A Match of Wits (22 page)

“What was so unthinkable?”

“He got married. The new wife wanted a honeymoon. He obliged her against his better judgment.” He sent her a glare. “That your suitor?”

Agatha turned her attention to where Mr. Chambers had switched his glare to Francis’s retreating back. “That’s Mr. Blackheart, my bodyguard, remember?”

“Ah, yes, now I do, but you’re not planning on marrying the man in the near future, are you?”

“I don’t think Mr. Blackheart would have me, Mr. Chambers.”

“Excellent. Well, not that the man doesn’t return your affections, but that you won’t be getting married to him soon.”

“I don’t hold Mr. Blackheart in affection,” she said slowly.

“Then why did you tell me you did?”

“I’m fairly certain I never mentioned anything about affection, but really, sir, my personal life is not actually any of your concern.”

“It is if you’re planning on abandoning your writing to settle down and bring up a pack of youngsters. I need warning of such events, since I have to make certain I have enough writers. Our readers demand their stories, don’t you know?”

“I have no intention of abandoning my writing, nor am I planning on marrying in the foreseeable future. But I must tell you, Mr. Chambers, I find it somewhat offensive you would make such a statement. Do you badger your male writers regarding their marital aspirations?”

At that moment a high-pitched scream split the air. “Good heavens, I completely forgot Matilda is chasing some poor
gentleman, and evidently, Mr. Blackheart hasn’t met with much success in catching her.”

Mr. Chambers’ ruddy complexion suddenly wasn’t all that ruddy. “Who is Matilda?”

“She’s my pig,” Agatha said before she dashed in the direction of the scream and caught sight of Drusilla charging down a different aisle. To her amazement, something came huffing up behind her, and that something turned out to be none other than Mr. Chambers. “Run faster, Miss Watson. That’s Mr. Horace Pitkin your pig is chasing, and if you’ve forgotten, he’s a nervous sort. The slightest drama sends him into a tizzy, and he has a deadline to meet.”

Increasing her speed, she rushed past a row of desks, nodding to writers she knew as she dashed onward and turned down a long hallway only to stop in her tracks at the sight that met her eyes.

Matilda was head-butting a chair Mr. Pitkin was standing on, and with each butt of her head, another high-pitched scream launched out of Mr. Pitkin’s mouth. Francis seemed to be trying to talk in a soothing manner to the pig, although why he wasn’t trying to grab her leash was a bit of a mystery.

“Get her leash,” she called as she started forward again.

“She tried to bite me when I did that.”

Agatha skidded to a stop. “Matilda doesn’t bite.”

“You might want to remind her of that, because she’s been trying to get to this gentleman’s leg ever since he jumped on that chair.”

Prodded into motion when Matilda let out a rather disturbing grunt, Agatha snapped her fingers. “Matilda, enough, you will cease attacking Mr. Pitkin at once.”

To her amazement, Matilda didn’t stop but continued knocking into the chair as Mr. Pitkin continued screaming.

“Get this demented pig away from me,” he shrieked.

“She doesn’t like the word P-I-G,” Agatha yelled, then snapped her mouth shut when she remembered Matilda had figured out what those letters meant. To her relief, Matilda was grunting so loudly that she didn’t seem to hear her. “Try calling her Princess. She adores that word.”

Mr. Pitkin sent her a look of utter disbelief, but his disbelief turned to relief when Francis stole up behind Matilda, snatched the leash from the ground, and gave it a firm tug, hauling Matilda over to his side. “Don’t even think about biting me,” he warned the pig.

Matilda’s ears drooped. She let out a whine, sat down, and promptly turned her head toward the wall.

Agatha moved to help Mr. Pitkin, who was trembling, down from the chair. “I must beg your pardon, Mr. Pitkin. I don’t know what got into her.”

“Apology not accepted, Miss Watson,” Mr. Pitkin snapped.

