trying situation you’ve just been made to suffer, I thought you might be in need of a shoulder to cry on.”

Wiping another tear away, Agatha forced a smile. “You should save that shoulder, Jeffrey, for a lady who’d appreciate it more. I’m done with gentlemen . . . for good this time. And I’m done with tears.” Her smile wobbled when a single tear dribbled down her cheek. “Or I will be soon.”

Jeffrey released a dramatic sigh. “It seems to be my lot in life these days to discover interesting ladies only to then discover they’re incapable of returning my affections.”

“I’m not really that interesting.”

“I beg to disagree,” Jeffrey argued. “Why, it seems to me we’re currently off on a lovely adventure, not that I’ve been given any particulars on exactly what type of adventure it may be, but that, my dear, makes you very interesting.”

“We’ll probably end up in jail,” Francis said.

“Really?” Jeffrey’s eyes went wide. “How, um, delightful.”

Francis shook his head. “Believe me, jail is not delightful, which is why I’m going to suggest you consider simply dropping us off at the brothel and finding your way home. I’ll make certain, if we don’t land in jail, that the ladies are returned to their respective residences when we complete our business this evening.”

“I don’t remember anyone saying we were on our way to a brothel,” Jeffrey said slowly. “I thought perhaps, given
that you and I, Mr. Blackheart, have disguised our features with whiskers, and Agatha and Drusilla have changed into somewhat questionable gowns and put on wigs, that we were on our way to some type of costume ball.”

“Sadly, no,” Francis replied before he brightened. “Although, I suppose if we searched hard enough, we’d find a costume ball, and that would be great fun—wouldn’t it, ladies?”

Agatha lifted her chin. “Nice try, Francis, but I’m in no mood for another ball. I need to work.”

“I understand that, Agatha,” Francis began, “but we haven’t had time to plan this adventure. All we have is a message from Dot saying that Mary might be hiding out at this brothel. We have no backup, no clear idea what we’ll find tonight, and I fear—given your distress over Helena’s untimely appearance this evening—that you’re not thinking rationally.”

“You don’t have to come with me.”

“Right, because I always abandon you in your hour of need.”

Agatha leaned forward. “Forgive me, Francis. I’m not being very fair to you or anyone else tonight. You must realize though that, since we have no idea how long Mary will stay in this brothel, if she’s even still there, we have to move now.”

“Who is this Mary person?” Jeffrey asked.

“She’s an assassin who has been hired to kill Agatha,” Drusilla said.

“An . . . assassin?”

“Indeed, but not a very good one, since she’s tried to kill me twice now but hasn’t met with much success,” Agatha said. “Now then, I need you gentlemen to turn your heads, because I have to put my pistols under my skirt.”

Jeffrey blinked. “Did she say
pistols
?”

“She did,” Francis replied, “but look out the window, because her skirt’s going up.”

Waiting until the gentlemen had turned their heads, Agatha yanked up her skirt, attached a pistol to her left leg and another to her right. She snapped her two garters to make sure they’d hold the weight and then settled her skirt back into place. Diving into her trunk, she pulled out some makeup and began to smooth some of it over her eyes, wincing when the carriage rolled over a rut. “How do I look?” she asked a moment later.

“Deranged,” Drusilla said, even as Francis and Jeffrey said “Lovely” at the same time.

Drusilla sighed. “Stop coddling her. It’ll only make her weepy, and then that paint she just smeared all over her eyes will run, and then we won’t be admitted into the brothel, and . . .”

For some odd reason, Francis got a very unusual look on his face, just as he began shaking his head. “It was truly deplorable, the way Helena showed up this evening, and I’m so very sorry you had to deal with that, right as Zayne seemed about to propose to you.”

“Francis, good heavens, when I said don’t coddle her, I certainly didn’t intend for you to infuriate her by reminding her of events she probably wants to forget,” Drusilla snapped.

“But if she starts crying again, maybe we really won’t get admitted into the brothel, and then, well, we can actually make a plan before we proceed with the information Dot gave us and we won’t end up in jail.”

“I like the way you think,” Jeffrey said, earning a nod from Francis and a glare from Drusilla. “What? If you ask me, we’re behaving rashly, and I know that I called what we’re doing a lovely adventure, but now that I’ve been apprised of where we’re going and that there might be an assassin there waiting to kill poor Agatha, well . . .” He squared his shoulders.
“We should turn the carriage around immediately and return Agatha to her mother. Mothers are known to be experts at dealing with broken hearts, at least my mother seems to be quite knowledgeable on that topic. Besides, poor Cora is probably even now roaming the halls of her house, searching for Agatha and growing more frantic by the moment since Agatha’s not there.”

“I talked to my mother before I left,” Agatha said. “And yes, she did seem worried about me, but she understands that I’m not one to hide away and sulk when life throws a disaster at me. I told her I was leaving the house because I needed some air to clear my head.”

“I don’t believe it would occur to her that you’re on your way to find that air in a brothel though,” Francis pointed out.

“Well, no, probably not, but I certainly wasn’t going to tell her exactly where I was going. She’d only worry more.”

“I hate to be the lone voice of reason in the midst of what seems to be insanity, but”—Jeffrey glared at Francis—“Agatha and Drusilla are ladies, proper ladies, and they’re not equipped to deal with assassins—something you, Mr. Blackheart, should know. I truly believe you’re going to have to put an end to this before someone gets hurt or, worse, killed.”

