Love on Assignment (2 page)

With overwhelming debts to pay, she couldn't possibly refuse Mr. Phifer's offer.

“But what shall I do—exactly—once I'm hired?”
If I'm hired
.

Mr. Phifer lowered his voice to a whisper. “You're to search for evidence against Daniel Wilmont. Look for his weaknesses and vices. Find his Achilles' heel. Do you understand what I'm asking?”

He wanted her to spy on a religious fanatic, an enemy of the American way of life. This was indeed a worthy endeavor for herself and for the publication. If she could pull it off, she would make an instant name for herself. She'd have a career. A future. As one of the first female journalists anywhere. But as appealing as a journalism career might be, it didn't compare to the importance of paying off bills. She needed that peace of mind.

Mr. Phifer waited for her answer, his head thrust forward.

“I understand and I accept the assignment, sir.”

“Well done, young woman. Together, we'll discredit Professor Wilmont and put a halt to his despicable blather.” He slammed his fist against his desktop, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.

Taken aback by his sudden ferocity, Charlotte swallowed hard and kept silent as he went on with his plans.

Her boss wanted to force Professor Wilmont to quit his column in disgrace. An unsavory taste coated her tongue, but she couldn't form the words to decline the mission she'd just accepted. Mr. Phifer would toss her out the door if she ever gave voice to her moral scruples.

With her sister's disability requiring expensive doctor visits for which she struggled to pay, she needed her job. At this very moment, a stack of unpaid bills lay in the top drawer of her dresser where Aunt Amelia and Becky wouldn't see them. There was no need for anyone else to fret. She did enough worrying for all of them.

And even more pressing, she owed a small fortune for the new roof on their old house. Patching had sufficed for only so long before rain finally leaked through the ceiling into the upstairs bedrooms. And Mr. Knowles, the roofer, possessed little patience with her extended payment plan. She didn't blame him, but she couldn't hand over money she didn't have.

Mr. Phifer flashed a satisfied grin. “You'll be generously rewarded for your success, young woman. I see a bright future in store for you at the
Rhode Island Reporter
.”

“Thank you, Mr. Phifer. I appreciate the opportunity to help—and to advance at the newspaper.”

“A career in journalism is entirely possible, Miss Hale,
if
you find the evidence I need.”

Despite reservations that nibbled on the edge of her conscience, Charlotte beamed, unable to contain her excitement. She liked her job well enough, though pounding keys on a typing machine didn't stimulate her intellect. Eventually she hoped to write substantive articles on important subjects, but to do that, she'd have to please her boss first. Mr. Phifer dangled a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to distinguish herself and shine. And he'd practically promised a better salary would accompany a promotion.

Somehow she'd treat Professor Wilmont in a fair and unbiased manner. She would ferret out the facts and report the truth like a competent reporter.

A niggling fear gripped her mind. Would he appreciate her efforts no matter what the results? Or would he fire the person who brought him news he didn't wish to hear? “But what if I don't find anything untoward?”

Charlotte winced as Mr. Phifer's face shook with a nasty laugh.

“You'll find something damaging, I assure you. Daniel Wilmont has plenty to hide. Report to me every few days, if possible, or as soon as you find any incriminating evidence. I know you'll make me proud.”

“I shall do my very best. You can count on me, sir.” Charlotte forced enthusiasm into her voice, hoping this assignment would prove as advantageous as she expected.

“Excellent. I have another lead I'm pursuing, but at the present time, I'm not at liberty to divulge anything more. Mum's the word.” But then he leaned closer and lowered his voice to a theatrical whisper. “I can tell you this much, I've heard a rumor about the professor and a young female student. This could be scandalous! If this information pans out, I'll inform you of all the details and you can verify the facts.”

“Of course.” This was the most concrete lead her boss had given her. “He must be a dishonorable man,” she murmured.

“He is, indeed. Keep your eyes peeled for shameful behavior.”

Charlotte nodded, uneasy about putting so much stock in unconfirmed rumors. “I shall. About how long will this investigation take, Mr. Phifer?”

His eyes squeezed to a narrow glint. “The sooner you finish, the better. I anticipate you'll be done in a week or two at the most. Remember, I want frequent updates on your progress—every few days if you can manage it.”

