Page 5 of Cloaked in Beauty

Wendell slapped his palms on his thighs, then pushed up from his chair, Philip’s cue that the meeting had reached its conclusion. He rose from the corner of the desk.

“I appreciate you taking the time to bring me up to speed. Reading case notes isn’t the same as talking to the agents who worked the assignment.” Philip extended a hand to Harper first, then to Wendell.

Wendell grinned as he shook Philip’s hand. “Don’t suppose you’re looking for a partner, are you? I might be convinced to give finding the Radcliffe heiress another go. Especially if it means splittin’ that reward.”

“The lone wolf take a partner?” Harper scoffed, then shot Philip a sardonic glare. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Philip chuckled good-naturedly as he extricated his hand from Wendell’s grip. “You know how it is, boys. Old habits, and all that.”

He’d established a reputation at the agency for discretion. He always worked alone and was willing to take on the less sensational cases. Glory, power, recognition. He didn’t care about those things. A fact that made him attractive to a certain clientele. One desperate to keep their secrets out of the press. He didn’t particularly enjoy spying on cheating husbands or digging up dirt on potential investment partners, but the work was steady enough to keep him occupied so he didn’t have to hire out for the more questionable duties associated with the labor unions. That work was rife with corruption, and Philip wanted no part of it.

“I’d wish you luck,” Wendell said as he led the way to the door, “but it’s gonna take a lot more than luck to find Scarlett Radcliffe. That trail is as cold as they get.”

“Kinda makes me wonder why he’s wastin’ his time.” Harper raised a brow. “You uncover some new information, Carmichael? Or are you workin’ an angle?”

“No angle, I swear. I just want to bring Miss Radcliffe home.”

But not to her uncle.

Philip bid his two colleagues good-bye and collected his horse from the hitching post outside the building. In case his departure was being monitored, he guided his gray north on Main, then east on Congress, as if heading in the direction of the grand houses of Quality Hill. He wound through the area that housed Houston’s elite before turning south. Large oaks shaded the thoroughfares. Sculpted hedges and flowers formed decorative gardens, and women dressed in high-fashion gowns strolled along the walkways or drove about in open carriages, impressing their fellow socialites with their style and knowledge of the latest gossip.

A shudder twitched along Philip’s spine. He couldn’t imagine living a life where a person’s worth was judged by one’s finances, social connections, and fashion sense. Could anything be more superficial? These people had no substance, no purpose beyond themselves to give their lives meaning.

He rode Steele a full block before enough tension drained from his shoulders for him to relax back into his saddle. Rich people made him itch. Ironic since they also made up the bulk of his clientele. Maybe the itch had developed because he’d worked for so many, giving him the opportunity to witness their greed and selfishness up close.

Not all wealthy people possessed low moral standards and inflated egos, though. He’d met godly men and women of means who sponsored philanthropic endeavors such as building hospitals and schools, funding mission work, and establishing orphanages. But they seemed to be in the minority. Drake Radcliffe and his ilk were far more prevalent.

Which was why Philip wasn’t working for that Radcliffe.

Philip drew his mount to a halt outside a modest home on Jefferson Avenue. A handful of kids played in a yard down the street. A woman swept her porch next door, not giving him more than a cursory glance. An old man sat in a rocking chair smoking a pipe across the way. He raised a hand in greeting. Philip waved in return as he casually glanced down the road the way he’d come. No evidence that he’d been followed. The neighborhood seemed normal. Nothing out of place. Still, he walked his horse around to the back, finding a chicken coop and a shed that offered a bucket he could fill at the pump. Once Steele was situated and out of sight from curious onlookers, Philip strolled back to the front of the house and knocked on the door.

A stately man, likely in his sixties, opened the door. “Yes?”

“Philip Carmichael from the Pinkerton agency. I believe I’m expected.”

A smile creased the formality of the man’s bearing, and a hint of what Philip could only call excitement lit his eyes. “Come in. Mrs. Radcliffe awaits you in the sitting room.”

Philip stepped inside and pulled his hat from his head. He rubbed a hand over his short blond hair as he handed the hat to the butler. “I hope she hasn’t been waiting long.”

The man’s gaze drifted past Philip to an open doorway a few feet past the entryway. “About fifteen years, sir.”

2

Philip followed the butler down the hall to a small sitting room that faced the west of the house. Sunlight seeped through sheer curtains, bathing the room in a warm glow. He couldn’t see much else with the butler blocking his view, but his first impression registered a feminine room with pale-blue carpets and draperies offset by cream-colored wallpaper textured with some kind of leafy pattern.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Radcliffe.” The butler ventured over the threshold.

“Yes, Fellows?” The genteel voice carried a slight Southern lilt.

“Mr. Carmichael is here to see you, ma’am. From the Pinkerton agency.”

“Send him in.”

Fellows bowed, then stepped aside to allow Philip to enter the room. A woman rose from a blue settee, putting aside a small box from her lap as she moved to greet him. A smile graced her lips, shaving a few years from the age he’d been in the process of estimating. Upper forties perhaps? Shallow lines appeared at the corners of her eyes and around her mouth, but they did nothing to detract from her beauty. Red hair, faded only slightly with age, gave her a vibrancy that the soft gray of her dress could not dim. Her blue eyes lit with welcome as she moved to greet him, yet they assessed as well. Philip wasn’t the only one collecting first impressions.

“Mr. Carmichael. Thank you for coming. I’ve heard good things about you.” She tilted her chin up a notch as she peered into his face. “You’ve been described by your superiors as honorable, discreet, and dependable. Would you say that’s an accurate depiction of your character?”

The woman didn’t beat around the bush. He appreciated forthrightness in a client. Philip inclined his head. “I’d say it’s an accurate description of the man I strive to be.”