Francis blew out a breath. “While I appreciate your concern, Mr. Murdock, Drusilla is not your average lady. She’s a highly competent investigator who used to work for the government before she began working for Theodore. She’s quite handy with a pistol, uses the fact she’s a lady to lethal advantage, and I wouldn’t dream of telling her I’m putting an end to anything, especially since I’m fairly certain she’d shoot me.”

Drusilla’s eyes widened, and then she smiled a lovely smile. “Why, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me, Francis.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Fine, Drusilla’s competent,” Jeffrey said, “but what of Agatha? I find it hard to believe she’s lethal.”

“I can be lethal,” Agatha argued. “I’m a great shot, if I’m not trying to shoot something off a man’s head, and I have wonderful instincts. Don’t I, Francis?”

Before Francis could answer, the carriage began to slow. Agatha peered out the window, her nerves beginning to hum as they always did right before she was about to plunge into investigating. “I think we’ve arrived.”

Jeffrey joined her at the window. “I must say, this isn’t an area my coachman normally delivers me to.”

“He did seem surprised when I gave him the address,” Francis admitted right before the door opened and a groom stuck his head inside.

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Murdock, but I think we might have delivered you to the wrong place.”

“Unfortunately,” Jeffrey said as he stepped out of the carriage, “you didn’t.”

The groom’s eyes turned huge before he gave Agatha his hand, helped her out and then did the same for Drusilla. Francis climbed out last and surveyed the building in front of them. “Seems like your typical brothel to me.” He nodded to the groom. “Have the coachman pull the carriage to the other side of the street and . . . are you armed?”

“We have a shotgun.”

“Keep it handy,” Francis said before he turned to Agatha and offered her his arm. “This is your chance to turn back.”

“Honestly, Francis, when have you ever known me to turn back?”

“I can always hope there’ll be a first time.”

Taking his arm, she walked with him toward the brothel, pausing for a moment when a shiver slid down her spine.

“What is it?”

“Nothing—just a shiver.”

Francis glanced behind her, his grip tightening on her arm. “The last time you felt a shiver we soon found ourselves chased by that tribe of Indians.”

“True, but if you’ll recall, that was brought about because I was riding one of their horses—although, I truly didn’t know that it’d been stolen from them.”

“My point is that something bad always happens when you shiver.”

“Maybe I’m just cold. It’s begun to snow, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Are we leaving?” Jeffrey asked, looking hopeful as he guided Drusilla to a stop right next to Agatha.

“Apparently not.” Francis tightened his grip on Agatha’s arm, helped her up the steps, and then paused when the door opened before they even reached it. A heavily made-up woman, wearing a vivid gown of blue, her dyed black hair at distinct odds with her pale complexion, smiled at them from the doorway. “Darlings, don’t linger out there in the cold. Come in, come in.” Grabbing Francis, she yanked him through the door, causing Agatha to hustle in after them since Francis hadn’t released his hold on her.

“I’m Madame Bellefonte,” the lady proclaimed as Francis took the hand she thrust out to him and brought it to his lips.

“And I’m enchanted,” he returned. “Mr. Brown at your service.”

“How absolutely scrumptious you are, Mr. Brown.” Madame Bellefonte turned and eyed Agatha up and down. “And who would you be, dear, and why would you desire to come to my humble establishment? We don’t normally see lady visitors, unless they’re looking for a . . . position.”

Agatha swallowed. She hadn’t thought about that. Normally when she visited brothels she did so as a servant. Summoning up a smile she hoped came across as somewhat vapid, she giggled. “I’m Daisy Mae, ah . . .”

Glancing around, her gaze settled on a picture filled with scantily dressed ladies with a dog by their feet. “Hound, Daisy Mae Hound, and we’re out this fine night looking for amusement. My friend, Mr. Brown, thought that bringing us here, to a, er, establishment of your type, would be just a great lark.” She forced another giggle. “I’m hoping you offer gambling, because I just
adore
rolling the dice.”

Madame Bellefonte narrowed her eyes. “Do you now?” she asked before she set her sights on Jeffrey. “And who is that?”

“That’s my very good friend, Mr. Quinto,” Francis explained. “He’s not from around here, and he’s rather shy, which is why he doesn’t care to participate in conversations.”

“Hmm, interesting,” Madame Bellefonte said as she glanced at Drusilla, who was gazing around with unusually wide eyes, even as a silly smile stretched her lips. “And you would be?”

“In need of a good drink,” Drusilla said, not bothering to give Madame Bellefonte the courtesy of a name.

“We serve drinks in the next room, but gambling is up a floor.” Madame Bellefonte smiled. “I’m afraid we don’t allow ladies in the gambling room—unless they work for me, of course—which means you two lovelies will have to wait outside while the gentlemen play.”

“But I adore the dice,” Agatha said, keeping her smile firmly in place. “I’ll be so disappointed if I can’t have a turn.”

“Life is filled with disappointments, dear. You’ll need to get used to them,” Madame Bellefonte said before she took Francis by the arm and began tugging him away. “Allow me
to escort you to the gambling room.” She looked over her shoulder and nodded at Jeffrey. “Come along, Mr . . . ?”

“Quintino,” Jeffrey supplied before he winced.

Madame Bellefonte turned around. “I thought it was Quinto.”