Love in Disguise Page 3

  Fleming gave her an appraising stare. “You’ve certainly managed to catch our notice, Miss . . .”

  “Moore. Elizabeth Moore,” Ellie supplied. “As I said, I overheard your conversation outside. It seems you’re in need of a woman to fill a position, and I’m here to take you up on it.”

  Gates gave a muffled cough and wiped one hand across his mouth. With a quick glance at Fleming, he said, “That’s a very enterprising attitude, Miss Moore. We admire your spirit, but you don’t have any idea what this job entails.”

  Ellie sat up straighter. “Not the particulars, perhaps, but I read the sign on the window, and everybody knows what the Pinkertons do. You’re the greatest detectives in the world.”

  Fleming planted his elbows on his desk and tented his fingers. “And what makes you think you’d be qualified for this line of work?”

  “Well . . . to begin with, I’m a woman.” Ellie hoped her little quip would lighten the mood, but neither man so much as cracked a smile. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m resourceful, for one thing. I’m able to think on my feet. And I’m very observant.”

  Gates nodded. “I’d have to agree. You obviously have a talent for eavesdropping.”

  Ellie felt her smile begin to slip and anchored it firmly in place. “Isn’t that an asset for a Pinkerton agent?”

  One corner of Fleming’s mouth twitched. “That may be true, but there are other considerations, as well. In different circumstances we might be able to consider you, but not this time, I’m afraid.”

  Ellie had watched enough auditions to know when a rejection was imminent. Her stomach roiled. They couldn’t turn her down flat. “But you said you need someone to fill this position, and I’m willing to go to Arizona, or wherever you want to send me. I’ll grant you I have no experience, but how many trained women detectives do you expect to show up at your door?”

  Gates leaned forward, and his expression softened. “I’m sorry. It’s nothing personal. You simply don’t have the look we need.”

  Ellie pressed her lips together. So it wasn’t only the theater that insisted on casting beauties in leading roles. “I see. I’m not glamorous enough for the part.”

  Fleming folded his arms. “That isn’t the case at all. Mr. Pinkerton has determined that we should send a two-woman team, one younger and one middle-aged. We already have the younger woman. What we’re looking for now is an older woman, someone who could pose as her aunt, a well-to-do widow.” He smiled as he spread his hands wide and rose to his feet. “Obviously, that leaves you out.” He ushered Ellie to the front of the building and bid her good day.

  Outside, the sky had darkened, and snow swirled along the sidewalk, creating a bleak setting that matched Ellie’s mood perfectly. She wasn’t good enough to accompany Magdalena to Europe. She wasn’t good enough for any job opening she could find. Was she good enough for anything?

  She shivered and set off again, hoping to reach her room before daylight faded completely. Tears spilled, and she dashed them away before they froze on her cheeks.

  She’d been so close. Both Fleming and Gates had been impressed by her spunk, even though they hadn’t admitted it. And while she didn’t know the first thing about questioning suspects or gathering evidence, the roles they discussed sounded like playing a part in a play. It would have been fun to have that connection between the life she knew so well and that of an operative.

  And to relocate to a place that was warm. Ellie raised her hand to wipe away another spate of tears. Here she was, perfectly fit and ready to go, and the detectives themselves said they were in dire need of help. Why couldn’t they have adjusted the role to fit her?

  Her stomach rumbled, and she pressed her hand against it, trying to think how she would assuage her hunger once she got home. Playing detective in Arizona would have been an adventure, but she had more pressing reasons for wanting the job—things like being able to afford a roof over her head. And food, she thought, when her stomach protested again.

  One more block to go, and she would be home. Music spilled out of one of the nearby saloons, and Ellie crossed to the opposite side of the street. A clatter of feet caught her attention, and Ellie looked up to see a young woman about her age staggering across the road. The girl’s threadbare cape evidently did little to ward off the cold, for the fingers that clutched it tight around her neck were blue, as was the skin around her brightly painted lips. While Ellie watched, the other girl made her way into the saloon.

