“What?” Beatrice exclaimed, holding Charlotte away from her so she could look in her eyes. “He was leaving, for goodness’ sake. Why on earth would you do that?”
Charlotte had recovered enough to shrug and even look composed. “He whirled around and dislodged me from his back, and I slid to the ground. I would have thought the number of hairpins I had in my hair would have kept it properly in place.”
She started fiddling with the long locks at her shoulder.
“Did he look for the cash box?” Beatrice asked. Ever since Greer had got them the Langham account and suggested they mention Amity’s newly aristocratic connections in their ads, business had been booming. The till was usually quite full by the end of the workday.
“No, he demanded my purse alone, and then he went into the back room and took it off the shelf.” She stomped her foot. “My favorite green and silver bag, too!”
“What was in it, miss? Anything valuable?” asked one of the bobbies.
Charlotte sighed. “Not really. A comb my mother gave me, a mirror, and a few guineas.” She shook her head. “My favorite bag.”
Beatrice groaned. “Don’t you dare ever fight for something like a bag or even the cash box. What if he’d turned violent? What if I’d come back to find he’d used the bat on you?”
They fell silent, staring at one another, and Beatrice’s eyes teared up. For a moment, she wasn’t sure what they should do next and wished her parents were not all the way across the English Channel. Then she decided.
“Let’s close up and go home.”
“One thing, miss,” said the bobby, talking to Charlotte. “Can you describe the man who robbed you?”
“He had a knit hat pulled down over his brow, right to his eyes. He wasn’t much taller than I am. I think he was a young man. He wore a tweed coat and brown pants.”
“Any scars?” the bobby asked.
Charlotte looked down at her hands and arms. “No, I am unhurt, thank you.”
The policeman smiled at her response, and Beatrice could see he was enchanted by her younger sister as most men were.
“Oh, well, that’s very good, miss,” he muttered. “What about on the intruder? Any visible markings?”
Charlotte shook her head. “None that I saw.”
“Very well. We’ll file a report. A detective may come and ask you to go to Whitehall station to give a statement, particularly if we find the culprit.”
Charlotte glanced at Beatrice, who responded. “We’ll cooperate however we can. Do you have a carriage?”
“No, miss. But we’ll hail one and take you home.”
***
GREER POUNDED UPONthe Rare-Foure’s door on Baker Street, and then, knowing Mr. Finley was probably not going to answer in a timely fashion, he opened it and strode in. Seeing the parlor door was ajar and hearing female voices, he went in unannounced.
Beatrice and Charlotte were seated close together on the sofa, but Beatrice stood up at once and greeted him.
“Thank you for coming,” she said.
“As soon as I got back to my room, your message was waiting for me. What happened?”
She filled him in on the robbery at the confectionery.
“Don’t you think the thief behaved strangely by not wanting what was in the till, but only Charlotte’s purse?”
Greer looked at Charlotte, whose deep brown eyes gazed back at him, making her seem particularly vulnerable. Anger boiled through him.
“You weren’t hurt?” he asked.
The youngest sister shook her head. “I had the bat.”
