The White City Page 7

  Winnifred squeezed her hand. “When you return from your honeymoon journey, you will be free to come to the bookshop with me whenever you please.” Winnifred followed her friend to the front door as Father returned, nearly bumping into them both.

  “I didn’t know you had a visitor today.” Father hugged Danielle. “Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials. I wish I could be here to celebrate, but I couldn’t get out of a business trip and won’t be home until late Saturday evening.”

  “As long as you send me a gift as an apology, I’ll attempt to understand and forgive you.” Danielle gave him a teasing smile along with a peck on the cheek.

  Father chuckled. “I will send you ten novels of your choice along with something crystal for your new home. How does that sound?”

  “Simply marvelous.” With a farewell wave, Danielle slipped away.

  Winnifred helped her father out of his coat and hung it over the banister, her heart pounding with the weight of her request. “Did you and Detective Thorpe have a moment to discuss my meeting with Mr. Holmes?”

  Father nodded and took a seat on the bottom step and set to untying his boots. “Thorpe caught me before I left the office. I agree with him that we should be wary of this fellow. However, as far as we can prove, Henry Howard Holmes is only a swindler who has narrowly evaded any consequences as of yet. None of the articles or information available has led me to believe that he is anything more.”

  “But—”

  He held up a hand, halting her. “To the best of our knowledge, Holmes hasn’t proven to be a danger, so, as long as you keep your pistol and Thorpe nearby, I am comfortable with you working for him if you wish to continue this plan of yours. If you catch him in any illegal dealings while working as his secretary, I can arrest him, but you are not to say anything to my men at the precinct until you are certain a crime has been committed, understand?”

  She nodded, relieved to have his permission though it still stung that he didn’t believe her. “I will. I hope that I am wrong about him, but I know what I saw that day at the fair, Father.”

  “I know what you think you saw, my dear.” Father sighed as he grabbed the rail and lifted himself up, shuffling in his socks toward the kitchen, no doubt looking for a snack. He swung open the kitchen door, scuttling around the busy Tilda who was quite used to his before-dinner munching. “Did you have the chance to do any baking today?”

  “No, sir, I’m sorry, but perhaps Miss Winnifred can go fetch some goods from the bakery? Whatever she finds to her liking. It’s Clara’s evening off. Otherwise, I would have sent her.” The cook looked to Winnifred, lifting her hands covered in an egg mixture. “I’m trying to get this meat pie ready in time for dinner.”

  “I’d be happy to fetch something for you, Father. I need the walk to clear my head.” She rose on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss onto his bristly cheek. “I’ll be back soon.”

  He scowled, rubbing his neck. “Since I came home a bit earlier today, I sent Thorpe home for the day, and his replacement won’t arrive for an hour, so there won’t be anyone to escort—”

  “I can take care of myself,” she reassured Father.

  Gathering her things, she left the house. Winnifred strolled toward the park, humming to herself as she took the longest route to her family’s favorite bakery. Walking through the wooded park, she spied Mr. Covington down the lane on a bench bending over a portfolio with a stilled pencil, working so intently that he didn’t even hear her approaching him. “Mr. Covington?”

  He jolted, dropping his pencil, but managed to use his portfolio to catch it before it fell on the ground. “Miss Wylde! What a pleasant surprise to see you so soon. It must be fate drawing us together.” She laughed. “Fate, or the fact that my father has a sweet tooth and needs dessert after work every day.” She nodded to his notes. “For work?”

  “Mmhm.” He closed his notebook with a snap and rose. “Are you out alone?”

  “Of course. I’m not one of those ladies who needs to be rescued at the drop of her handkerchief.” She smiled to soften her rebuke. She knew that most ladies in his class were escorted at all times, but she was thankful that her father didn’t require it of her … except when there was an abductor on the loose.

  “No, of course not,” he grinned, a dimple appearing in his right cheek. “Well, even though you are not in need of your handkerchief being rescued, would you mind if I joined you? I am rather stuck in my, uh, notes, and a walk sounds like just the thing. Nothing like fresh air to stir the mind.”

