Page 17 of Blackmailed (The Browns of Butcher’s Hill #2)

P hillip worked the nails out of the wall with the small collapsible knife he kept in his pocket, laying each in a row beside the stacked shelves.

He pulled the plast ered board away from where it still stood in place even without the nails in the corners and lifted his lantern to the now open space between two wooden vertical boards.

He reached in, picked up a cloth bag and heard the jingle of metal.

He stretched the drawstring and dumped the contents onto his palm.

The gems glittered in the lamplight. A necklace with rubies and matching earbobs.

He had no idea if the jewels were real, but why would anyone bother hiding paste ones?

He dropped them back in the bag and closed it tight.

A small box was next, just a plain wooden one with no visible engravings or markings to indicate any value, although it did look old.

He moved the latch and opened the lid. There were several yellowed envelopes, thick with paper, tied together with a faded ribbon.

He inched the ribbon away just enough to see the addressee, the edge of the paper fraying as he did.

Could that be ...? He moved the letters as close to the light of the lamp as he dared.

Honorable John Adams, Esq. Good Lord! Could this be an original letter to the second president of the United States?

Phillip thought it might be. He carefully replaced the stack of letters and hooked the lid closed once again.

The only thing left was something wrapped in paper and tied with string, maybe twelve inches square, only two inches or so thick.

He cut the string as the knot was too tight to unlace.

Phillip was beginning to feel nervous, as if he was borrowing trouble being in the house as long as he’d been, opening the paper quickly to see a small portrait of a woman holding a dog.

It was framed with dark wood. He squinted to see the name in the corner.

Copley, it said, although he had no idea if that was a famous painter or just a street artist. He turned it over to examine the back and saw nothing that he would not see on any piece of art meant to hang on a wall.

He spread the paper out on the floor to rewrap and noticed some writing near a torn edge.

The pencil was faint but legible: ment on one line and Calvert Str below it.

He tore away the paper with the writing, stuffed it in his pocket, and folded the rest of the paper around the painting as best as he could.

Phillip returned all the items as he’d found them, put the plastered piece of wall up, and pushed the nails in the holes that were already there.

He affixed the shelves, blew out his lantern, and put everything back in his satchel.

He opened the bedroom door slowly and went down the hallway, his steps muffled by the thick carpet.

He peered over the banister and began down the steps, keeping to the edge of each as he’d done on the way up.

He turned from the last step toward the servants’ door when he heard it.

The faint scuff of a boot sole. Phillip walked to the nearest open door he could see and slipped inside.

He laid his satchel on the carpet, just in case he needed free hands to defend himself, and put himself against the wall in deep shadows but with some vision of the hallway.

He stood as still as he could, barely breathing, willing himself to not fidget.

Then he heard the sliding door open and one set of footsteps cross the hallway and begin up the stairs.

Whoever the person was, they were not concerned with being silent, moving as if they belonged in the home—or at least had been there before.

He was thinking of moving to the sliding door and making his escape when he heard more footsteps.

Another man walked into the hallway and looked up the staircase. “Jeb,” he called in a loud whisper. “Did you get it all?”

Phillip heard a door close above and tread on the stairs. “Three things, right?”

“Right. Let’s get out of here.”

At least one of the men there had broken into Dolly Irving’s home.

How did they know exactly where to look for the items he’d just seen?

Phillip was certain that the one waiting for Jeb was the one Uncle Patrick had knocked out with his cosh.

He hadn’t gotten a good look at Jeb, but he would not be surprised he was one of the others that night.

He listened to the clatter of footsteps on the servants’ stair, the two never bothering to pull the sliding door closed.

He waited fifteen long minutes, picked up his satchel, and finally made his way to the kitchen.

He held himself still for another ten minutes and then opened the door.

Phillip hurried up the stone steps, out of the yard, and down the alley.

He slowed his steps on the main street, walking as if just coming home from a shift at a mill or heading to shovel coal at one of the fancy houses he was walking by. His mind was whirling.

“Mrs. Everly. You’re looking well,” Virginia said as she greeted the older woman.

“Still too thin, Miss Wiest,” she replied with a sniff as she looked Virginia up and down. “You’ll have difficulty capturing a man’s attention with so little heft to your figure.”

Virginia smiled, as she would be doing most of the evening, even if it did not indicate that she was happy.

She was at the Brubaker Club with her father for their annual membership dinner.

Virginia did not care that they belonged to the organization, but her father did, and she did like to please him in any way she could.

The club did little in the way of charity or humanitarian efforts as far as she could see, but it was a long-held belief that the membership represented the most elite society in Baltimore.

The oldest families, the wealthiest ones, the most elevated sons, and the most beautiful daughters.

Her father had been ecstatic when his membership was accepted, and that was years ago when she was very young.

She still remembered him talking about how honored their family was and that she would be treated like royalty as she grew up.

She very nearly rolled her eyes as she thought about it.

Even this evening, she’d been introduced to several young men and a few old enough to be her father, all looking for a well-heeled wife that would bring prestige and pots of money to a marriage.

The young men typically preened, doing their best to show off broad shoulders, expensive clothing or jewelry, and their certainty that they were the most handsome.

The old men bothered with none of that but took their time perusing her figure, face, and even her teeth.

It was all so very disgusting that when she saw Mrs. Everly, Virginia thought the woman’s complaints would be superior to any of the men’s behavior. From the frying pan into the fire.

Mrs. Everly finally stopped to draw breath after commenting on every aspect of her clothing and body. Virginia jumped in. “How are you, Mrs. Everly? How do you keep yourself busy with the chilly, wet weather we’ve been experiencing?”

“I see to the household accounts and serve as the hostess for Altimus when he is entertaining as I’ve been doing since my husband and I set up housekeeping on French Street shortly after we were married and he began his prestigious career at the Baltimore Gas Works.

And of course, I continue to supervise the staff for my son.

That is a full-time job even with a housekeeper and a butler. ”

“Really? I take care of the household accounts and act as my father’s hostess when necessary, but Shellington runs smoothly under the guidance of our butler and housekeeper. I’m sorry to hear you must sacrifice your time in that way. Have you talked to Mr. Everly about it?”

“I have,” she said and leaned close to Virginia and lowered her voice. “It seems we have a thief in our midst. I hate to admit such a thing, but it is a good lesson for a young woman like yourself. Never trust the servants!”

“Oh no! How distressing, Mrs. Everly! And Mr. Everly has not been able to find the perpetrator?”

She shook her head. “No, indeed. I told him that if one of our servants is so poor they must steal, then perhaps wages need to be increased.”

“Did you?” Virginia said and tried her best to keep her skepticism out of her voice. “That’s quite a Christian attitude, Mrs. Everly.”

“Yes, well,” she said and glanced around. “Sometimes my son does not follow my counsel, even though I have many, many years of experience managing the Everly household.”

Virginia touched the older woman’s hands, clenched at her waist. “I’m certain Mr. Everly will find a solution, though.”

“Oh, he’s found one! He’s had a man at our house asking questions of all the staff! It’s mortifying. He even wants to speak to my personal maid. Of all the effrontery!”

Virginia knew now why Phillip Brown had asked her about the Ladies’ Organization for the Benefit of Baltimore City.

Although it was hard to believe that Everly would ever ask Phillip to do any sort of favor, she was certain he was the one doing the questioning of the Everly staff.

Virginia guided Mrs. Everly to a pair of unoccupied chairs and settled her there.

She saw a waiter and requested wine and sweets for the two of them, then she sat down and prompted Mrs. Everly to pour out her worries in detail.