The Artist and the Rake (The Merry Misfits of Bath 4)

“Yes.” Addie looked at the long clock in the corner. “He will be there for another two hours or so. If you present yourself this afternoon, he will probably have you begin tomorrow. When I spoke with him yesterday, he was in dire need of an employee.”

“You went to the store yesterday?” Lizbeth stared at Addie’s large stomach as if it would explode any minute. Which was precisely what it looked like to him, too.

Addie flushed and began to smooth her skirt out. “No. I invited him to tea yesterday—to see how things were going in the store—and while he was here, he mentioned it.” She linked her fingers and placed them where her lap used to be, giving Lizbeth a sweet smile.

Marcus knew she was lying through her teeth. She had invited the man for tea to coerce him into giving Lizbeth a job. Chances were she intended to pay Lizbeth’s wages herself, too. Hopefully, Lizbeth wouldn’t learn that. In the short time he knew her, he was certain the woman was too prideful to take a hand-out.

“How very convenient,” Lizbeth said slowly, her brows rising to her hairline as she regarded Addie. It appeared Lizbeth was as smart as Marcus thought she was and didn’t fall for Addie’s shenanigans. He had to hide his smile.

Addie continued to look very innocent. “Yes. I thought it was rather convenient myself.” She shifted to stand, and Marcus hopped up and took her hands to pull her up.

“I believe I will take a short rest now. If you will excuse me.” Addie waddled from the room.

“It seems lying runs in the Mallory family.” Lizbeth watched Addie leave.

At least Addie’s offer of a job seemed to have taken Lizbeth’s mind off her troubles.

Penrose entered the room with a folded piece of paper. “Mr. Mallory, this missive just arrived for you.”

Marcus took the note from his hand and opened it and skimmed the contents. “Well, that’s interesting.”

Lizbeth stood and walked over to him. “What?”

“It is a note from the Bath Police Department. We are requested—you and I—to visit with them either this afternoon or tomorrow morning.” He folded the paper up and looked up at her. “It appears the London Bobbies did notify the Bath Police after all.”

“But will it do any good?” Lizbeth asked.

Marcus didn’t have the heart to tell her they would probably be no more helpful than the London police had been. Even if they were investigating the group of criminals involved in the kidnappings, they would not share the information with them. “There is only one way to find out. Since you’ve had a trying afternoon, I suggest we put this off until tomorrow morning.”

“I agree. What I need to do now, however, is visit Mr. Finch at the bookstore. I do want to start work as quickly as possible. I need to replenish my art supplies.”

“I will buy your supplies; we can visit one of the art stores after you meet Mr. Finch.”

“No.” Lizbeth turned and headed to the drawing room door. “I will buy my own supplies.” She turned back as she reached the doorway. “I’m off to see Mr. Finch.”

“Wait! After our visit with Mrs. O’Leary, I don’t want you wandering about town by yourself. It may not be safe for you.”

Her shoulders slumped and she rubbed her eyes. “As much as I hate to admit it, you may be right.”

“I am always right.” He grinned and joined her at the front door.

8

Around ten o’clock the next morning, Lizbeth and Marcus arrived at Orange Grove, the Bath Central Police Station to answer the summons from the Bobbies, or Peelers as they were also known, named after Robert Peel who began the Metropolitan Police in London years before.

Lizbeth approached the building with more anger than fear. She’d gotten through her encounter wi

th Mrs. O’Leary, so she felt confident she could deal with the police. She hadn’t given up on claiming her possessions from the boarding house and was working on a plan. Which she had not shared with Marcus. He would most likely attempt to thwart her.

“We are here to see Inspector Lewis,” Marcus said as they stepped up to the young man seated at a desk in the front office.

Dressed in a police uniform, the officer appeared to be barely old enough to have experienced his first shave. He stood and bowed his head. “Yes, sir. May I ask your names?”

“Mr. Marcus Mallory and Miss Lizbeth Davenport.”

“I will be right with you. You may take a seat there,” he pointed at a group of chairs arranged in a circle around a low table, and then walked off.

Lizbeth looked around the station, taking in the stark décor that was obviously not planned with ambiance in mind. While not small, the Bath station was not as large as London’s.