The Unforgettable Hero(21)
Lucy stepped in between Maggie and the girl and whispered to the girl in a low but calm voice. Maggie couldn’t hear everything she said, but she saw Lucy present the girl with a card.
“Please pay us a visit at this address this afternoon at two o’ clock,” Lucy told the girl, before bustling Maggie into the shop.
As soon as the shop door closed behind them, Maggie turned to Lucy, trying her best to keep the alarm from her voice. “What was that about, do you suppose? Someone else thought I was a woman named Cecelia? And did I hear you invite her to the house this afternoon?”
Lucy tugged at her collar. “I’ll explain … later.”
Maggie glanced out the window. The girl watched them for a moment with a completely bewildered expression. She stood on tiptoes staring into the shop before glancing down at the card and then blending back into the crowd.
Maggie took a deep breath and turned back to Lucy. “I know there’s something you’re not telling me, Lucy. I must know the truth immediately.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Adam jogged up the steps to Derek’s town house. He’d just spent an interesting hour with a neighbor. Mr. Cornwall lived around the corner. Earlier, when Adam had been reading the manuscript, it had hit him. Mr. Cornwall was a publisher. Perhaps Maggie—or Cecelia—had been visiting the older man. It still didn’t explain how or why—or even if—anyone had been trying to hurt her, but it was the only clue Adam had. Thankfully, his guess had paid off.
Mr. Cornwall’s butler, a man whose eyes were half closed, had ushered Adam into the study, where Adam had explained the situation. Mr. Cornwall had admitted to Adam that yes, indeed, he was familiar with the work. He’d seen it and apparently rejected it. It wasn’t profitable enough for him. Though he insisted he wished to hell it was.
“Quite a talented author. Quite,” Mr. Cornwall had insisted.
“Do you remember the young woman’s name?” Adam asked, sitting on the edge of the large leather seat in front of the man’s desk. He’d scoured the manuscript but hadn’t found the author’s name.
The older man had stroked his chin and hemmed and hawed before ringing a small brass bell that sat on the end of the desk.
A short man with spectacles materialized from the next room clutching a leather-bound volume. “Yes, sir?” he said in a nasally pitch.
Mr. Cornwall cleared his throat. “What was the name of the young lady I met with two days ago, Marshall?”
Two days ago? The timing piqued Adam’s interest. Maggie might well have been returning from the appointment when she’d been struck by the carriage. Marshall’s nose twitched incessantly as he thumbed through the leather-bound book that was, apparently, his employer’s appointment book. Finally, he stuck a wobbly finger in the air. “Here it is. A Miss Harcourt, sir.”
“Ah, yes, Harcourt.” Mr. Cornwall nodded. “That’s it.”
“Was her Christian name Cecelia?” Adam asked, nearly holding his breath.
Mr. Cornwall’s eyes narrowed briefly before they lit with recognition. “Yes. Yes, now that you mention it, I believe it was.”
Adam exhaled, letting his forehead drop into the hand that rested on the desktop. “Thank you, Mr. Cornwall.” He stood to leave. “You don’t happen to recall any more about her situation or her family, do you?”
Mr. Cornwall tapped his quill against his ledger. “It seems to me she mentioned a sister. But that’s all that I recall.”
“This might sound odd, but did she tell you that she was in danger?”
Mr. Cornwall frowned. “Danger? No. Nothing of the sort.”
Adam bowed to the older man. “Thank you, sir. You’ve been a great help.” He turned to go.
Mr. Cornwall’s voice stopped him. “You know, I’ve had my doubts since I turned her down. The manuscript was quite good. At least the amount I read.” The publisher sighed. “I wish I had the money to invest in projects like Miss Harcourt’s. I daresay I might make a go of it, but I’m far too old to be taking such risks. Though I will say the young woman made plenty of reasonably arguments for why it might be a sound business investment.” He chuckled.
Adam nodded and took his leave. He spent the walk back to Derek’s house contemplating Cecelia’s situation. For it was surely Cecelia Harcourt, aspiring author of romantic novels, whom he’d been keeping company with these last two days and not Lady Magnolia Makepeace, heroine of said novel. Cecelia’s speech and mannerisms smacked of being born into the ton, yet she was not a lady but a miss. And apparently a miss who was willing to or in need of working for an income if her family allowed her to write and attempt to sell her writing. The name Harcourt was not familiar to him, however. Perhaps Lucy would recognize it.