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LAWFULLY COVERT

THE LAWKEEPERS
JENNA BRANDT
 COPYRIGHT

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places,

events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously. Locale and public names are sometimes
used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, actual events, or actual locations is purely
coincidental. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval

system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express
written permission of the author, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other
noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission
requests, email jenna@jennabrandt.com.

Text copyright © Jenna Brandt 2020.

Cover copyright by Jenna Brandt

 PRAISE FOR JENNA BRANDT

I am always excited when I see a new book by Jenna Brandt.

LORI DYKES, AMAZON CUSTOMER

Jenna Brandt is, in my estimation, the most gifted author of

Christian fiction in this generation!
PAULA ROSE MICHELSON, FELLOW AUTHOR

Ms. Brandt writes from the heart and you can feel it in every
page turned.
SANDRA SEWELL WHITE, LONGTIME READER

For more information about Jenna Brandt visit her on any of her
websites.

Signup for Jenna Brandt’s Newsletter

Visit her on Social Media:

www.JennaBrandt.com
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 LAWFULLY COVERT

Lady Josephine Bradley, the second daughter of the Duke of

Rothenbury, loves her life as the center of the English nobility. But
when her best friend is mysteriously killed, she finds herself
recruited to be a lady spy due to her connections. She must quickly
learn to navigate a world she never imagined, filled with secrets,
lies, and a forbidden spymaster who fills her thoughts.

Charles Gilbert expertly serves the Crown as London’s spymaster, so

when he recruits Lady Josephine, he’s certain he can manage the
young debutante. The problem is she’s determined to do whatever
it takes to solve her friend’s murder, even if it derail his plans.
Nothing seems to deter her, not even sinister threats, highway
robbery, or kidnapping.

Can Charles discover whose behind the mysterious deaths in

London? Will Josephine accidentally tip off the murderer? And will
she pick a spy over the proper match her father wants for her?

The Lawkeepers is a multi-author series alternating between

historical westerns and contemporary westerns featuring law
enforcement heroes that span multiple agencies and generations.
Join bestselling authors Jenna Brandt, Lorana Hoopes and many
others as they weave captivating, sweet and inspirational stories of
romance and suspense between the lawkeepers — and the women
who love them.

The Lawkeepers is a world like no other; a world where lawkeepers

and heroes are honored with unforgettable stories, characters, and
love.
 CONTENTS

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue

A Note from the Author

Also by Jenna Brandt
Join My Mailing List and Reader’s Groups
Acknowledgments
About the Author
 ONE

1883 Brighton, England

“G ood job, Thomas, this information will go a long way to protect

the Crown,” Charles Gilbert praised the editor from the Brighton
newspaper. He glanced around the park to make sure no one was
watching them, then handed the other man a thick manila
envelope. “Keep listening to the political rebels in your area, and let
me know if you find out anything else.”
“Yes, Mr. Gilbert, anything you want. You know I’m loyal to the
Queen and your cause.”
Charles believed the other man, but he knew it was more about
the sizable pay the editors received than any sense of duty to their
country. Money was his means of controlling and using them to help
gain vital information for the British government. The fact that
newspaper editors were significantly underpaid worked to his
benefit.
Thomas looked in the envelope, then glanced up. “There’s more
than what we agreed upon.”
“You earned it,” Gilbert confirmed with a nod. “You always go
above and beyond what I ask.”
 “Thank you, Mr. Gilbert. My family will indeed eat well this
month, I daresay, the next two months because of this.”
“I need to be returning to London.” Charles had been up north
gathering intelligence from his informants. He could have sent
someone to do it for him, but he didn’t trust anyone enough to do it
right. It was what made him so good at his job. Charles suspected
everyone of double crossing him. He knew better than to trust
people. Trust was the one thing you gave away that made you
vulnerable. He couldn’t afford to be. It made his job more difficult at
times, but it was worth it because he got results. “I’ll be back in a
month for any further information you gather.”
Charles pulled out his pocket watch from his waistcoat to check
the time. If he hurried, he would be able to catch the afternoon
train. He rushed to the depot on the edge of town, and climbed the
steps of the wooden platform. After buying his ticket, he boarded
the train, taking a seat towards the back. He liked being able to see
everyone on the train. It also prevented anyone surprising him from
behind. Keeping his back against a wall had saved his life more
times than he could count.
He settled into his spot, lifting the newspaper up to cover most
of his face, but leaving enough room over the top to watch the last-
minute arrivals. No one of note, but one could never be too careful
in his line of work. It was a spy’s bread and butter to assess a
situation and decide what needed to be done. He managed to not
only stay alive long enough, but maintain his cover as the London
Tribune’s newspaper editor, and positioning himself as the Crown’s
head spymaster. All information passed through him. He was the
gatekeeper, and no one got a key without him knowing.

C harles w as settling back into his office in L ondon after his tw o -

week absence. It was amazing how much work could pile up.
Though his real job wasn’t really being the editor of the newspaper,
he couldn’t afford to slack off either. It was the reason he could
justify traveling and reaching out to other editors in Europe to grow
his secret organization of informants. If anyone was contriving
something vile against his Queen and country, Charles was
determined to stop it before they accomplished their diabolical
plans.
His secretary, Kate Wilson, entered his office. The petite blonde
woman had been with him from the beginning, one of his first
informants. As a prostitute at a brothel frequented by nobility, the
information she had given him over the years had stopped countless
scandals and foiled several plots against the Crown. She’d been his
best asset before a jealous client decided to cut her face. When her
madam turned her out on the streets, Charles decided to give her a
job as his secretary.
“Mr. Gilbert, you have a new message.” She handed him the
piece of paper, waiting for further instructions.
He opened and read the contents:

I need to meet with you right away.

