The Perfect Poison Page 8

  Shute straightened away from the railing. “I’ll do that, Sally.”

  Lucinda turned in the doorway and saw Caleb for the first time.

  “What on earth are you doing here, Mr. Jones?”

  “I arrived at your address at eight o’clock to deliver my report on the progress of my investigation and to ask you some questions,” he said. “You weren’t at home.”

  “Good heavens.” She stared at him, quite stunned. “You called at eight o’clock in the morning? No one does business at that hour.”

  “Evidently you do.” He nodded toward the house from which she had just emerged.

  “My business here is of an entirely different nature.”

  He took the satchel from her. It was surprisingly heavy. “When I discovered that you were not at home I decided to track you down. You will recall that you insisted upon a daily report?”

  “I don’t recall using the word daily,” she said. “I believe the words I employed were frequent and regular.”

  “I took frequent and regular to mean daily.”

  She looked up at him from under the brim of her small, ribbon-trimmed hat. “Never say that you mean to call upon me every day at eight o’clock in the morning. That is outrageous.” She broke off suddenly, eyes widening behind the lenses of her spectacles. “What happened to you, Mr. Jones? Did you suffer an accident?”

  “Something along those lines.”

  He handed her into the dainty carriage and followed her with some caution. Nevertheless, the movement sent another jolt through his bruised ribs. He knew Lucinda noticed.

  “When we get back to my house I will give you something for the pain,” she said.

  “Thank you.” He set the satchel on the floor of the vehicle. “That would be greatly appreciated. Took some salicin but it hasn’t done much good.”

  The miniature leather seats had never been intended to transport a man of his size. Gingerly, he sat down across from Lucinda. There was no way to prevent his trousers from brushing up against the draped folds of her gown. One severe bounce and she would be across his thighs. Or he would find himself on top of her. The images heated his blood and made him forget about his ribs.

  “In addition to something for the pain, I have another tisane for you,” Lucinda said.

  He frowned. “What is it for?”

  “There is some tension in your aura.”

  “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “The imbalance I sense will not be alleviated by sleep. It is caused by some problem of a psychical nature. I believe my tonic will ease it. I prepared it after you left yesterday.”

  He shrugged and looked out the window. “You appear to enjoy something of a reputation in this neighborhood, Miss Bromley.”

  “A reputation that is quite different from the one I hold in the polite world, do you mean?” She smiled at a woman who was waving from a doorway. When she turned back to face him the smile was gone. “It’s true that the people in Guppy Lane trust me not to poison them.”

  “As do I,” he said, too weary and sore to allow himself to be provoked.

  “Evidently,” she said, relaxing a little. “Well, sir, what do you have to report?”

  He discovered that he had to work hard in order to concentrate on any subject other than Lucinda’s faint, tantalizing scent and the gentle currents of enticing energy that threatened to drug his senses. Sitting this close to her had a disturbing effect on his usually well-ordered thoughts. It was the lack of sleep, he thought.

  Or perhaps there was a simpler explanation. He’d been too long without the therapeutic release of a sexual encounter. It had been several months now since the tepid liaison with a certain attractive widow had ended, as all such connections did, with the usual sense of relief.

  Nevertheless, it struck him as strange that he had not been aware of missing the occasional bout of that particular type of physical exercise until yesterday when he had been inexplicably overcome by the urge to kiss Lucinda. And, just as inexplicably, the same nearly irresistible urge was riding him hard once again. He really needed to get more sleep.

  “Sir?” Lucinda said somewhat sharply.

  He forced himself to apply his powers of self-mastery. “I told you yesterday that before I could give my full attention to your investigation I had to deal with another matter. That business was concluded last night.”

  Curiosity sparkled in her eyes. “Satisfactorily, I assume?”

  “Yes.”

  She studied his face. “Can I assume that the other urgent matter accounts for your bruises, sir?”

  “Things became somewhat complicated,” he admitted.

  “There was a brawl?”

  “Of a sort.”

  “For heaven’s sake, what happened?”

  “As I said, the business is concluded. Now then, this morning I took some time to compose a plan for the investigation into the theft of your fern.”

  “What time did you get to bed last night?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “How much sleep did you get?”

  “A couple of hours, I think. I wasn’t watching the clock. About my plan—”

  “How much sleep did you get the night before?”

  “Why the devil do you wish to know that?”

  “When I spoke with you yesterday, it was clear that you’d had very little sleep the previous night, as well. I could sense it in your aura.”

  He was starting to get irritated. “I thought you sensed tension in my aura.”

  “I did. Presumably that is what is causing your inability to get a good night’s rest.”

  “I told you, I was working on another case. The situation had come to a crisis point. There has been little time for sleep lately. If you don’t mind, I have some questions, Miss Bromley.”

  “Breakfast?”

  “What of it?”

  “Did you have any?”

  “Coffee.” He narrowed his eyes. “My new housekeeper gave me a muffin on the way out the door this morning. I did not have time for a full meal.”

  “A hearty breakfast is very important for a man of your constitution, sir.”

  “My constitution?”

  She cleared her throat. “You are a strong, hearty man, Mr. Jones, not just physically but psychically, as well. You require a great deal of energy. Sleep and a sound breakfast are critical to your well-being.”

