Page 18 of Written in Secret (The Art of Love and Danger)

C HAPTER 18

O NE WOULD HAVE THOUGHT M OMMA had the sense to miss evening service considering their situation. But no. She had deemed the timing of their departure from Abraham’s house providential. Lydia called it the curse of her life turned into a dime novel. They shouldn’t be here at all, but no one defied Momma about church attendance. Except maybe Papa, who wasn’t with them. Normally Sunday nights only had a handful of attendees, as Pastor Evans repeated the morning’s message for those unable to attend earlier.

But nothing since stealing Tipsy from the circus had gone according to plan.

The thrum of more than a hundred voices bounced off the stone walls. People crowded the sanctuary entrance, searching for seats. Or rather, searching for her. Dozens of copies of that morning’s Cincinnati Commercial crinkled in eager hands with the headline “Meet the Face Behind the Killer Queen.” Somehow that snake Eugene Clemens had discovered where she attended church and paired that delicious fact with her face and fed it to the ravenous mobs. He was probably around here somewhere, waiting to watch the carnage the moment she was identified.

By God’s grace and mercy, Flossie spotted their arrival before anyone else. Momma didn’t even argue when Flossie demanded they leave. Madelyn led the retreat but abruptly stopped just outside the door. A group of men stood guard around the hack, ignoring the driver’s commands that they disperse. So much for escaping the way they came.

Lydia pulled Madelyn back inside and faced Momma and Flossie. “Flossie, take them upstairs to the choir loft and keep them safe. I’ll hide in the robe closet.” It was the safest place she could think of.

Flossie scowled but didn’t argue. Using her flowing red-and-white choir robe to obstruct anyone’s view of Lydia, she rushed Lydia across the foyer and into the alcove where the closet was tucked.

Lydia stepped inside and tried to close the door.

Flossie stuck her foot into the narrowed opening. “I don’t like it. Guardians do not leave each other to fight alone.”

Hopefully there would be no fighting to it. All Lydia needed to do was hide until service was over so Flossie could sneak her out without being spotted. “Just keep Momma and Madelyn safe.”

“I still can’t believe your mother insisted you attend.” Flossie’s face bunched. “Actually, I can, but still! Your father is going to have a fit of apoplexy.”

“I know. Now go. The longer you stand here, the more likely you are to draw attention.”

She nodded, then shut Lydia into the dark box.

The closet might be the safest place Lydia could think of, but that didn’t mean she was safe.

If she were writing this as a story, she’d have the heroine frantically search for a way to escape and find none. Then, when the villain exposed the heroine’s hiding place, the hero would swoop in and save the day. That’s how romances worked. But she wasn’t living one of those. She was caught in a Billy Poe mystery. Worse, Billy was the villain and the outcome yet unknown.

She needed a plan, and not one where she twiddled her thumbs and waited for some imaginary hero to rescue her. This damsel in distress needed to become the hero. Since Billy could never again fulfill that role, she would have to consider the situation through the eyes of her new hero, Detective Darcy. He was smart and resourceful. He would scrutinize what the closet held and devise some way to use whatever he found to his benefit. Unfortunately there was little to work with. It was an empty box with a rod going across and cramping her headspace. The door had no lock, and the crystal knob was uncomfortable to hold when she applied any strength to the grip. If someone wanted in, there would be no stopping them.

She could rip the rod down and wield it as a weapon. But Pastor Evans would be livid if she damaged church property because of her overactive imagination. Best to wait until—

Someone knocked on the door.

If Flossie knocked, she’d use their secret code. Madelyn would just yank the door open, and Momma would whisper through the door. Which meant, more than likely, a foe awaited her on the other side.

Lydia wrapped her hands around the smooth wooden rod.

The door opened wide on silent hinges. A boulder of a man blocked most of the foyer light, casting him into an ominous shadow. Maybe she’d been too quick to tell Abraham no man could carry her away. This one appeared capable of tossing her over his shoulder as though she were nothing more than a potato sack.

“Looks like Miss Pelton attends service like she writes her books. In secret.” His bass voice belonged in the choir loft with how much it boomed in the small space and shook her courage.

Be Detective Darcy. Firm. Confident. And for heaven’s sake, Lydia, don’t let your sweaty hands lose their grip on the bar.

She lifted her chin and tried to meet the man’s shadowed gaze. “I believe you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

“You telling me you’re a monkey come to swing in a closet? If you want to swing, I’ve got a rope to help you along.”

From behind him, a woman’s voice squawked. “It’s too dark in there. Are you sure it’s her?”

He grabbed Lydia’s chin and forced her forward into the light as he shifted aside. A squat female, about the same age as the man, lifted the Cincinnati Commercial to Lydia’s face and nodded sharply.

Cruel excitement lit the man’s exposed face.

She would not cower. She was Detective Darcy, and Detective Darcy would yank this rod free and vanquish the villain without even disturbing the service.