  Winnifred laughed and lifted her arms, gesturing to their surroundings. “Fresh air? Have you forgotten where you are sitting?”

  “Well, the air by the bench is not quite as refreshing as the air beside you. You smell like a meadow,” he teased, tucking his notes under his arm.

  Winnifred shook her head at his logic, smiling to herself. “You, sir, have more lines than the heroes from my novels.”

  “Why thank you, Miss Wylde.” With a flourished bow, he extended his arm to her. “Shall we?”

  He was far too attractive to be calling on her when she had merely six weeks to ensnare Mr. Holmes. Aunt Lillian and Father’s plan to distract her with handsome men must not succeed. Straightening her shoulders, Winnifred resolved once more that she needed to minimize distractions. She couldn’t have Mr. Covington sidetracking her from her work, no matter how intriguing she found him. She thought of the times when Miss Swan, the heroine from His Secret Wife, was forced to make a similar choice. If Miss Swan could give up the beau of her dreams for the sake of her beloved sister, Winnifred could relinquish her dashing suitor for the sake of the women of Chicago.

  “What do you think, Miss Wylde? I can get reservations tomorrow if that will work with your schedule?” He gave her a fetching grin, a blond curl escaping his pompadour and falling onto his forehead, lending him a charming, boyish look.

  She blinked, trying to find her voice in the face of such uncanny beauty. No man should be this attractive. “Uh, I’m not sure tomorrow will be best. I have a prior engagement with my friend, Miss Montgomery. She is to be married this week, so I doubt I will have much time to spare.” Winnifred lifted her lady’s watch that was pinned beneath her shoulder.

  “Ah, that is where the stars have aligned. I know Miss Montgomery’s older brother quite well and was invited to the wedding. Your aunt sent me a note this morning asking if I’d act as your escort as your father will be out of town and will not be able to accompany you to the wedding.”

  Before she could even think to be embarrassed that her aunt had yet again orchestrated a call, Winnifred made the mistake of looking directly into his expectant blue eyes. “Lovely. I mean, that sounds lovely, but I’m afraid I really must be on my way now. I need to reach the bakery before they close or Father will be in a foul mood for the rest of the evening and our cook will be forced to bake something to soothe his temper.”

  “Then I shall allow you to be on your way and I will count the days to Saturday.” He tipped his hat to her and released her arm as a mangy dog leapt out of the bushes, charging headlong into their path, tripping her into Mr. Covington’s shoulder and knocking the portfolio out of his hands. “No!” He dove to retrieve his work as the dog disappeared around the bend and the wind picked up, scattering his pages about the park. He scrambled on his hands and knees, gathering each piece of paper to his chest as if they were gold, not minding the dirt soiling his perfectly tailored suit.

  Spying more sheets tumbling toward the pond, Winnifred ran down the hill after them, saving all but one from the terrible fate of drowning. She sank onto the grass and painstakingly stacked the papers. Shaking out bits of debris caught between the papers, her gaze fell to the top page and she began to read.

  Lady Seraphine knelt beside the grave of her mother. Her tears fell freely as she rocked back and forth, clinging to the only remnant of her mother’s that had survived the fire, a golden diadem. She prayed that God would at long last grant her heart a moment
of happiness, a moment of love. How could she wed another when Lord Winston was the only one she could ever—

  Winnifred gasped as she recognized the tone and flipped through the pages, scanning for a title, her pulse already hammering with the truth as she found a chapter heading. The Mysterious Death of Lady Ashton by Percival Valentine. Her hands shook at the realization that Mr. Percival Covington was the author, her favorite author, Percival Valentine. She pressed the papers to her heart and looked up to see Mr. Covington, having finished collecting papers from above, trotting down to her.