  Ellie shuddered, from more than the cold this time. What drove anyone to a life as one of Chicago’s scarlet women? Being reduced to selling one’s body surely required circumstances of extreme desperation. Being destitute, perhaps, or left alone in the world without family or friends to help.

  Circumstances very like her own, in fact. Ellie’s steps faltered. Would she find herself faced with the same decision that other women made? And what would her choice be, if it came to that?

  She would starve first.

  And that might very well be her only option, she realized, when she got back to her room and counted the money she had left. If she held on to every penny, she would have enough to pay for another week’s rent. But that wouldn’t allow for buying any food.

  The choice between starvation and degradation might be closer than she thought.

  She slumped onto the edge of her narrow bed and buried her face in her hands. There had to be some way to bring in money without dishonoring herself. Once again, she thought of selling some of Magdalena’s cast-off clothing. A seamstress might be willing to pay for a dress that was already completed and only needed fitting to a customer. It might garner only a pittance, but a pittance could be enough to make all the difference in keeping body and soul together.

  She flung herself on her knees beside the costume hamper and sent up a quick prayer. If God was listening, maybe He’d feel sorry enough for her to grant this one request.

  Ellie fumbled with the latches and threw back the hamper lid. Lifting the Juliet gown from the top, she set it aside on the bed. A period piece, it wouldn’t be of value to anyone outside the theater. She dug farther down into the pile of clothing and theatrical accoutrements and pulled out the dark gray dress Magdalena had worn in a recent production.

  Ellie held it up, wishing the room’s solitary oil lamp offered better light. Yes, it would do. With its simple lines, a dressmaker would find it easy to make slight alterations and add some trim to make it a truly elegant creation.

  Encouraged, she reached into the trunk again and drew her hand back with a squeal when her fingers encountered something that felt like fur. Ellie picked up one of her boots and used it to push away the clothes surrounding the unnerving object, then let out a relieved laugh when she realized it wasn’t some sort of vermin after all, but one of Magdalena’s wigs.

  She picked up the wig and shook it gently, watching the gray strands settle into place. The memory of Magdalena’s pique at playing an older woman brought a chuckle, but the reviews of her performance had been stellar.

  As Ellie bent to lay the wig on the bed beside the Juliet gown, a thought seized her, and her hand froze. With her heart racing, she lifted the wig again and held it above the dark gray dress. Together, they brought to mind a respectable older woman. One who might be a widow, judging from the somber color of the dress. One perfectly suited for a woman accompanying her young niece to Arizona.

  Ellie rummaged through the costume hamper again, scattering its contents hither and yon until she found the thing she sought: the makeup case she had used to help transform Magdalena into a wide variety of characters.

  She held the case on her lap and closed her eyes, taking stock of the things she had at hand and envisioning the task ahead. Satisfied, she nodded and got to her feet, ready to begin.

  If Magdalena could play an older woman, so could she.

  4

  God hath given you one face and you make yourself another.”

  The line from Hamlet brought a
grin to Ellie’s face, and she immediately toned it down to a more sedate smile. A quick glance in a storefront plate-glass window reassured her of what her mirror had told her earlier—not only had she created a new face, but she’d done a good job of it, too.

  Would it be good enough?

  Ellie pushed open the heavy door of the Pinkerton Agency, wincing slightly as the pebble she’d placed in her boot pressed into her heel. Heeding the reminder to alter her gait, she limped toward the oak desk.

  The same secretary she’d faced the day before glanced up. “May I help you?”

  Ellie pressed her gloved hands together and rounded her shoulders even more. “I . . . I . . .” She put a hand to her throat, pretending to adjust the rows of ruching at her neckline. After all the time she’d spent hovering in the wings, she never thought stage fright would overwhelm her. On the other hand, a quavering voice suited her new character.

  She cleared her throat and forced herself to go on. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Fleming. Is he in?”