She jumped and used the full weight of her body to pull the bar free.

Only the stupid thing remained firmly anchored.

Arms thick as Roman columns wrapped around her waist and tugged. Unlike the rod, her sweaty hands gave way without resistance.

The organ and a multitude of singing voices covered the sounds of their scuffling.

Her angle was all wrong to knee the man. She’d never get enough momentum for him to drop her. That left her with only a damsel-in-distress tactic.

The woman shoved material into Lydia’s mouth before she could so much as squeak. “We’ll have none of that. You’ll come with us nice and quiet, and I won’t have to do to you what Billy Poe did to my boy, Joseph.”

Joseph Keaton. The half dozen limestone steps might not kill her if they tossed her, but that didn’t mean a serious injury couldn’t occur.

Lydia nodded her acquiescence and walked down a few steps between the two abductors.

“Miss Pelton, is that you?”

The familiar voice came from behind, and she peered over her shoulder to find Mr. Clemens beaming at her.

There was no way he could miss the giant wad of material in her mouth, and yet he smiled? Was he part of this outlandish plot?

He jogged down to stand in front of them with his notebook and pencil in hand.

By all that was holy, if that man was slowing them just to get a story, she’d lay him out flat and then kiss him for the delay. If it resulted in someone else coming to her aid.

Confusion squished her kidnappers’ faces, indicating he wasn’t a part of their scheme.

“Ah, Mrs. Keaton, Phillip, you’re both looking well. If you’ll recall, I’m Eugene Clemens with the Cincinnati Commercial . We met last week to discuss seeking justice for Joseph’s death.”

“You should mind your own business and move along. We’ve got our justice.” Phillip yanked Lydia down another step.

Mr. Clemens moved to block his path. “Cincinnati will hail you as heroes. Tell me.” He scooted closer and whispered eagerly. “Since your son’s death matched his crime, will you be breaking Miss Pelton’s fingers to match her own?”

Heavens above! Was he really giving these two suggestions?

Phillip’s bottom lip protruded in consideration. “That’s not a bad idea.”

No! It was a terrible idea.

“It’s not,” Clemens agreed. “But I think we could do better. Where were you planning to do the deed?”

Was she really just standing here, listening to them debate how to best torture and kill her? She lifted her leg and slammed her boot down on Mrs. Keaton’s bread loaf of a foot. The woman yipped, and Phillip yanked Lydia around so she stood with her back pinned against his chest.

The man didn’t even break conversation with Mr. Clemens. “I don’t trust you.”

“Nonsense. I love a good story of poetic justice. Anything I write will, of course, protect your anonymity. I wouldn’t want the heroes of Cincinnati to be carted off when they were only doing what the police would not.”

Mrs. Keaton leaned over to rub her foot and glared at Lydia. “The alley’s close.”

“Not poetic enough.” Mr. Clemens tapped his pencil against his lips. “A library might work. No! Her house, where she writes the books. It’s been empty the last few days, so you wouldn’t run into anyone there.”

“That so?”

Lydia couldn’t see Phillip’s face, but his whole body leaned forward, eager for the information.

“It is. And there would be no witnesses to interfere.”

These people were insane. If she didn’t escape now, she was going to end up dead at her desk with fingers broken and a pen jabbed through her heart. Or, more likely, her neck. At least, if she were staging it, that was how she would do it.

And that was an unsettling thought in its own right—planning her own murder.

A murder that would occur if she didn’t stop letting her mind run ahead of her situation.

She jerked from side to side and threw in a few kicks for good measure. Phillip was not amused and tightened his hold until her chest hurt. Mr. Clemens completely ignored her plight while the men who guarded the hack watched with delighted curiosity.

It was one thing for this scenario to happen in a book—she’d written it often enough—but shouldn’t there be at least one decent man in the world willing to rescue her? Where was Abraham when she needed him?

Phillip attempted to force her farther down the steps, but Mr. Clemens slid in his way. Phillip growled. “Move aside. You want to write your story, write your story. But stop delaying me.”

“One more minute. I want to make sure I understand your plans correctly. You’re taking Miss Pelton against her will to her home, where you will proceed to break each of her fingers in poetic justice before killing her yourself?”

“It’s only what she deserves,” Mrs. Keaton asserted. “Joseph was getting his life turned around, and that wench had him killed.”

“Getting his life turned around, really? I find that hard to believe given the current situation. But please, don’t allow me to stop you. I have what I need.” Mr. Clemens stepped to the side as he drew something from his pocket to his lips.

The shrill of a police whistle rent the air. Lydia winced, and her ears rang at its being so near.

God bless Mr. Clemens, even if he was as addlepated as a Longview resident.

Phillip’s head swung back and forth, his chin bumping against her head.

The whistle stopped, but no officer rushed to her aid.

The momentary hope she’d felt deflated. Addlepated indeed. One would think Mr. Clemens would ensure the police were nearby before giving himself away.

