Early the next morning Smythe cornered Betsy on the first-
floor landing. Everyone else had gone down to breakfast, so
he felt it was permissible to sneak a quick kiss.
“Stop that,” she whispered even as she kissed him back.
“Someone will see us.”
“They’re all downstairs, and so what if they did. We’re
Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight
127
engaged. Now, lass, what do you want for Christmas?
You’ve been avoidin’ tellin’ me for days now.”
Betsy’s smile faded. This was a bit of a sore subject to her
mind. “I’ve already told you, a pair of gloves or a nice scarf
will do just fine.” She looked away as she spoke, not wanting
to see the hurt or disappointment in his eyes. But he simply
didn’t understand. He might be rich as sin, but she wasn’t,
and she didn’t want him getting her an expensive present
when she could only afford to get him something modest.
She’d not bought his present as yet; she hadn’t been able to
decide what to give him.
“Now, lass, we can do better than that,” he protested.
Betsy stepped out of the circle of his arms. “Smythe, I’ll
not have you spending a fortune on me when I can’t do the
same for you.”
“Don’t be silly.” He pulled her close again and stared into
her eyes. “Once we’re married, what’s mine is yours.”
“But we’re not married yet,” she pointed out, “and if you
go getting me something that costs the world, everyone in
the household will think you’ve gone daft.”
“Half of them already do,” he replied. He knew that
Mrs. Jeffries had a fairly good idea of his financial resources.
He’d never meant to deceive the rest of them, it had simply
happened.
When he’d come back from Australia, he’d only planned
on stopping in to say hello to his former employer, Euphemia Witherspoon. But when he’d arrived, she’d been deathly ill and at the mercy of her servants. Wiggins had
been there, but he’d just been a boy then and much too confused to see what was happening in the household. Smythe had sent all the servants but Wiggins packing, hired a
nurse, and the three of them had taken care of the dying
128
Emily Brightwell
woman. Euphemia made him promise to watch over her
nephew, Gerald Witherspoon. But once Witherspoon had
come, everything had happened so fast. Before he knew it,
Mrs. Goodge and Mrs. Jeffries had come, then Betsy, starving and ill, had collapsed on their doorstep, and he’d taken one look at her and known he couldn’t leave until she was
better. By that time, Mrs. Jeffries had them out following
up clues on those horrible Kensington High Street murders,
and well, what was a man to do? Rich or not, this was where
he belonged. Australia had been good to him. He’d used his
brains and his muscle, and he’d carved out a fortune for
himself.
He could buy and sell half of London’s toffs several times
over, but he had to hide it. The others wouldn’t take kindly
to the idea he’d deceived them. Neither he nor Betsy were
ready to give up their investigations as yet, and the truth
was, the minute he got that ring on her finger, he’d want to
give her the world. “Now stop worryin,’ lass, we’ll ‘ave a
wonderful Christmas together.”
“You won’t spend too much money?” she asked.
“ ’Course not,” he grinned. “But if you think my present
is too grand, you can hide it until after our wedding. It’s not
long now, is it?”
“Six months,” she replied with a wide smile. “The time
has passed so quickly. June will be here before we know it.”
“After Christmas we ought to start thinking about where
we’re going to live,” he said softly. He knew he was treading
on thin ice. She loved him, but she didn’t want anything to
get in the way of their investigations. Truth be told, neither
did he.
She shrugged. “We’ve plenty of time for that. We might
even think about staying on here.”
Smythe knew that was what they should do if they
Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight
129
wanted everything to stay as it was, but he couldn’t stand
the thought of the two of them setting up housekeeping in
the small attic room upstairs. “I don’t think that’s a good
idea,” he said. “But we’ll find a way to have both a decent
home and our investigations.”
“I hope so.” She sighed, pulled away, and started for the
stairs. “But you’re a proud man, and I don’t want you letting your pride get in the way of our work. A lot of killers have been brought to justice because of us, and that’s important. We’re good at what we do, Smythe, and I don’t want to give it up.”
“Neither do I,” he insisted. “We’ll find a way, Betsy, I
promise you.”
“I’d best get downstairs. They’ll be waiting for me.” She
wasn’t angry with him; she knew he loved her more than his
own life. But she also knew that once they were married,
he’d not want her fetching and carrying in someone else’s
household, even for someone as good and decent as Inspector Witherspoon. “Come on,” she called over her shoulder,
“get a move on. They’ll be waiting for you too. We’ve a lot
to do today if we’re going to find out who murdered Sir
George Braxton.”
Mrs. Jeffries was laying the table as they came into the
kitchen. She glanced up and smiled at them. “Good morning. There’s tea in the pot.”
“I’ll pour,” Betsy said. “Where’s Wiggins?”
“He’s taken Fred for a walk,” Mrs. Goodge answered. She
was at the stove, cooking breakfast.
“We’ve much to do today,” Mrs. Jeffries said.
“What are you going to do?” Betsy asked the housekeeper as she poured out the tea into mugs.
Mrs. Jeffries hesitated. “I was thinking about going to
Richmond to a domestic agency.”
130
Emily Brightwell
“What’s that?” Wiggins asked as he and Fred came into
the room. “One of them places that fixes up ‘irin’ servants?”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Jeffries went to the stove and picked
up the platter of eggs the cook had just taken out of the pan.
“Do you think they’d tell ya anything?” Smythe asked as
he took his seat at the table.
“They’re supposed to be discreet.” Mrs. Goodge picked
up the platter of bacon and came to the table. “But I’ll warrant Mrs. Jeffries can
