Page 7 of A Measure of Menace

“Good morning,” I called.

I received no reply. The office was dim and dusty, with a hardwood floor that needed scrubbing. One desk reposed in a corner, with only a blotter and an ink stand on top of it. Two clerks’ desks, which clerks would stand behind, faced the door, but no clerks were in sight.

I spied another door behind the large desk. I boldly marched to it, settled my basket firmly on my arm, and knocked.

I heard rustling and voices, mostly asking each other who the devil could be disturbing them. I retreated to the other side of the desk before a plump, middle-aged man yanked the door open. He stopped short when he saw me, as though expecting—or fearing—someone entirely different.

“Yes, madam?” he asked impatiently. “How can I help you?”

“This is a shipping company, is it not?” I inquired.

The man fixed me a look that said he did not approve of women charging into offices that were obviously the enclaves of men. “It is. What about it, madam?”

I put on a firm expression. “I would like to speak to Mr. Jacoby, please. I might have business for him.”

The man’s bushy brows climbed. He wasn’t much taller than me, and his soft limbs and belly gave him a round shape. His receding sandy-colored hair contributed to this overall form as did the fact that he was clean shaven, though his eyebrows were thick.

“I am Mr. Jacoby. I very much doubt you have an appointment, Mrs.—”

“Davis.” I said the first name that popped into my head and hoped Mr. Davis would forgive me. Not that I would ever let him find out I’d appropriated his name for my purposes. “If I wanted to ship a quantity of woolens, what would I?—?”

I never found out whether Mr. Jacoby would view me as a potential client or throw me out, because at that moment, another man charged into the office behind me.

“Jacoby!” Lord Clifford shouted. “Swindler. I thought we were friends, you swine.”

He hurtled around the desk and charged Mr. Jacoby, reaching out to close his hands around the other man’s thick neck.

Chapter 4

I seized Lord Clifford by the arm and tried to haul him backward. I could not pull him fully away, but I was at least strong enough to prevent him from reaching Jacoby.

Jacoby retreated a step, but instead of rushing to safety, he adjusted his cravat and stared at Lord Clifford in amazement.

“Swindler? Me? Clifford, whatever do you mean?”

“Mrs. Holloway is right.” Lord Clifford wrested himself from my hold, but he did not resume his attack on Jacoby. “You planned to dupe me out of as much money as you did Dougherty. I trusted you. Now a man is dead, and if his successors come after me for that debt … You should pay it. Why don’t you hand me fifteen thousand guineas on the moment?”

Jacoby blinked at Lord Clifford in bewilderment, but I saw the canniness in his eyes as he tried to think of a way to turn this dilemma to his advantage.

“Who is Mrs. Holloway?” Jacoby asked. “She is obviously a siren temptress trying to sway you into doubting me. Perhaps she wants the money.”

Lord Clifford stared at Jacoby, baffled. “Mrs. Holloway is a cook. And she is standing right here.” He indicated me.

In the very back of my mind, I took some offense that Lord Clifford could never view me—or any cook for that matter—as a siren temptress. Cooks could be temptresses as much as anyone else, once we put aside our unflattering work attire.

My more immediate reaction, however, was dismay that Lord Clifford had exposed my ruse. Mr. Jacoby pinned me with a steely gaze.

“She told me her name was Mrs. Davis.”

“I misspoke,” I said quickly. “Davis is my maiden name.” Actually, it was Holloway, which I’d resumed after the death of my rather horrible husband, but Mr. Jacoby did not need to know my history.

Jacoby’s eyes narrowed, but Lord Clifford waved the confusion away. “Whatever you call her, she pointed out that you were drawing me into this scheme alongside Dougherty. You coaxed me in by telling me how much I could make once we finished with him.”

“Because my company will do very well, once I have it running smoothly,” Jacoby answered, assurance oozing from him. “Dougherty’s capital would have been enough to make us both rich.”

“And my capital,” Lord Clifford snapped. “I have a wife and daughter to look after. If I’m out that fifteen thousand I owed Mobley, my family will go to a workhouse. My darling daughter will have to hire herself out as a governess or some such awful thing. You owe me that money, Jacoby.”

“Surely you can raise it, your lordship.” Jacoby’s smoothness of manner returned. “You are a peer of the realm.”

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