Chapter One
London, January 1885
“Ibeg yourpardon, Your Grace, but there is a Miss Isabella Hilgrove demanding an audience.”
Benedict looked up from the reports of Scotland Yard’s Criminal Investigation Department he had been poring over. According to investigators, it would appear the only good thing about the attempt to bomb London Bridge was that the dynamitards responsible had unintentionally detonated their infernal machine too soon.
They had blown themselves to bits in the process.
Some three weeks thereafter, another band of dynamitards had thrown an infernal machine from a carriage near the Gower Street Station. The resulting clouds of billowing smoke and screams of terrified passengers emerging from the twisted wreckage had caused pandemonium. Worse, intelligence gathered by Special League double agents back in New York suggested more outrages were being planned.
He frowned at his butler, the grim prospect of additional bombings infecting him like an ailment. “I am not at home.”
Young’s countenance was implacable as ever. “I informed Miss Hilgrove as much. However, she claims she has been sent by the Ladies’ Typewriting School.”
“Not another one,” he grumbled.
Three typists had been sent to him by the school. Since he had undertaken the duty of managing the Special League, he required a seemingly endless amount of reports for the Home Office. Hiring a typist had seemed an excellent decision, especially since the Home Secretary himself had suggested it and recommended the school.
The decision had proved a dreadful error of judgment on Benedict’s part.
The first had hummed to herself as she completed a task. When he had pointed out how disturbing such a habit was, she burst into tears and fled.
The second had been dreadfully slow, her fingers hunting about the keys in plodding fashion so that she had accomplished frightfully little in the course of three hours. He had told her to leave and not return.
The third had been sniffling and coughing. He had taken one look at her red nose and watery eyes and sent her on her merry way. Illness aggrieved him mightily. Indeed, he could not afford to contract something catching in his current position.
There was far too much at stake.
But he became aware that Young still lingered at the threshold of Benedict’s study, looming like a wraith.
“What is it?” he snapped at the butler.
“I am afraid the lady in question has informed me she will not be denied an audience with Your Grace. She has indicated she will remain all day if necessary.”
Devil take it.
He had no doubt the fourth offering from the school would not be any better than her three predecessors had been.
“Tell the lady in question her services are no longer required, if you please,” he informed his butler.
His butler’s countenance had never been more aggrieved. “I will try, Your Grace.”
“Try?” he asked, for Young was ordinarily an exemplary domestic.
Benedict had expectations of his staff. Obeying his edicts and performing their tasks well and promptly were strict requirements. In addition to not being an irritant or a walking ailment, of course. He was not too stern, he felt certain. He merely expected from all those in his employ the same standards to which he held himself.
Namely, excellence.
Young cleared his throat, apparently seeing his mistake. “I will explain it as you require, Your Grace. Thank you.”
He bowed and then took his leave.
Benedict exhaled slowly as the door clicked closed. He listened for the staccato of the butler’s shoes on the marble hall. Solitude pleased him. Disruption irked him. He was a beast of habit, it was certain. But upon his shoulders, he bore a great weight of responsibility.
He bowed his head and resumed reading the reports awaiting him, assured Young would dismiss the creature at the front door and he would be done with the Ladies’ Typewriting School for eternity.
He had scarcely read two sentences when the indignant squawking began.