  The other woman studied Ellie briefly, then nodded. “I’ll see if he’s available. Your name, please?”

  “Mrs. Oliver Stewart.” With a shy smile, she added, “Lavinia.”

  “And your visit is in reference to . . . ?”

  Ellie pulled a lace-edged handkerchief from her left sleeve and dabbed at her cheek. “It’s of a rather personal nature, I’m afraid.”

  The secretary bobbed her head. “Of course. I’ll ask him if he can see you now.” She disappeared down a hallway.

  Ellie drew in a ragged breath and used the moment of respite to gather her courage. One hurdle had been cleared—the secretary showed no sign of recognition. Now the real test was about to begin.

  A moment later, the secretary returned and ushered Ellie back to the same office she’d visited the day before.

  Mr. Fleming rose from his chair and rounded the desk to greet her. “Come in, madam.” He had replaced the wooden chair Ellie used earlier with a more comfortable padded one. “Please be seated.”

  He waited until Ellie settled herself, which took several moments. The cloth strips she’d wrapped around her legs to help mimic the stiff joints of an older woman worked admirably—almost too well. When she finally arranged herself, Fleming returned to his chair on the other side of the desk and gave her an encouraging smile. “Now, Mrs. Stewart, how can I help you?”

  “Actually, I believe it is I who may be able to help you.”

  Two quick blinks gave the only indication of Fleming’s surprise. “Indeed? Go on.”

  “My late husband, God rest his soul, made a number of investments that returned even more than he hoped.”

  Fleming picked up a pencil and made a quick note on the pad before him.

  “As a result, I find myself with the resources to embark on a little adventure.”

  “Mm-hm.” Fleming nodded and began twirling the pencil between his fingers.

  Ellie sensed she might be losing her audience. Dropping the background story, she leaned forward and rapped the desk with her knuckles. “I intend to visit the West, Mr. Fleming! Its vast expanse has always called to me like a siren song, and now I have the means to fulfill my dream.”

  She studied his reaction and decided to play a trump card. Covering her mouth with her handkerchief, she gave a delicate cough. “Besides, my doctor says the dry climate should prove beneficial to my health.”

  Fleming set the pencil aside. “Yes, I see. But, my dear woman, while I sympathize with your aspirations to travel, and I offer my hopes for your health’s improvement, I don’t quite grasp the reason for your visit. What does all this have to do with the Pinkerton Agency?”

  Ellie brushed a strand of gray hair away from her forehead and put on her—or rather, Lavinia’s—most beguiling expression. “It is my understanding that you need someone to assist you in an investigation. In Arizona, I believe?”

  Fleming’s jaw tightened. “How do you come by this information?”

  Ellie folded her hands in her lap and peered at him over her gold-rimmed spectacles. “A good operative is able to pick up information in an unobtrusive way.”

  Fleming’s face held the same look of bewilderment Ellie had seen on Roland Lockwood’s the night a fledgling actor went up on his lines in the first act of The Tempest, thrusting Lockwood into a scene much later in the play. “Madam, are you telling me you are a detective?”

  “In the short time we have been talking, I’ve deduced that the need for a suitable operative has been weighing on you heavily.” Glancing at his right arm, Ellie added, “And the bursitis in your right elbow has been acting up lately.”

  Fleming gaped at her in silence, then shoved his chair back with a clatter and hurried to the door. Leaning out into the hallway, he shouted, “Gates! Come here for a moment!”

  When the shorter man arrived, Fleming indicated Ellie with a nod of his head. “This is Mrs. Stewart. She appeared in my office a few minutes ago with a most unusual proposition. She’s interested in working with us on that Arizona matter.”

  “Indeed.” Gates stroked his chin as he eyed Ellie from head to toe. “I have to admit she fits the type we’re looking for.” His eyes narrowed. “Who sent her to us?”

  “I have no idea. She said she heard we were looking for someone and thought she might be able to help.”

