Page 45 of Murder in Matrimony (A Lady of Letters Mystery #4)

“After.” He was visibly agitated and stood from his chair.

Instantly, she tucked the screws into her pocket.

“He refused to give it to me, so I struck him with the clock and took it myself. I changed the time and took the poor box, to put the police on the wrong trail. The peelers will believe anything, and I couldn’t risk our meeting being connected to his death.

” He stepped from around the desk. “Cross was the one who told the girl to ask for more money. But she didn’t ask.

She demanded. She said her mother would continue to make the biscuits at the Plate & Bottle if I didn’t give her ten thousand pounds—after she’d promised me her mother would retire the recipe.

Ten thousand pounds! She was an urchin, I tell you. A blackmailer.”

He had to prevent Mrs. Rothschild from making the biscuits, and the only way to do that was put an end to her oven, if not her.

With Rose Rothschild gone, it was the only thing left to do.

“She might have blackmailed you, but you killed her, her priest, and burned down her family’s business. What does that make you?”

He grabbed her arm, hard. “A smart man.”

She dug her heels into the floor. “Not so smart. If something happens to me, the recipe will be known to all. I left it with a friend who will know what to do with it.”

“When they find you, which will take a while. You must know what the Thames is, my lady. It will take some time for you to wash up on shore.”

He was old but strong. In his youth, he’d probably wrestled many men on the brutal streets of East End London.

She twisted like a wildcat to get out of his claw-like grip.

He took an umbrella from the stand by the door and hit the back of her knees with it.

She buckled long enough for him to get her through the office door, and in a moment, she was before the ladder, thinking of all the people in her life most dear.

Tabitha, Winifred—Simon. She wished she’d told him that she loved him. She wished she’d told him every day for the last three months. How foolish she’d been to hold back.

“Don’t take another step, Baker.” Simon was there at the bottom of the ladder with a shooting rifle. “I’m warning you.”

It was as if she’d wished so hard, she’d manifested him, and she blinked twice to make certain he was real.

He was. In his black frock coat, which must have concealed the rifle, he looked the navy captain he’d once been.

Kitty and Oliver, who had, like good students, figured out her plan to investigate alone, stood next to him.

“I’ll push her.” Mr. Baker’s voice was raspy. “I swear to God I will.”

“If you do, I’ll kill you dead.” Simon’s deep voice cut through the charged air with eerie calmness. His eyes were focused on Mr. Baker, like a hunter’s on a deer.

Had he his umbrella, Mr. Baker might have been able to make good on his threat. But as it was, Amelia knew she could overpower him. The problem was they might both fall over, and she couldn’t live with his blood on her hands. Mr. Cross wouldn’t want it, and neither did she.

So they stood at an impasse. Or so she thought. Until another man’s voice surprised her from behind.

“Lady, what have I told you about the East End?” Isaac Jakeman tsked. “I say, ‘stay home in Mayfair,’ but you do not listen.”

“You’re late.” Mr. Baker loosened the grip on her arm. “You were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago to throw this chit in the Thames.”

“Ah, but there is one problem.” Isaac Jakeman stepped closer, taking Amelia’s arm as if it was part of a criminal transaction.

Mr. Baker’s brow furrowed. “What is it?”

In one swift motion, Jakeman pushed Amelia toward the office. “I like this chit more than I like you.” He grabbed Mr. Baker’s arm instead. “Lower your gun, Sir. I am for the lady.”

Seeing the truth of his words, Simon lowered the gun.

“What is this? Here now. Did she pay you? I will pay more.” Mr. Baker tried pulling away, but it was no use, and he knew it.

Isaac Jakeman had no doubt killed his fair share of men.

Resisting or retaliating would ensure his own demise.

Jakeman had no qualms about hurting the older man.

He held the belief of an eye for an eye.

“No, she did not pay. But you will pay whatever the lady wishes.” Jakeman looked at Amelia and smiled. “What do you wish for, Lady?”

In a moment, she knew. What could be done—must be done—for the Rothschilds and the East End. It was almost as strong as her wish to tell Simon she loved him, and she voiced it immediately. “I wish for Baker Biscuits to give the proceeds from the new biscuit to Mrs. Rothschild and her charity.”

“An admirable wish.” Jakeman dipped his chin. “You were not jesting when you said you wanted to help Wapping.”

“I meant every word, Mr. Jakeman. I promise.”

He held her eye for a moment, then shook the arm of Mr. Baker.

“See? She calls me Mister. Why wouldn’t I like her better?

” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Now, I want you to promise the lady and her friends here that the proceeds will go where she wishes. You will put them in writing for your partner, and in turn, I will not cut off your head. You will rot away in prison like the rest of the cheats on the East End.”

“How could you, Ike?” Mr. Baker’s voice was hoarse with emotion, and for a moment, he looked like an older version of the younger man. “You and I are the same.”

“You are not the same,” Amelia spat back. “You are nothing like Mr. Jakeman.”

“There, you see? We are quite different.” He nodded at Simon. “Now then, we have some business to commence. Would you like to join us?”

Kitty put her hand on a rung. “We would.”

Oliver put his hand over hers. “Let’s find a constable, shall we? I think they have matters under control, and Mr. Baker must be taken into custody.”

Kitty met Amelia’s eye, and Amelia nodded her agreement, giving her a weak smile. She should have told her friend the plan, but in her own defense, she had no idea Mr. Baker would be in the factory on a Sunday.

Kitty took Oliver’s hand then but not without a parting word. “If you ever try something like this again, Amelia, I won’t bring Mr. Hamsted and Lord Bainbridge. I’ll bring Lady Tabitha.”

The name echoed in the rafters, reminding one and all that there were things scarier than men and guns, and it was Aunt Tabitha.