Looking Mr. Pitkin up and down, Agatha was surprised to discover he’d changed his look since the last time she’d seen him, which was probably why she hadn’t immediately recognized him. Instead of having incredibly short hair, as he had had before she’d headed out west, his hair brushed against the collar of his shirt. And he was no longer dressing in baggy clothing, but in a jacket that was neatly tailored to his thin frame and trousers that didn’t sag over his shoes. The ugly black spectacles she vaguely remembered him wearing had been replaced with a more fashionable style, and overall, he looked better kept than he had the last time they’d seen each other.

“You’re looking well,” she finally said.

“I looked better before your pig got ahold of me.”

“And again, I’m very sorry she chased you, but I—”

“I have no desire to hear your excuses for her behavior. This is the
New-York Tribune
, a reputable establishment and one not meant for farm animals.”

Thankfully, Agatha was spared a response to that bit of snippiness when Mr. Chambers finally lumbered up next to them, bent over, and began wheezing.

“Are you all right, Mr. Chambers?”

“I’m fine,” he said before he gave another wheeze and straightened. “I think a more important question would be how Mr. Pitkin is doing?”

“I was just attacked by a pig. How do you imagine I am?” Mr. Pitkin returned.

“At least Miss Watson hasn’t acquired a tiger for a pet,” Mr. Chambers said with a hearty laugh, that laugh dying a rapid death when Mr. Pitkin let out a sniff. “Don’t you have a deadline looming, Pitkin?”

Mr. Pitkin released another sniff and then, without a single word, marched away.

“Writers are such a needy lot,” Mr. Chambers muttered. “He doesn’t mingle well with the rest of the staff, so don’t take offense over his behavior, but he’s a harmless sort.” Mr. Chambers looked over Agatha’s shoulder and winced. “Unlike Mr. Jenkins, who, unfortunately, seems to be walking this way.”

“So the rumors are true. The prodigal daughter has returned.”

Agatha suddenly found herself the recipient of a daunting glare cast her way by a handsome gentleman standing a few feet away from her.

“Do I know you?” she asked.

“I don’t believe you’ve been given that pleasure.” The gentleman stepped forward and held out his hand. “Mr. Nicolas
Jenkins, reporter extraordinaire and a
huge
fan of your work, Miss Watson.”

Agatha took the offered hand, forcing a smile instead of grimacing when the infuriating gentleman squeezed her hand a bit harder than was strictly necessary. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jenkins, but I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with
your
work. What is it that you write?”

Mr. Jenkins’s hand tightened again, and Agatha knew she would probably have bruises, but then Francis stepped forward and let out a growl that had Mr. Jenkins immediately releasing his hold on her. He eyed Francis for a moment, then returned his attention to her, his expression less than friendly. “I took up where you left off, Miss Watson. In fact, Mr. Chambers brought me on from a rival paper right after you departed the city.” His eyes narrowed. “And just so we’re clear, I cover the tenement slums, the factories, the shipyards, and everything else of a nasty nature, and I intend to continue doing so. However, do feel free to snoop out stories in all those brothels you seem so fond of. I don’t actually care to delve into that particular nastiness.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Agatha said. “But do know that I have no intention of only writing about brothels. This city is swarming with unpleasantness, and I, for one, enjoy sifting through that unpleasantness to find the perfect story.”

“Stick to the brothels, or your bodyguard over there just might find himself out of a job. . . .” With that, Mr. Jenkins sent her another smile, nodded to Francis, who was watching him intently, winked at Drusilla, and stalked away.

Turning to Mr. Chambers, who’d not spoken a single word during the exchange, Agatha arched a brow. “
That’s
who you brought on to replace me? You couldn’t find someone a bit nicer?”

Mr. Chambers dug a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his perspiring brow. “He’s a difficult man, Miss Watson, but he writes well. You should probably stay out of his way.”

“I think I should go speak further with the man,” Francis said before he nodded to Drusilla. “You’ll watch over Agatha?”

“I think I’d be more effective with Mr. Jenkins,” Drusilla said, her eyes glittering. “He’s one of those charmingly chauvinistic types, and he might let something slip. After all, he winked at me.”