  Tired of being talked about as though she weren’t even in the room, Ellie cleared her throat to remind them of her presence.

  Ignoring her attempt, Gates walked around her chair, inspecting Ellie as though she were nothing more than a mannequin on display. When he completed his circuit, he took a wide stance directly in front of her. “May I be frank, Mrs. Stewart?”

  “Please do.” Ellie’s heart pounded so hard she could barely squeeze out the words.

  “You look the part, and you seem like a very nice lady, but appearances aren’t everything. This job requires a certain degree of toughness, and you seem far too delicate to—”

  Enough. Ellie sprang to her feet. Alerted by his odd look at her sudden display of sprightliness, she pulled herself into character and glared at Gates through her spectacles. “I think you place entirely too much stock in appearances.”

  He clamped his mouth shut and glowered at her.

  Seeing her last opportunity for survival ready to slip away, Ellie drew upon every ounce of resolve she possessed and addressed both men. “What you need is someone with the inner resources to gather the information you’re after. Am I right?”

  Gates clasped his hands behind his back and glanced at his partner.

  Fleming took in a quick breath. “My enthusiasm may have been a bit precipitous. I’m afraid my associate has a point. It’s obvious you have an interest in the job, and quite possibly the will to get it done. However . . .” He paused, as if hoping Ellie would take the hint and spare him having to explain her dismissal in painfully blunt terms. When she remained silent, he shot a look of appeal at Gates.

  “What Mr. Fleming is trying to say is, this enterprise requires a high degree of stamina. You may have the will to get the job done, but will and stamina are not the same thing.”

  He was going to say no. Ellie racked her brain for some compelling argument, but all she could come up with was, “Did you enjoy your evening at the theater last night, Mr. Gates?”

  Gates’s mouth snapped shut like a trap, then fell open again. “Wh-what did you say?”

  “I’m sure Roland Lockwood gave his usual brilliant performance, but what did you think of the new female lead? Did she measure up to Magdalena Cole’s standard?” Ellie tilted her head and smiled up at him, though her legs were trembling so hard she could barely stand.

  Gates shook his head as if trying to decide whether her questions were intended to distract him or merely the ramblings of an aging woman. “Whether or not you saw me at the theater last night is of no importance, madam. And it’s hardly germane to the issue at hand. What matters here is—”

  “—wheth
er or not I possess the skills needed for this assignment. For your information, I was nowhere near the Orpheum last night.”

  “Then how could you possibly know . . .” Gates looked at Fleming, who smiled and shrugged.

  “She knew about my bursitis, as well.”

  The two fell silent. Finally Gates drew in a slow breath and murmured, “She really is exactly what we’ve been looking for.”

  Spotting a chink in their armor, Ellie forged ahead. “Let me get this straight, gentlemen. You want someone who looks like me and possesses my intuitive ability but has the strength and stamina of a much younger woman. Is that correct?”

  Fleming and Gates exchanged glances. Gates had the grace to look mildly embarrassed when he spoke. “I suppose it sounds unreasonable, but that’s what the job demands.”

  “So what you’re looking for is a robust young woman with an older woman’s exterior. Just how likely do you think you are to find that combination?”

  Gates smothered a smile. “I have to admit, it does sound rather ludicrous when you put it that way.”

  “Then it seems to me you’ve created quite a predicament for yourselves. Tell me one thing: have you interviewed any other candidates besides me and the young woman you spoke to yesterday?”

  Fleming straightened as though someone had shoved a ramrod down the back of his suit coat. His face brightened. “So she’s the one who told you about the position.”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Ellie rose and pulled her shoulders back into her usual upright posture. With a theatrical flourish, she took off her spectacles and removed the wax plumpers she’d placed between her cheeks and her gums. Speaking in her normal tone, she said, “Gentlemen, that young woman and I are one and the same.”

  Fleming and Gates froze in place, like actors in a tableau.

  “Good heavens!” Fleming raised a pair of pince-nez to his eyes and peered at her closely.