Page 2 of A Rogue to Watch Over Me
“Do not go tempting fate. There’s no telling what trouble a man like him might stir up.”
“Oh, don’t be a goose. It’s not as if Blackbeard has purchased the pub around the corner.”
“Not Blackbeard, my dear. Truth be told, this man might be even worse. Mr. MacLain spent years in America. In the wildwest, no less. That’s where he made his fortune. Ill-gotten gains, indeed.”
Amelia set aside the book she’d been holding. No point in attempting to apply the Dewey Decimal system to the volume’s classification while Beatrice rambled on about seducers and ne’er-do-wells.
“And now, the rogue has opened that den of sin,” Bea went on. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The tinkle of a small bell pulled Amelia’s attention to the door of the reading room. A jaunty pup that looked to be a cross between a Cairn terrier and heaven-only-knew-what trotted across the rug, his head tilted as if he inspected the premises. Gazing up at her with unabashed mischief in his velvet brown eyes, the dog settled at her feet.
“Oh, Heathy, what did you get into this time?” Reaching down to pet the cocky ball of fluff, she smiled despite the nagging suspicion that the pup had been nibbling on something he shouldn’t have. She’d learned soon enough after rescuing the abandoned puppy never to leave her shoes or anything else she held dear within his reach.
“He does look a wee bit guilty, doesn’t he?” Bea observed with a chuckle.
“Unfortunately, I must agree.” Not that his antics made one bit of difference to her affection for the dog she’d come upon in the park on a cold, dreary day nearly three years earlier. Huddled together with his littermates in a battered old crate, the tiny pup had tugged at her heart from the first. Amelia had taken in the lot of them, finding good homes for the wee pups, but she simply couldn’t part with the affectionate little creature that bore a pointed resemblance to a chimney sweep’s mop. Heathy had been at her side ever since.
Beatrice fixed her gaze on the silver-trimmed leather collar around the hound’s neck, her brows knitting. “This little beast of yours wears more finery than you do.”
“Heathy’s collar was a present... from my brother.”
“Quite lovely.” Beatrice leaned closer to inspect the ebony and silver band. “Did Paul acquire it during his travels?”
“He commissioned it in London.” Amelia gulped against a fresh wave of grief. Her brother’s death had gouged a wound in her heart she doubted would ever heal.
“Whatever possessed him to purchase such an elegant piece for a dog?”
“Paul was motivated by the bell on the collar, not the beauty of the piece. He was weary of thebloody creature, to use his words, sneaking up on him.”
Beatrice’s expression softened. “How long has it been, now?”
“Three months.” Amelia brushed away a tear trickling down her cheek. “It still feels like a bad dream.”
A nightmare.
In truth, no words could fully describe the heart-shattering news of her brother’s death. The very thought that the authorities believed Paul had taken his own life was nearly too much to bear.
The detectives were wrong. Something had led Paul to that decrepit building. To that rooftop. He had been lured to his death. She felt that truth in her bones. If only she could prove it.
She wouldn’t rest until she’d found justice.
Beatrice’s eyes warmed with compassion. “I am so very sorry. I will not speak of it again,” she said gently as the chimes at the entry door announced a guest.
The divided skirt of her teal walking suit swishing with each step, Edith Monroe strolled up to the desk. She uttered a few pleasantries before heading directly to the display of the lending library’s latest acquisitions.
Taking quick advantage of the distraction, Heathy roamed over to a low shelf by Amelia’s desk. As he reached up on his hind legs to sniff a bisque doll she’d placed there, she shooed him away.
“Naughty boy. That’s not your plaything.”
Her gaze danced over the beautifully garbed doll, and she traced a fingertip over its delicate painted features. A dull current of pain rippled through her, and she struggled to hold back tears. Her brother had given the French Fashion Lady to her following his last trip to Paris, but the memory was now bittersweet. Scarcely a week after she’d received the elegant keepsake as a birthday present, Paul’s lifeless body had been discovered in an alley behind a bustling hotel.
Not an accident.
The circumstances of his death made no sense. None whatsoever.
“I’m delighted you’ve acquired Miss Braddon’s new work.” Edith’s animated voice tugged Amelia from her thoughts, a welcome intrusion.
“I quite enjoyed it,” she said, placing the doll on a higher shelf before joining Edith at the circulation desk to complete the lending slip. As she penned a notation in her journal, the door latch jangled and the chimes sounded once again.