“Which is why I’ll deal with him,” Francis argued, holding out Matilda’s leash to Drusilla.

“You may stay with Agatha,” Drusilla said before she strode away, leaving behind a glaring Francis with leash in hand.

Mr. Chambers’ brow furrowed. “What in the world was that about?”

“It’s nothing for you to worry about, sir,” Francis explained. “We’ll handle it.”

“Handle what?”

Moving closer to her editor, Agatha summoned up another smile. “Did I mention that I actually have a reason for visiting the paper today?”

“I’m hoping you’re going to tell me you were just teasing me about not having a new story ready.”

“I rarely tease, Mr. Chambers, and no, I don’t have a new story, not just yet. I do have some ideas, but that’s not what I wanted to speak with you about.”

“Am I going to like what you have to say?”

“I guess we’ll soon find out.”

Strolling out of Mr. Chambers’ office fifteen minutes later, Agatha spotted Francis leaning against the wall, Matilda sound asleep by his feet. She glanced to the left and found Drusilla pacing back and forth, her posture perfect as always even though she was practically sizzling with annoyance.

“May I assume your conversation with Mr. Jenkins didn’t go well?” she asked as Drusilla stopped pacing and seemed to be gritting her teeth.

“He’s an insufferable man, insulted me at least fifty times, didn’t let anything of interest slip, and then, had the audacity to ask me out to dinner. He’s lucky I didn’t shoot him.”

“He asked you out to dinner?” Francis growled, moving forward so quickly he jerked poor Matilda’s leash, and the little pig woke up in a flash right before she was pulled a good few feet across the hard floor. She let out a pitiful whine, which had Francis stopping even as he winced. “I do apologize, Matilda. What a rude awakening that must have been for you.”

Drusilla grinned. “Nice to see you’re still immune to the little darling’s charm.”

“She has grown on me,” Francis admitted. “But getting back to Mr. Jenkins. Shall I go track him down and demand satisfaction from him?”

Drusilla’s grin widened. “Since I’m fairly certain duels are considered illegal, no. But I thank you for the offer, even though I’m perfectly capable of seeing after myself. Besides, the man is no longer here. He said something about a story and left rather abruptly, right about the time I mentioned my stellar ability with a pistol.”

“We’ll have to set someone on him to watch his every move,” Francis said.

Agatha nodded. “Agreed, and I have to admit I feel somewhat foolish not realizing my threat could have originated
from the paper, but it’ll be easy enough to find out if Mr. Jenkins is behind everything.”

“Don’t let your guard down,” Drusilla cautioned. “Mr. Jenkins is a nasty piece of work, but we shouldn’t assume he’s behind your threats until we find real proof. You need to remain vigilant.” She took Agatha’s arm. “But enough about that for the moment. How did Mr. Chambers react to your idea about writing under your own name?”

“He didn’t balk at all, but that might have been because he was hardly listening to me, was more concerned about trying to puzzle out what had happened with Mr. Jenkins.”

“He’ll figure that out soon enough,” Francis said. “He seems to be an intelligent gentleman, if somewhat harried. Although, since he didn’t balk at you writing under your actual name, that might be cause for concern. I suppose I’ll need to snoop around his background as well, because no one can be considered innocent at this point.”

“I doubt Mr. Chambers wants to do me in considering I provide him with stories readers like to read.”

“I’m still going to investigate him. Let’s go.”

They’d almost reached the door when Agatha noticed Mr. Pitkin standing in the hallway, his back pressed up against the wall, his eyes bulging. Sending him a nod, which he didn’t return, she hurried Matilda out of the building, having to exert extra pressure on the leash when Matilda caught sight of Mr. Pitkin and began to grunt. Pulling her pig down the steps, she brushed a gloved hand against her forehead but froze mid-brush when a carriage pulled to a stop directly in front of her.

Francis was blocking her with his body before she could take so much as a single breath, but his body relaxed a second later, and a glance around him explained why.

Getting out of the carriage was none other than her mother, an expression of relief on her face as she set her sights on Agatha.