Charlotte gulped. She hoped to succeed within a matter of days. She'd sweep in and out like a whirlwind—that was her plan. “How shall I get time away from the child—or children—to look around, if I'm to be a governess?”

“You'll find a way, I'm sure. Use your ingenuity.” Mr. Phifer nodded his dismissal.

“Sir, there's one more thing.” She clutched her hands to keep them from shaking. “Would you be able to increase my salary by a few dollars every week—at least while I'm on this assignment? I'm afraid I've accumulated some bills of late. I need to pay them as soon as possible.” He'd probably think her impertinent to ask, but she needed to just the same.

He emitted a chuckle. “So you've spent too much on trifles, have you? Pretty ribbons and trinkets, I presume. Well, I'll tell you what, Miss Hale. If you find the evidence I expect, then I'll give you a mighty fine raise.”

Even if he didn't agree to a specific amount and mischaracterized her need as personal indulgence, gratitude for her new assignment filled her heart. “Thank you, Mr. Phifer.”

“I've set up an interview for an hour from now and I've hired a hack cab to drive you to Summerhill, the Wilmonts' cottage on Ocean Drive. Good luck. Don't let me down.”

“I assure you, I'll do my very best.”

Mr. Phifer snapped a nod and a smile. “Good. Now, let's write you some references. Whom do you suggest?”

“My Aunt Amelia, and possibly Mr. Stapleton, my former English teacher. In fact, he wrote one for me when I applied for this job. Should I contact him?”

“No, there's not enough time. I'll check and see if we still have his recommendation on file.” He quickly located Mr. Stapleton's letter and then frowned. “This will do nicely except for the date. 1895. Hmm. That's hard to change to 1900, so I'll just turn the five into an eight.” He took a fountain pen and carefully altered the number. “If the professor questions the date, tell him Mr. Stapleton wrote it two years ago, and you didn't wish to bother him for a newer version.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We need one more reference. I'll have Miss Wengle write one up.”

Within minutes Charlotte left on her first assignment toward a new, fascinating career in journalism.

TEN MINUTES LATER Charlotte climbed aboard the hired carriage for the ride to Summerhill. They drove out of town toward Ocean Drive, the winding road that hugged the coast for ten scenic miles. The buggy swayed past showy mansions set among the lonely stretches of road edged by jagged rocks. Surf crashed against the boulders and burst into a spray of liquid gems. Although she'd lived in Newport for all of her twenty-two years, she'd never before seen the famed Ocean Drive. It was far too expensive to hire a hack cab just to sightsee on a Sunday afternoon.

Of course, she'd heard countless tales about the estates and their fabled owners. These showplace mansions, always called cottages by their owners, were occupied only for the summer and designed specifically for lavish entertainment—and truth be told, mainly to impress other millionaires. Charlotte didn't know what the wealthy thought of them, but the magnificent homes certainly impressed her.

The horse slowed his pace, turned down a pebbled drive, and the carriage rolled toward a white-shingled mansion rising upon a gentle knoll. Charlotte drew in a deep breath, held it for a long moment, then let it seep out. Though smaller and probably older than many of the more ostentatious residences lining Bellevue Avenue, Summerhill conveyed a hominess that set her slightly more at ease. Striped awnings with scalloped edges flapped in the breeze and seemed to wave a welcome.

Charlotte blinked. What was she thinking? She was sent here on an assignment to spy, not to hobnob with millionaires or drink tea in hand-painted china cups with gold rims out on the veranda. She couldn't let down her guard, even for a moment.

The carriage halted before the wraparound porch. Lined with blue hydrangeas, it boasted a swing and white wicker chairs with floral cushions. The driver helped her down. “I'd been told to wait for you, miss.”

“Thank you. I'll not be long—I hope.”

A warm breeze blew from the sea and swept across the grassy landscape rising above the shoreline. It whispered in her ears and cooled her cheeks which were rapidly overheating from mounting tension.

