Taking the High Road by Morris Fenris

patient. “You go on and eat, now, Miss Cecie. That soup is nice and warm, and I buttered the bread just as you like it.”
    “Bridget…”
    “Somethin’ else you’d be likin’ to have?” The maid paused in her bustle around the room, picking up this, hanging up that, straightening and fussing.
    “I was just wondering…um…Did I leave a large white handkerchief somewhere? Slightly damp, quite wrinkled…”
    “Funny you should mention it,” said Bridget with an understanding grin. “I did find that very thing, crumpled up in a corner of your chair on the front porch. Expensive, I’d say. Even has a monogram worked into the linen.”
    Color flushed Cecelia’s fair skin. She picked up her soup spoon and took a taste.
    “It’s in the laundry, bein’ washed and ironed as we speak. Plannin’ to return his personal property, were you?”
    Lovely little nose in the air, Cecelia sent her maid a disdainful glance. “Of course I shall. At the earliest opportunity.”
    “That would mean, I’m thinkin’, findin’ out more about the man. Where he’s stayin’, for instance, and so on. You let me know, Miss Cecie, and I’ll set Max to work on the problem. At the moment, he’s got nothin’ else to do but that…and bother me.” A giggle, and Bridget slipped away.
    Meanwhile, over at the Hotel Alexandria, things were not quite so friendly. Or so rosy.
    Noah’s two-day deadline had come and gone, without a word of concession from the scarlet jade. Time to take matters into his own hands, from here on, and prove to her that he meant exactly what he said.
    Thus an enigmatic but intriguing letter, written on the hotel’s finest stationery, had been delivered to Mrs. Augusta Kingsley. A brief introduction and mention of his status in Boston, the inclusion of hints about “someone of interest” to both their families, an invitation to lunch at one of the city’s finest dining establishments, and Augusta was hooked.
    She and Josiah arrived by private carriage, both dressed as fashionably as if summoned by royalty instead of a mere crass business mogul. Of course, the plum color she chose was not the most flattering for her complexion, and all the hurly-burly of braid and ribbons added extra weight to her already substantial frame, and the full-sized bird upon her hat did resemble nothing more than a dead crow.
    Incidentals. Augusta was extremely pleased with her appearance; more so when Noah, meeting her at the door, offered fatuous compliments on her finery and taste. Bridling like a teenager, fluttering her fan, she allowed him to seat her at the table, smack-dab in the center of the room, for all to see. Josiah schlumped along behind, quite aware that he was out of his league but unable to do anything about it.
    “My, my, isn’t this a lovely place,” she approved, casting her covetous glance around. Hoping someone of importance was there to take notice.
    “Glad you like it.” Noah, as host, handed out menus. “Please, order whatever you want; it will be on my bill. Some sherry, perhaps?”
    “Oh, better and better,” proclaimed Augusta, sending a significant raised-brows look toward her son. “Such a nice treat, coming here, Mr. Harper. From Boston, you mentioned in your note?”
    “Boston, yes.”
    The sherry arrived, a warm golden wine served in beautiful little goblets that enhanced the atmosphere and mellowed the mood. After a slow, considering sip, Augusta pronounced the vintage excellent. Entrees were chosen, heavy crockery plates were served, and the luncheon began.
    “It’s quite a coincidence, your home town being Boston,” she went on, as if there had been no interruption in their conversation. “We know people who have moved here from Boston, also.”
    “Do you, indeed?” An anticipatory smile, baring shark’s teeth.
    “Why, yes. Josiah, my dear son, is betrothed to a young lady from Boston. Perhaps you know her—Cecelia Powell.”
    “As a matter of fact…” Noah was cutting