“I wait with bated breath,” she whispered. She realized that she’d begun leaning forward, inch by inch, until they were far closer than was socially acceptable. However, backing down wasn’t in her nature; therefore she waited.
“Turns out, I have a sister who is quite like you. And I was the one who oversaw her education, which means…” He leaned forward one inch further. “I just broke the mold you thought I fit in. Hmmm…how does it feel when your judgment is wrong? Bitter? You should have asked for the honey.”
His eyes flickered from hers to a fraction lower. Her lips, she realized, and the traitorous things buzzed as if they were being touched by his gaze.
So rapidly that she blinked and missed it, he leaned back.
A sound distracted her enough that she turned to see the shopkeeper’s wife taking a seat in the chair to the left, no doubt keeping an eye on the two of them at the request of her husband.
Lord Penderdale’s eyes gaze slid over to the woman, then to Elizabeth as a knowing smile marred his unusually handsome features. “I’ll take my leave, Miss Essex. As always, a pleasure.” He stood and made a bow.
With a turn on his heel, he started down the street, paused, and turned back to her.
“Twelve bees. In its lifetime, a bee makes just one-twelfth of a teaspoon of honey.” With a smirk, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Elizabeth leaned back and blew out a frustrated breath.
Because of all the things that she hated in life, being wrong was chief among them.
And she had the sinking suspicion she was indeed wrong about more than one thing.
Drat.
Five
It is not enough to have a good mind. The main thing is to use it well.
—René Descartes, Discourse on Method
Collin spoke several words under his breath that his sister would scold him for as he walked away from the insufferable woman he’d swear already hated him. And why? What had he done to deserve such venom? He’d known her all of a few hours, and already she’d made herself his judge, jury, and executioner. Of all the insufferable, self-important, and frustrating people… She had to be their queen.
But his lips twitched in glee as he recalled her face when he’d tossed back the very information she’d not expected him to have. It had been a lucky recollection, how much honey a bee made in its lifetime. His mother had kept a hive in their country home, and she’d educated them on the facts of the insect responsible for the sweet, amber-gold honey. Miss Elizabeth Essex’s face had registered shock, irritation, and finally resignation all in rapid succession before he’d turned back around and gone on his way. It was a glorious victory, and after the disappointing visit to the shire house, it was a much needed one.
The shire house had been his first hope in finding a source that could help him track down who was using his family name. He’d been given one man’s name and address. However, it wasn’t a person of interest as much as it was someone who might be able to help. And Collin was quite certain they weren’t going to be much help at all. He paused before his carriage. “Henslow Mews,” he directed, then got in.
The carriage moved forward, and he leaned back into the plush velvet of his seat. Logic said that this was likely another false lead, and that thought led to another, which hinted that this was a fool’s errand. It was bloody frustrating, exhausting really, how one day he’d finally feel something, a purpose, only to be tempted to wallow in defeat the next. Perhaps it was a good thing he was away from London and could keep his sister and brother-in-law out of the mess that was his life at the moment. He waited as the carriage moved slowly through the streets of Cambridge, finally coming to a stop at the mews.
He took a deep breath, stepped out into the cobbled street, and squinted at the numbers on the houses along the road. He walked to number fifteen and knocked.
After a moment, the door opened to reveal a small-framed man with blond hair so light it was almost white. “Aye?”
“Michael Finch?”
“Who’s askin’?” the man inquired, glancing behind Collin and then back to him, his expression calculating.
“Lord Penderdale. I believe you’ve heard of me. Or rather, the one who is pretending to be me,” Collin said with a bored tone.
“Ach, Penderdale. C’mon in. I was expecting you, although I wasn’t given to understand you were a…person of quality.” He considered Collin, eyes lingering on the fine cut of his coat.
Collin chuckled as he followed the man inside his home. Collin took in his surroundings, and though he had been assured this Michael Finch was trustworthy, his training had taught him never to let his guard down. With a quick glance about the room, he marked the exits, possible weapons, and potential points of interest.
“Have a seat.” Michael gestured to the wooden chair at a small table. The furnishings were sparse, but the room was clean and tidy.
“Thank you. I’ll not waste your time. I was told you may have a lead or some sort of information on the person, or persons, using my name to commit crimes locally.”
“I’ve run into a few situations where your name was indeed present, and you were not.” He shrugged, then lifted a cigar from the table. After taking a long puff, he tapped the ashes into a dish and leaned forward. “It’s mostly petty things, minor offenses, if you will. But you probably know that. It makes me suspect something further is going on, if you gather my meaning.”
“The instances in London, before the imposter took flight to Cambridge, were not slight. One situation would label me a traitor to the Crown if I hadn’t had a ballroom full of people able to vouch I wasn’t anywhere near the crime when it happened.”
“So, there’s likely more than one person using your name to cover their tracks.” Michael tapped his cigar ashes into the dish once more and leaned forward. “Fancy that, a brilliant criminal. Lucky us.”
“I take it you’re intrigued enough to help me, perhaps?”
“I’ve no other cases currently. Consequently, I can offer a wee bit of my time to your cause.” He set his cigar down. “For the right price.”
Collin leaned forward on the table, nodding once. It wasn’t anything unexpected, and he’d have suspected Michael if he didn’t require payment. “Well, you did work for an agency in London before you moved to Cambridge, so I expect I’ll be paying for the element of expertise you bring to the table.” Collin knocked on the table with his knuckles, punctuating his words.
“Ah, you’ve done some research. I’d think fifty pounds would be sufficient compensation for my experience.”
Collin gave a snort. “Thirty-five, and you have a deal.”
“Forty.”
“Thirty-seven. Final offer.” Collin held out his hand, waiting.
Michael studied him, then his hand, finally shaking it in agreement. “Half now and half later,” he said as he released Collin’s hand.
“Of course.” Collin withdrew the notes he’d anticipated needing and laid them on the table.
Michael’s expression remained unreadable as he lifted the notes, folded them tightly, and tucked them into his pocket.