Charlotte squared her slumped shoulders and strode up the steps of Summerhill, pretending confidence. But the knot in her stomach tightened. Was it really ethical to investigate an unsuspecting man, even for an admirable cause? Perhaps. Or perhaps not. But if the professor was truly bent on destroying people's prosperity, then examining his background wasn't so terrible, even under false pretenses. Yet the guilt pressing against her chest gave her pause. She'd have to think this through further.

Standing at the door, she tried to compose her thoughts, but to no avail. She steadied her breathing and uncurled her fists.
Better
. She rang the doorbell, smoothed her plain gray skirt, and waited with a lump blocking her throat.

Through the oval glass of the front door, she glimpsed a butler, followed by a towering figure with a couple of half-pint children in tow. When the door flew open, she looked past the butler to the man who scarcely resembled the dignified, almost stern photograph in the
Newport Gazette
.

“Professor Wilmont?” she asked in a small voice. She cleared her throat and flicked a tentative smile.

“I am he.”

In person, sandy-colored hair fell over his forehead and blue-green eyes sparkled like a tropical sea. A pair of gold-rimmed spectacles rested on the tip of his nose, adding a professorial tone to his casual appearance. Instead of the dark suit and celluloid collar he wore in his newspaper photograph, he sported tan trousers, a rather wrinkled white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a jaunty blue bow tie.

Was this man with the broad smile truly Mr. Phifer's enemy? The man who fought to halt mankind's progress and curb her hard-won success? But a man's character could not be judged by the width of his grin or the degree of his handsomeness. Appearances often deceived.

He stepped back from the threshold and waved her inside with a wide sweep of his muscular arm. Even with a slight stoop to his tall frame, he dwarfed her. “I'm Professor Wilmont and I expect you're Miss Hale, the applicant for the governess position.”

Charlotte nodded as she followed him into the foyer, a spacious area with a large Turkish rug covering most of the parquet floor. It took all her willpower not to gawk at the luxury of her surroundings. Antique vases rested on marble side tables and a grand wooden staircase led to the upper floors. The entire downstairs of her home could fit into this one vestibule with room to spare.

She didn't trust her voice to emerge any stronger than a croak. The heat of the professor's smile radiated down upon her and she blushed at its intensity. Professor Wilmont was at least six feet two inches tall to her five feet four. She felt insignificant enough—and nervous enough—to disappear right into the blue floral wallpaper. She almost wished she could vanish, but she'd accepted this assignment and she'd carry it out as promised.

“How do you do, Miss Hale? Shall we go into my office?”

Her nerves snapped like violin strings. She glanced toward the front door, tempted to bolt. As soon as the interview started, he'd realize she was a fraud. Better to leave now before he discovered she came here on a surreptitious mission.

Sucking in a fortifying breath, she followed Professor Wilmont into the study right off the front hallway. Piles of books and magazines cluttered the space. Overloaded bookshelves of golden oak rose to the high ceiling. The room smelled of furniture wax and a faint mustiness common to old houses built by the shore.

“Children, I'd like you to meet Miss Hale.” Professor Wilmont gazed down at the boy and the girl who tumbled into the room ahead of him. They pushed and shoved each other out of the way.

“You're the prettiest one so far.” The rangy boy bobbed his head. His curly hair sprang up like red wire coils. “Do you think you'd like to take care of us? Grandmother says we're a handful.”

Professor Wilmont grunted. “Don't let Tim discourage you. They're really quite angelic. At least that's what we tell all the applicants.”

Her optimism faltered until she spotted the grin playing at the corner of the professor's mouth. She returned his smile, embarrassed she'd taken him so seriously.

“Can you tell me your names?” Charlotte bent down closer to the children's height.

The boy, dressed in a sailor suit with a red tie, nodded. “I'm Tim and I'm ten. She's twelve.” He jerked his thumb toward the girl.

“I'm Ruthie and I'll be thirteen in October.” She shook Charlotte's hand with ladylike poise. Her auburn braids, as thick as ropes, stretched down to her waist and were tied with silk ribbons. They coordinated with her green and rose plaid dress partially concealed by a starched white pinafore.

“Now that you've introduced yourselves, it's my turn to speak to Miss Hale. You two skedaddle for a while.” Professor Wilmont jutted his chin toward the study door, but his eyes glistened with pride.