“My choice of reading material harms no one. Your actions, however”—Charlie gestured at the brunette he still held down on the table—“are not only reprehensible but criminal. Release her, or I shall make you.”
To prove her point, she held up her walking stick. A quick twist of the knob revealed a glinting blade at the end.
Lowell’s face reddened. “You dare to threatenme? Do you know who I am?”
“If you are someone with a reputation to protect, I would suggest you depart this instant. Before I summon the police.”
At her calm words, Lowell’s visage turned thunderous. He released the woman with a vicious shove that made her head smack against the table.
“You will regret this,” he snarled at Charlie.
He stormed out.
Charlie turned her attention to the woman rising from the table.
“Miss, are you all right?” she asked with concern.
The shopgirl reached for a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that must have flown off during the assault. She untwisted the mangled frame, donning the glasses with hands that shook slightly.
“I…I’m fine.”
She did not look fine, not with her swelling cheek, bleeding lip, and the way she swayed on her feet. A few strands of coffee-brown hair straggled from her tight topknot, curving against her cheek. Although her spectacles and severe hairstyle aged her, Charlie saw that she was young—in her early twenties perhaps. Her voice had a natural, sultry rasp that was at odds with her prim exterior.
“Here, take this.” Mindful that the other had just been assaulted by a strange male, Charlie kept her distance, pushing a handkerchief across the table. “For your lip.”
“I’m much obliged to you, sir. For this”—the woman took the scrap of linen, wincing as she dabbed her lip—“and for coming to my aid. I must look a frightful mess.”
“Through no fault of your own.”
“You can say that again.” The shopgirl pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin. “I knew that bloke was trouble from the moment he set foot through the door. But Mr. Wallace, the shop owner, is a skinflint and refuses to have more than one clerk working at a time. Even though I’ve told himrepeatedlythat some patrons think more than books are for sale, if you know what I mean.”
Charlie nodded with empathy. At the same time, the gears were turning in her head. She noted the other’s petite yet curvy frame, which included a plump bosom hidden beneath a drab and ill-fitting dress. Behind the spectacles, the woman’s eyes were big and brown…and oddly unjaded given her occupation and what she was presently sharing. Although she took pains to hide it, she was also quite pretty.
She fit the description of the woman Quinton had been spotted with. The only thing missing was the red hair. But hair color could be changed easily enough.
Sensing the shopgirl’s skittishness, Charlie proceeded with care.
“Perhaps you would like me to speak with Mr. Wallace, Miss…?”
“Loveday. Xenia Loveday,” the girl said after a brief hesitation. “While it is awfully nice of you to offer, Mr. Wallace won’t listen to you any more than he does to me. And I need this job.”
“Perhaps we ought to summon the police?—”
“No.”Miss Loveday’s vehemence was paired with bona fide panic. “That is, Mr. Wallace won’t want police nosing around here. He’ll sack me if I cause trouble, and like I said, I need the wages. Now, sir, would you like assistance selecting reading material? I could make recommendations based on your, um, interests.”
Miss Loveday offered to help select a dirty book the way another shopgirl might show a range of gloves. Matter-of-factly and without even a blush. She was a most curious young woman. For an instant, Charlie contemplated revealing her true purpose and asking Miss Loveday outright if she was involved with Gilbert Quinton…but she discarded the strategy. Beneath her pragmatism, the shopgirl was a bundle of nerves. What secrets was she hiding?
I won’t find out if I scare her off.
“I will browse on my own,” Charlie murmured. “Thank you.”
Miss Loveday looked relieved. “Let me know if I can be of assistance.”
As Charlie wandered to the shelves, Miss Loveday disappeared through a tattered curtain at the back of the shop. When the bell over the front door tinkled a few moments later, she re-emerged, her hair once again neatly restrained. Smoothing her skirts, she went to greet the new customer.
Charlie made a beeline for the curtain. Behind it was a tiny storage room crammed with books and a table that held a small bag. A quick search of the bag’s contents revealed a coin purse containing two shillings, a rusty key, bread and cheese wrapped in a napkin, and a hairbrush. There was also a folded handbill: an advertisement with a silhouette of a voluptuous woman reading on a chaise. “Scheherazade’s Salon” was written in flowing letters above the drawing, and below was a banner announcing, “Wednesday evenings at the Academy of Venus.”
Taking what she needed, Charlie exited the back room and returned to the shelves. Not a moment too soon, for Miss Loveday popped her head into the aisle.