  “Damnation, Miss Bromley, I did not track you down at eight o’clock in the morning to listen to a lecture on my sleeping and eating habits. If you don’t mind, we will return to the subject of your missing fern.”

  She sat very straight in the tiny seat and folded her hands in her lap.

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “Very well, then, what brings you out at eight o’clock in the morning?”

  He was overcome with the ridiculous urge to defend himself. “Miss Bromley, when I am involved in an investigation I cannot be bound by the social world’s arbitrary dictates on matters such as the proper time of day for calls and visits.” Aware that he sounded surly, he nevertheless plowed on. “I make no apologies for my methods. It is how I work, regardless of whatever project I happen to have undertaken. But this particular investigation is, as I informed you yesterday, of great importance to me and to the Society. I will conduct it my way.”

  “Yes, you did make it quite clear that you are keenly interested in Dr. Knox,” she said coolly. “Very well, what is it you wish to know?”

  “Yesterday you told me that Hulsey—”

  “Knox.”

  “For the sake of clarity we are going to refer to Knox as Hulsey,” he said. “At least until I turn up some proof indicating that the two names do not refer to the same individual.”

  She studied him with an expression of grave curiosity. “You’re very sure that Knox is this Dr. Hulsey you’ve been looking for, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is your talent that has convinced you of that conclusion?”

/>   “My talent combined with facts,” he said, impatient as he always was when someone asked him to explain how his psychical abilities functioned. Damned if he knew, he thought. “That is what my talent does, Miss Bromley. It allows me to make connections between odd facts.”

  “I see. Are you occasionally wrong in your conclusions?”

  “Rarely, Miss Bromley. My talent is what it is.”

  She inclined her head. “Very well, sir. Please continue.”

  “You said that Hulsey was referred to you by one of your father’s old acquaintances.”

  “Lord Roebuck, an elderly gentleman who has a long-standing interest in botany. Unfortunately, he has become quite senile in the past few years.”

  “Did Roebuck know of the psychical properties of the fern and that the specimen was in your conservatory?”

  “I do not see how he could have any knowledge of it. As I told you, my father and Mr. Woodhall and I brought the fern and a great many other interesting specimens back with us from our last expedition. That was some eighteen months ago. Poor Lord Roebuck had already become senile by then. He never left his house. He certainly never toured my conservatory. No, I really don’t think he could have known much about my fern.”

  “Yet a month ago Hulsey somehow not only learned of the existence of the fern but also that it possessed paranormal properties. It would have taken an expert to recognize the unique aspects of that plant, correct?”

  “Not just any expert,” she said, “one with talent.”

  “Then someone else with talent must have viewed that fern. That person told Hulsey about it.”

  “Well, I have shown a handful of people around the conservatory in recent months.”

  He frowned. “Only a handful?”

  “As I told you yesterday, I have not had many visitors since my father’s death. I can certainly give you the names of those who have called upon me recently.”

  “Let us concentrate on those who toured the collection shortly before Hulsey showed up.”

  “That will be a very short list.”

  “Excellent.” He took out his notebook and pencil. “There is something I do not understand about this situation, Miss Bromley.”

  She smiled faintly. “I’m astonished to hear you admit that there is anything you do not comprehend, Mr. Jones.”

  He ignored that, frowning a little. “Your conservatory contains an astonishing collection of exotic and unusual plants. Why don’t you receive more visitors?”

  “You would be amazed how a few rumors of poison can affect one’s social life.”

  “A decline in social calls is understandable. But one would think that any botanist worth his salt would be unable to resist the prospect of a tour of your conservatory.”

  She gave him a considering look. “Does it ever occur to you, sir, that not everyone is endowed with your ability to separate logic from emotion?”

  “Frequently, Miss Bromley,” he said. “I admit that it is one of the things that complicates my work as an investigator. I can find connections and intuit conclusions but I have discovered that I cannot always explain why individuals act as they do. Hell, I can’t even predict how the clients will respond when I give them the answers they pay me to obtain. You would be floored by how many of them become furious, for example. I certainly am.”

  Her mouth twitched a little at one corner. “Yes, I can see how you might find emotions a complicating factor.”

  “Well, we must come back to the matter of your reputation some other time. For the moment, we will stay focused on Hulsey.”

  “What did you say, Mr. Jones?”

  “I said that, for the moment, we must stick to the problem of Hulsey.”

  “Yes, I heard you, but why on earth would you want to concern yourself with the matter of my reputation?”

  “Because it is an interesting problem,” he said patiently.

  NINE

  LUCINDA FINISHED SUPPLYING CALEB WITH THE VERY short list of people who had toured the conservatory in the weeks before Knox had requested a tour, just as Shute halted the carriage in Landreth Square.

  Caleb looked out the window. “It appears that you may have a more active social life than you believe.”

  She followed his gaze and saw a lovely young blond-haired woman in a severe, russet brown traveling gown. The lady had just alighted from a hired carriage. The coachman was wrestling with a large trunk.

  “My cousin Patricia,” Lucinda exclaimed. “She will be staying with me for a month. I was not expecting her until this afternoon. She must have caught an earlier train.”