Phillip gave a mirthless chuckle before he passed Mr. Clemens and hauled her toward the alley. It appeared they weren’t going to stage a poetic death at her home after all.

A second shrill whistle blew behind them.

Another joined it as an officer rounded the church corner, gun drawn and leveled at Phillip.

The only problem with that plan was Lydia stood trapped between. Of all the times she’d written something similar, she’d never imagined how her legs would turn to water or that her ears would drum so loud it was all she could hear. Her vision tunneled to that narrow metal cylinder, steady in the officer’s hand but still as capable of firing at her as Phillip. Would she see the bullet fly from the end before it struck her? Or would a searing pain in her chest be the only announcement of the death she received? At least she could go to her grave knowing she didn’t scream like a ninny in the face of a gun.

The arm around her waist disappeared.

Without Phillip’s support, her legs gave way, and she thudded to the ground. Her hip and elbow caught the edges of the steps and zinged with pain.

Sweet, blessed pain—the sign of life no one wanted but she was glad to have.

Around her, chaos ensued. Two officers wrestled Phillip to the ground. He flailed and kicked, sputtering curses and condemnation down on their heads. Mrs. Keaton was halfway to the corner with an officer giving chase. The men by the carriage had scattered. Only Mr. Clemens stood unoccupied by a task.

With his hands in his pockets, he watched Phillip being shackled. “I always seem to get my timing off.” He shook his head, then offered a hand to help her stand. “I hope you’ll forgive me, Miss Pelton. I had to stall for time until the officers stationed inside could reach us.”

Lydia stared at his hand and considered biting it, but first, she needed to deal with the dratted gag. Pulling out the wadded material as it stuck to her tongue and the roof of her mouth sent a shudder through her body. Never again would she shove something into her characters’ mouths. A neat and tidy strip of material tied at the back of the head would be much more palatable.

Ignoring his hand, she pushed from the ground. “I don’t know whether to thank you or to slap you. It’s your fault that they’re hunting me.”

Some of his swagger disappeared. “I thought a stint at Longview Insane Asylum would be the worst they’d do once they discovered you were a woman. I never expected this.”

“The worst they’d do?” Slap him. Definitely slap him.

She drew back her arm, but he deftly caught it and tucked her arm around his. “Allow me to escort you back to Miss Plane’s. I have a hack waiting around the corner.”

She stiffened and dug a boot heel into the space between cobblestones. “How do you know where I’m staying?”

“I’m a reporter. I have eyes everywhere, especially on you. You’re the story of the century.”

The notion he’d been watching her more than unsettled her; it downright sickened her. “I want an officer to escort me and my family home. Not a reporter.”

“Especially not this reporter?” He quirked a brow and offered a knowing smile. “While I understand your hesitancy, I promise you, I’m not the fiend Detective Hall paints me to be.”

“It’s your own actions that declare you one, sir!”

“You must admit that, at the moment, I’m more hero than fiend. If it had not been for me, Phillip and Mrs. Keaton would have you in the back alley, breaking those beautiful fingers of yours. Or worse, killing you.”

“All the same, I’d rather someone else take us home.”

Mr. Clemens nodded, though his displeasure was clear. “Then allow me to deliver you into Officer Lucian Atwood’s capable hands. You might not trust me, but I won’t chance someone else whisking you away.”

Lydia refused to respond to that. She didn’t trust him, and one act of heroism wasn’t going to change that. However, she couldn’t help but be thankful for his consideration once she met Officer Atwood. He was the perfect officer to soothe her fears. He assured her of his protection and never moved more than a few feet away.

It took longer than expected to give her statement, see Phillip and Mrs. Keaton taken away, and to have Madelyn and Momma retrieved. But eventually, Officer Atwood escorted them to Plane Manor in an open-air hack. With the cool breeze and his smooth words, he managed to calm Madelyn’s hysterics, stop Momma’s berating herself, and fill the drive with easygoing chatter. Despite his jovial personality, however, Lydia couldn’t relax. A trembling anxiousness held her in its grip, muddling her brain and icing her veins, though it eluded her how, on such a baking day, she could feel so cold.

The hack pulled directly in front of the portico, and Theresa opened the door to greet them with a half-eaten bouquet of flowers.

By the grim set to her mouth, these flowers weren’t a simple casualty from Tipsy.

“Billy Poe sent you these and another note.”

Lydia pressed a hand to her throat, trying to quell her rising fear. “He sent them here ? To your house for me?”

Theresa nodded. “They were left on the steps not ten minutes ago. Tipsy found them first when …”

Whatever else Theresa said was lost to Lydia.

Ten minutes. He’d been here, at this spot, ten minutes ago.

Oh, Lord above! What am I supposed to do?

There was no doubt in her mind that he watched her. Wherever he stood, his eyes bored straight into her. How long would it be until looking wasn’t enough?