The Anonymous Miss Addams. Kasey Michaels

your last tutor told me you showed an active imagination. It’s a good thing I turned him off when I caught him winking at the upstairs maid, or I’d show him an active imagination! And have some pity on your elders. My poor heart could give out at any moment.”

      “It would be a better job to stop worrying about your heart and begin worrying about your neck! About both our necks.”

      “Why? We haven’t done anything, have we? They can’t hang a person for merely talking about murder. Besides, it’s only her word against ours. Oh, why did she have to end up there? Anywhere but Standish Court. André Standish! He’s completely, utterly ruthless. My blood runs cold at the very thought of him. He’s so smooth, so mysterious. He seems to know everything.”

      “It’s not the father who worries me. It’s the son. I heard all about Pierre Standish when I was in London for the Season. He’s like the father, but meaner. Killed his groom, you know—just for saddling the wrong horse. I do wish, though, that my man had his way with a cravat.”

      “But it has been five days since you went chasing off after her, and nothing has happened. I have been worried to death, waiting for you to return, waiting for the constable to come carry me away to some terrible, smelly gaol. Now you come back here, telling me she’s not twenty miles from this wretched hovel you’ve rented, and with André Standish of all people. How could you have hidden in the bushes, watching the son cart her away like that? What are we going to do when they confront us?”

      “Why, we’re going to deny everything, of course. It’s her word against ours, after all, and besides, no one has been murdered—yet. Of course, there’s always the possibility she’ll die, for she was unconscious when Standish lifted her into his coach. God, to think that I had finally run her to ground, just to have her bolt away from me into the roadway as we heard a carriage approach. You cannot know how prodigiously I hated hiding in the hedgerow while Standish all but plucked her out of my hands. Yes, it would serve her right to die from the tumble she took. That would solve the problem quite nicely.”

      “Then we’d be free of her forever! Oh, that’s above everything wonderful. But what if she lives? No, you have to go back to Standish Court. You have to go back, and silence her once and for all.”

      “With Pierre Standish there to guard her? And you said you loved me. But you’re right. She has to die now, or everything is ruined.”

      “Yes, yes, it does present a problem. But we have no choice. Besides, you don’t have to leave straight away. It can wait until tomorrow. Sit down, my dear, you look weary. Other than the fact that you couldn’t apprehend that dreadful girl, was it a nice trip? The countryside is so pleasing this time of year.”

      JEREMY HOLLOWAY RAN halfway down the length of the shiny black and white tiled foyer in his stockinged feet, an oversized knitted cap pulled down over his ears, then skidded the rest of the way on the slippery floor, whistling through the gap between his front teeth as he held his arms wide to maintain his balance. He quickly held his hands out in front of him before he cannoned into the closed doors to the drawing room.

      Grinning from ear to ear in enjoyment of this new amusement, he turned himself about, ready to attack the slippery floor from the other direction, only to feel his shoulders firmly grasped by a pair of strong hands. Looking up—looking a long way up—he saw his new master staring down at him, his left eyebrow arched inquisitively.

      “Good morning, Master Holloway,” Pierre said quietly. “May I be so bold as to assume you are prepared to explain what you’re doing?”

      “’Allo there, guv’nor!” Jeremy chirped brightly, his quick mind working feverishly for an explanation. “Givin’ a bit o’ polish ter the floor, Oi am. ’Artley, yer pantler, asked me ter, yer see, an’ Oi’m jist obligin’ ’im—doin’ ’im a bit of a favor, like. ’E’s been ever so kind ter me, yer understands.”

      “Ah, yes, dearest Hartley. Wasn’t that kind of him—and kind of you. Kind and thoughtful—and utter rubbish. Tell me, Master Holloway. Was it enjoyable?”

      Jeremy swallowed hard on the enormous lump in his throat and rolled his eyes as if attempting to discover the nearest exit. “Jist cuff me good an’ gets it over, guv’nor,” he said at last, as Pierre’s hands still held him firmly in place. “Oi can takes it.”

      “He will do nothing of the sort!” Miss Penance exclaimed militantly from behind Pierre. “Mr. Standish, you will please release that poor child at once. Or have you rescued him from his terrible former life only to beat him yourself?”

      Recognizing opportunity when it appeared, Jeremy immediately burst into noisy tears, wrenching himself free of Pierre and immediately burying his head against his latest savior’s waist. “Oi didn’t mean nothin’ by it, ’onest, miss. The floor wuz jist there—yer knows. So pretty, so shiny. Don’t let ’im beat me, miss, pleez! Ol’ man ’Awkins, ’e beat me all the time.”

      “Don’t you worry, Jeremy. I won’t let him so much as lay a finger on you,” Miss Penance assured him, her arms wrapped tightly around Jeremy’s thin shoulders, her violet eyes glaring at the man she considered to be the bully of the piece. “You’re terrible with children, you know,” she told Pierre condescendingly.

      Pierre, who was always appreciative of outstanding theatrical performances, showed his appreciation now, clapping most politely as he commended softly, “Bravo! Bravo! I tell you both, I am most deeply affected. I don’t know whether to toss roses at your feet or go off into the woods and fall on my sword. What a cad I am, what a cold, unfeeling monster! I should be horsewhipped.”

      “I agree. I might only pray that I can be the one to wield the whip, sirrah!”

      “My word, really? Such a Trojan you are, Miss Penance. Is that blood I see in your eyes?”

      Jeremy pulled his face free from Miss Penance’s smothering embrace to see that the two adults had all but forgotten him as they stared at each other, his female protector with some heat, his male protector with barely suppressed amusement. Clearly his presence was no longer required, and he carefully disengaged his hands from Miss Penance’s waist and ran for the safety of the servant’s quarters, careful both to pick up his still new shoes and to refrain from sliding as he neared the door that led to the kitchens.

      “Now here’s a dilemma,” Pierre said after a space, his gaze never leaving the shining violet glare that still bore into him. “It would appear, Miss Penance, that the object of our latest contretemps has succeeded in eluding both my cruel, animalistic wrath and your fierce, motherly protection. Do we continue to stand here, staring at each other until one of us crumbles under the strain, or do we agree to a cessation of hostilities—only until the next time, of course—so that I might continue toward the breakfast room without fear of feeling a shaft of cold steel plunge between my shoulder blades?”