It wasn’t Lena this time, but an older woman—closer to Buchanan’s age, her cheeks and shoulders both beginning to sag with time and fatigue, with the sandy-gray hair of someone who had probably been a fiery redhead in her younger days. She kept her eyes turned toward the floor, and Vivian felt a lurch of sympathy in her chest. Working in service was an endless carousel of early mornings, late nights, and few rests, and most folks didn’t stick it out after forty unless they had moved up in the ranks. To still be running your feet off as you spun toward sixty was a rough life for sure.
The maid barely glanced at Vivian as she stepped into the room, her face still turned toward the ground. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Buchanan, but there’s someone in your office asking to see you.” Her voice dropped, as though she was nervous to pass on the visitor’s message. “Said it was a business matter, and that you’d know what it was about.”
“Hmm. Yes, thank you.” Buchanan barely spared her a glance, lifting one finger in careless acknowledgment as he refilled his cup with a splash of coffee and a large pour of whiskey. “Tell him I’ll be there in just a moment, please.” He turned to Vivian, and she wondered but didn’t ask what sort of business he was in. “Here,” he said, leaning overto refill her cup. He gave her a little wink as she met his eyes. “Have to keep off that chill, young lady.”
Vivian cast a quick, worried look toward the maid, hoping she wouldn’t get the wrong idea. But the woman had already hurried out to deliver her employer’s message. Just when Vivian was about to breathe a sigh of relief, Buchanan caught her chin, lifting her gaze toward him.
She froze, anxiety prickling down her spine like a warning. But the paternal look was still there as he looked her over, a sad smile on his lips. “You know, you remind me of my daughter. She’s a bit of a hellion, from what I’ve heard. I wouldn’t be surprised if you are, too.”
Vivian leaned back, unnerved by the casual assumption of his touch. To her relief, he didn’t stop her, his hand dropping and sliding into his pocket. He even looked a little embarrassed, clearing his throat as he bent to retrieve his coffee cup.
“Don’t you know if she is or not?” Vivian asked, surprised at herself.
“I would if I’d been a better father,” he said, the self-deprecating edge back in his smile. “Take care, young lady. I hope Mrs. Buchanan doesn’t keep you waiting much longer.”
“Thanks,” Vivian said, a little uncertainly, as he departed.
She sank against the velvety sofa as soon as the door closed behind him, relieved to be alone for the moment. She tipped her head back before she thought better of the casual pose and sat up abruptly. No sense risking someone coming in to find her lounging like she owned the place.
The pretty glass clock on the mantel began to chime eleven, and Vivian fought down another yawn. She’d been running her feet off at the Nightingale last night, delivering contraband drinks and catching dances on her breaks until two in the morning, and she hadn’t made it home until three. Once her deliveries were done for the day, she could stumble home and catch a little shut-eye. But until then…
Maybe she should have that second cup of coffee. Or open the window again so the cold air could keep her awake. Just one more minute, she told herself, and she’d stand up.
Vivian’s next yawn stretched her jaw wide enough that she could hear it pop. The motion tipped her head back, and once it was resting against the sofa, picking it up suddenly felt like too much work. She rubbed her eyes, trying to wake them up, but they were too heavy, and the cushions were too soft. She yawned again, not bothering to open her eyes this time. The coffee would kick in at any moment, and then she’d feel more awake. She’d hear someone opening the door in time to get up.
The clock on the mantel began to chime, and Vivian was on her feet before she remembered where she was or why she was there. She glanced around the room a little frantically, trying to shake off her drowsiness.
It was noon. Vivian let out a loud sigh of relief. Mrs. Buchanan hadn’t come home to find her asleep on the sofa, and apparently the whole household was such a mess that no one else had remembered she was there either. It was a lucky break—and she didn’t often get those.
But she couldn’t hang around waiting much longer, or Miss Ethel at the dress shop would start wondering where she was. Vivian gathered up her delivery kit—a black satchel shaped like a doctor’s bag but filled with everything a seamstress might need on the go. Then she hesitated over the boxes that held Mrs. Buchanan’s gowns.
On the one hand, if she left them there, they might get damaged or mislaid, and then she’d be blamed. On the other, if she was just going to return for fittings the next day, she could save her arms the extra hours of carting them around the city.
Stumbling over an embroidered footstool, still groggy from her unexpected nap and sudden wake-up, Vivian finished gathering her things and looked around the room.
There was no desk and nothing to write with that she could see. But she had passed what looked like an office when Lena led her upstairs, more than an hour ago. Likely that was where Mr. Buchanan had gone. If his meeting was done—there was no way she would risk interrupting that—maybe she could just poke her head in and grab a piece of paper and write a note to say she’d be back at the same time tomorrow.
Leaving her things for the moment, Vivian peeked out the sitting room door.
The hallway was empty and silent. It made her shiver—she was used to houses like this being full of servants and families. But if it was noon, likely folks were polishing off a meal downstairs and enjoying a break before they got back to work.
The thick carpet muffled her footsteps as she hurried down the hall. The door she thought was an office had been left ajar, so the odds of her interrupting some important or confidential business deal were slim. Still, she knocked.
“Mr. Buchanan?” Vivian called. “Are you in there? It’s me—the delivery girl.”
When there was no answer, she hesitated only a moment before pushing the door open.
The smell hit her first—a deep, animal smell, the taste of metal and filth. Vivian knew it, had smelled it once before, and the fear that followed only a moment later felt like iron in the back of her throat.
She would have fled if she hadn’t seen him right away, slumped on the floor against his desk, his body curled on itself as it had collapsed to the ground, helpless and childlike. The coffee cup lay next to him, the fragile handle snapped off and the coffee already soaked into the deep red carpet.
“Mr. Buchanan?” Vivian croaked.
He didn’t move, and for a moment she didn’t either. But she couldn’t leave him there.
“Mr. Buchanan!” She knelt beside him to grab his shoulders. He wasn’t a small man, but she was wiry and determined, and he didn’t resist as she turned him over, planning to check for a pulse, to call for help, to do what she could.
Her hands slipped against him as he rolled onto his back. Vivian lurched away, stumbling to her feet. She felt frozen, unable to move, unable to do anything except stare at the wide-eyed look of disbelief still on his face, at the blood that had soaked through his clothes and into the carpet, at the handle of the knife that had been plunged into his neck, right where it met the edge of his open collar.