  “Miss Patricia,” Shute called from the top of the box. “Welcome back to London. It is a pleasure to see you again.”

  “It is wonderful to see you, also, Shute,” Patricia said. “It has been ages. My parents asked me to convey their greetings and best wishes to you and your family.”

  “Thank you, miss.”

  The door of number twelve opened. Mrs. Shute appeared.

  “Miss Patricia,” she exclaimed. “It is so good to have you back with us again.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Shute,” Patricia said. “I apologize for catching you by surprise like this. I know I was not expected until later today.”

  Mrs. Shute beamed. “Nonsense, I’ve had your room ready for days.”

  Caleb opened the carriage door and kicked down the steps. He squeezed out of the small vehicle with great care and then turned to offer his hand to Lucinda.

  “Lucy.” Patricia rushed forward.

  Lucinda opened her arms to hug her. “Patricia, I am so happy to see you again. It has been much too long.” She stepped back. “I would like you to meet Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones, my cousin Miss Patricia McDaniel. If you know anything about the study of paranormal artifacts, you will have heard of her father, I’m sure.”

  Caleb bowed over Patricia’s hand with a grace that startled Lucinda. The man might eschew polished manners most of the time but clearly he was capable of employing them when it suited him.

  “A pleasure, Miss McDaniel,” Caleb said, releasing Patricia’s gloved fingers. “I presume that your father is Herbert McDaniel?”

  Patricia dimpled up at him. “I see you do know your archaeologists, sir.”

  “Certainly those who are members of the Arcane Society and who are as brilliant as McDaniel,” Caleb agreed. “I was intrigued by his paper on that Egyptian funerary text that recently came into the Society’s collection. Fascinating insights into the psychical aspects of ancient Egyptian religion.”

  Lucinda smiled proudly. “Perhaps you have heard that the Council has appointed Patricia’s parents to catalog the Egyptian antiquities in the Society’s museum at Arcane House?”

  “I recall Gabe mentioning that McDaniel and his wife would soon be starting work on the project. It is about time that collection was cataloged.”

  “Patricia will also be working on the collection,” Lucinda said. “She has a talent for deciphering dead languages.”

  “There is a great need for that ability at Arcane House,” Caleb said. “How long will you be staying here in London?”

  Patricia smiled. “Just until I find a husband.”

  Lucinda opened her mouth but it took a few seconds before she could form a single word.

  “What?” she squeaked.

  “Mama and Papa feel that I ought to get married,” Patricia said. “I agree. There is no time to waste.”

  For the first time in her life, Lucinda felt in need of a dose of smelling salts. She forgot about Caleb, the Shutes and the driver of the hired carriage. She stared at Patricia in mounting alarm.

  “You’re pregnant ?” she gasped.

  TEN

  “I AM SO SORRY FOR GIVING YOU SUCH A FRIGHT, LUCY.” Patricia helped herself to more eggs from the silver serving dish on the sideboard. “I do apologize.”

  “Your apology would be more acceptable if you could manage to stop laughing,” Lucinda grumbled. “You nearly shattered my nerves.”
/>
  “Nonsense,” Patricia said. “You are made of sterner stuff. I suspect that if I had turned up on your doorstep, pregnant and desperate for a husband, you would have lost no time finding one for me. Don’t you agree, Mr. Jones?”

  “I’m certain Miss Bromley is more than capable of accomplishing any task she undertakes,” Caleb said, buttering a slice of toast.

  Lucinda glowered at him down the length of the table. It had no doubt been a mistake to invite him in for breakfast but she had found herself unable to resist. He was clearly relying entirely on his formidable will to overcome exhaustion, the bruises from the previous night’s adventure and the strange disharmony in his aura. The man needed food and then he needed sleep. She could offer the former. The healer in her would not allow her to do otherwise.

  Nevertheless, she had expected him to turn down her invitation to breakfast. To her astonishment, he had accepted with alacrity, just as though he dined with her on a regular basis. Now he sat at the head of the table, filling the sunny morning room with the aura of his masculine vitality, and ate scrambled eggs and toast with the air of a man who had been hungry for a long time.

  The neighbors must surely be talking, she thought. But given the notoriety that already swirled around the household, a mysterious gentleman caller was a mere bagatelle.

  “I think we have had quite enough conversation on such a delicate subject,” she said sternly. “I suggest we discuss something else. Anything else. You have had your little jest, Patricia.”

  “The thing is, I was not joking, Lucy.”

  “What do you mean?” Lucinda demanded.

  Patricia carried her heavily laden plate to the table and sat down. “I will not tease you any more about the misunderstanding concerning my not-so-delicate condition. But I was quite serious when I told you that I am here to find a husband. I think one month should be sufficient for the task, don’t you?”

  Lucinda nearly dropped her coffee cup. At the end of the table Caleb swallowed another forkful of eggs and regarded Patricia with an interested expression.

  “How do you propose to go about the business?” he asked, genuinely curious.

  “Why, the same way Cousin Lucy did, of course.” Patricia poured some coffee for herself. “It was a very efficient and very logical approach.”