  The suitor that Aunt Lillian selected for her began to make sense. She had chosen him not only because of his wealth and standing with society’s elite set, but because he was a writer. Aunt Lillian knew that out of all the women in Chicago, Winnifred would appreciate him the most. She swayed a bit at the thought that this was the man who created the heroes of her dreams.

  He reached for the papers in her hand, pausing at the sight of her open mouth. “What? Did I get dirt on my face from crawling under that park bench?” He laughed, rubbing his handkerchief over his face before extending his hand to help her up.

  “You are Percival Valentine? The famous mystery writer?”

  If his cheeks hadn’t been so colored from the exertion of collecting his papers, she was certain he would have blushed even more. “You’ve read my work?”

  “Only everything you’ve ever written, three times over. My friends and I have your books set aside for us the morning they are released, but even then, the bookshop has a waiting list.” She handed him the stack, her hands fairly shaking as he took them. “I can’t believe I finally know who the author is. Why don’t you write under your real name? Is it because people would treat you like this?” She giggled nervously, dropping her hands to her sides and pushing herself to standing.

  He grasped her by the elbow to assist her. “Not at all. I never intended to be an author, and the name came about quite by chance.”

  Not a writer? If anyone was destined to write it was him. Having a difficult time speaking in the presence of her hero, she simply lifted her brows.

  “My father had grand plans for me to become a lawyer and sent me off to the university, but how I studied criminal justice was by molding those true crime stories into works of fiction, and before I knew it, I had written a novel, which I left in a drawer at my parents’ home after the Christmas holidays. Well, Mother discovered my scribblings and sent it off to a publisher under a pseudonym. The publisher loved it, and I have been writing novels ever since.”

  “Goodness.” She pressed a hand to her ruffled jabot. “I never would have thought that Percival Valentine was so young. You sound so experienced, and you’ve written, what, fifteen novels? How old were you when you were first published?” She paused, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry if I’m asking a lot of questions, but, well, I have a lot of questions.”

  Mr. Covington dipped his head and smiled. “Thank you for flattering me with your interest. It’s not every day a beautiful woman compliments my work.” With his portfolio under his arm, he tucked his hands into his pockets, kicking a small rock down the path. “I’ve been writing since I was twenty, so about six years now, much to my father’s dismay. I know he hoped my infatuation with the pen would wear off, as he would rather I make a living doing something more glorious than writing romantic mystery novels, but my mother enjoys them, and it makes for a good laugh over the holidays when the relatives talk of my books without knowing they are mine.” He tilted his head. “My being an author doesn’t cause a problem, does it?”

  If anything, being an author makes you far more attractive. “Not in the least. What do you tell people you do for a living, since you write in secret?”

  “Being from the upper set has its benefits.” He winked at her. “I pretend I’m nothing more than a lazy dandy. You would be surprised how many people believe it without a word.”

  “I can hardly believe that you are the writer I love.” She blushed and added, “To read. But, no one would ever accuse you of being lazy.” Not with those muscles, she finished silently, averting her gaze as she kicked the rock forward, earning another grin from Mr. Covington.

  “I’m glad to hear that you aren’t disappointed in my works. I was rather nervous when your aunt told me you were such an avid reader.”

  “Quite. I must admit I am already longing to read your next work.”

  He sucked in his breath through his teeth. “My next book is due in three months, and I have no idea what I’m going to write about.” He lifted up his portfolio. “Well, I’ve had a few thoughts, but they’re so jumbled that I’m having a hard time sorting through them. Having written so many books all at once, I may have used up everything I have to offer.” He rubbed his forehead.

  “Nonsense. You are a brilliant author, Mr. Covington. You only need a little push, and I might be just the one to help.” She fell into step beside him. “After all, I am the daughter of an inspector, so I’m sure I can help you work through some of the plot points that are pinning you down.”

  He stopped, turning to her. “You would do that for me?”

  “I feel it is my duty to society, nay, to women everywhere, to help you with your writing.” She threaded her hand through his arm. “We cannot live without your work.”

  His ears reddened at her praise. “Then tell me, Miss Wylde, what should I write about next?”

  “Well, I am privy to a rather plot-worthy scenario at the moment,” she confided in a whisper as she pulled him along in the direction of the bakery and told him of the scene at the fair, her interview with the suspect, and of Detective Thorpe’s training her to go undercover. “And, since I have the job, I’m sure our next step will be to visit the countryside for some target practice.”

  Mr. Covington openly stared at her, a single brow lifting. “Miss Wylde, you have shocked me to my very core. Imagine a gentlewoman going into danger for the sake of justice.” He took a seat on a park bench and opened his portfolio. Licking the tip of his pencil, he nodded to her. “Please, continue with your tale. I need to jot this down. It sounds too fantastical to be true. Tell me about your alias.”

  “I took the surname of the latest heroine I was reading about in your book and applied it to my favorite name to form Cordelia Swan. It was all I could think of on the spot.”

  “Miss Swan? Now that’s a heroine’s name.” He winked at her. “I must say I am impressed that you managed to get this far, Miss Wylde.” He tapped his pencil against his paper. “This is excellent. I can already feel the story pulsing once again. Do you think that one day next week I can tag along? And as for target practice, we could take a drive down to my family’s country estate. We have quite the course set up.”

  “We’ll have to ask Detective Thorpe, but I don’t see why not.” Winnifred nodded toward the park exit. “Now, what do you say we pick up a chocolate cake for Father and you come over for dinner tonight and we can see about getting your story outline written?”

  Taking her elbow, he grinned. “I say, is that even a question? You had me at chocolate cake.”

  Jude stepped into the first-floor office of a building that had seen far better days. The storefront window’s upper corner had been smashed with a rock, and from the looks of the mildew surrounding the fissure, it had been that way for months. He gritted his teeth. A loan office that didn’t even care to spend the funds to repair their own window did not sound promising.

  “Can I help you?” a raspy voice called to him.

  He turned his attention to a stout man sitting behind a large desk. Jude opened his coat to display his badge. “I was hoping to speak with someone about a loan that was filed here not too long ago.”

  The man’s eye lingered on the badge before he slowly nodded. “Name on the loan?”

  “H. A. Williams.”

  “Mr. Williams …” the man repeated, pressing his hand atop his desk and hefting himself up. He shuffled over to one of many filing cabinets, mutt
ering to himself as he riffled through papers. With a harrumph, he slapped a file on the desk, sliding it toward Jude.

  Flipping through the paperwork, Jude found another name. “Who is Miss M. Williams? His wife?”

  The man crossed his arms and leaned against the window frame. “Not a very talkative fellow. Said he was taking out a loan for his sister for a real estate transaction. My guess is that if you can’t find Mr. Williams, start with Miss M. Williams.”

  At long last, a lead. Jude lifted a prayer of thanks as he gathered the paperwork. “I’ll be taking this. Once I have made my notes, I may return the file, unless it is needed for evidence.”

  The man grunted, jotted a note down on a yellowed piece of paper that had a coffee stain on the corner, and then turned the paper to Jude along with the pen, nodding to the inkwell. “Sign your name and leave your station’s address for the release. Can’t have papers going about without knowing where they are heading.”

  Nodding, Jude scrawled out the information, tucked the file under his arm, and headed to his favorite pub to order a pot of coffee. He would not be sleeping tonight, not until he had searched every inch of the file for any clue left behind.

  Chapter Eight

  “Love is very sweet, when it is simple and sincere.”

  ~Louisa May Alcott, Jo’s Boys

  Dressed in her new gown of a pale pink trimmed with ivory lace and puffed sleeves, Winnifred descended the stairs to await Mr. Covington in the front parlor, ready for a morning of celebration after a harried week. In the midst of preparing for the wedding with Danielle every day, perfecting her alias with Jude every evening, and practicing her typing, she had little time to dwell on the danger in which she was about to place herself. But, if she were honest, Jude was a wonderful distraction from her fear, as she thoroughly enjoyed her time with him.