Possibly compromised.
Must give you what I have before it’s too late.
Meet me at the theater tonight.
LI

This wasn’t good. LI had been working on one of his most

important cases. If Charles lost this informant, there was a good
chance some prominent members of the nobility, specifically the
royal family, would continue to be blackmailed. He knew better than
anyone, blackmailers only increased their demands the longer they
went without getting caught. If the culprit required more than what
could be met by the targets, secrets and scandals that had been
covered up for decades would be made public. It would ruin the
Crown, and possibly collapse society as they knew it. He couldn’t let
that happen.
“Miss Wilson, you’ll need to fetch my tailcoat from my closet and
have it pressed. It seems I’m going to be attending the theater
tonight.”
“Right away, Mr. Gilbert.” Kate hurried out of the office and shut
the door behind her.
Charles stood up and walked over to the corner of his office. He
bent down and removed a few pieces of wood from the floor. He
turned the knob to the correct combination to open the safe
underneath, then pulled out the file marked noble blackmailer.
Though he knew every detail, he went back through each page. It
wasn’t often that he was stumped for long periods of time, but
whoever was behind this had managed to do a good job of covering
their tracks.
An hour later, Kate returned with his freshly pressed black suit.
He thanked her for it and dismissed her for the rest of the day. After
placing the files back in their home, he exited his office, climbing
the stairs that led to his apartment above the newspaper office.
Once alone, he prepared for the evening.
The expensive, tailored suit was only part of his disguise. He
slicked back his brown hair, then adjusted his matching waistcoat
and bow tie to complete the look. He wasn’t born noble, but it didn’t
mean he couldn’t look the part. He’d been around enough of them
to know how to pass as one.
He placed his pistol in the secret pocket of his jacket, making
sure it wasn’t obvious to the naked eye. It was better to be
prepared than be caught off guard, though he hoped he wouldn’t
need it tonight.
As he made his way into the entertainment area of London,
Charles wondered what had spooked his informant enough to
request a public meeting. He wasn’t sure what LI had stumbled
across, but the note made it clear, it wasn’t good.
 TWO

T he tinkling sound of Lady Josephine Bradley’s best friend’s

laughter filled the theater box. Lady Isadora’s head was
tilted back, her wrist rapidly flipping her fan against her
cheek to cool the rush of color that was present.
Josephine forced herself to not flinch under all the eyes staring
at them from around the London theater. Lucky for them, it was
intermission and no one would be openly offended by the outburst.
It didn’t present itself as the best conduct letting single men
entertain them in such a flirtatious way, even if Josephine’s married
older sister, Rachel, was sitting in the theater box with them. Her
sister was sweet, probably too sweet, to keep someone like Isadora
in line as their chaperone. At the moment, Rachel was visiting the
privy, and left Josephine to monitor her friend—a task she had no
desire to do.
“You are such a scoundrel, Lord Richard. You know you shouldn’t
tell such scandalous tales to a lady,” Isadora said with a twinkle in
her pretty brown eyes. “But I won’t tell if you won’t.”
“We can keep it between us,” the Duke of Witherton said, with a
wicked grin as he moved from his perch on the edge of the box
railing. He came to sit next to her, reaching out to take her hand as
he added, “If you promise to come to my ball at month’s end and
dance with me.”
“Aren’t you adorable to make such an offer, but I heard on good
authority you were pursuing Miss Vivian Bennett. Tell me, are you
flirting with me to make her jealous?” Isadora asked with a quirk of
her eyebrow. “I know very well her box is next to ours.”
“I’m appalled you would think that of me,” the duke declared
with an indignant frown. “I was simply making a friendly offer to
attend what will be most assuredly the highlight of the season. It
would give us more time to…discuss matters of importance.”
Isadora gave the duke a cynical look. “I highly doubt we have
anything of importance to discuss. I’m not a fool, your grace.”
“On the contrary, I think there’s quite a bit we can discuss.
You’re at the center of all the happenings of the Ton. There’s
nothing like a bit of gossip to keep one entertained.”
The ruse didn’t fool Josephine. She knew about his past. He
hated gossip, as he had been at the center of it since his birth.
She’d heard about the duke’s scandalous past and how he was the
product of a sordid love triangle. Apparently, he decided to repeat
his father’s mistakes, and was deeply embroiled in one of his own
love triangles with Miss Vivian Bennett and Henry Westcott. He was
the rightful heir of the Rolantry viscountcy that the duke currently
held by the supposed misdeeds of his deceased father. Josephine
knew more than most about how deep the spiteful rivalry went
because she was good friends with Julia Bennett, Vivian’s cousin.
She knew Isadora was right. The duke was simply using her to
make Vivian jealous, and would do so at his ball if he got the
chance.
The warning chimes sounded through the auditorium, letting
attendees know to return to their seats as the opera was about to
resume.
“If you will excuse me, ladies,” the duke said, bowing to all three
of them. Giving a slight nod to the other man in the room, he
added, “Selborne,” before exiting the box.
“Did you really have to make a spectacle of yourself like that?
What are people going to think?” Duncan Selborne, the son of the
Earl of Devonport, asked with contempt.
Here they went again—all Isadora and Duncan ever did was
fight. She wondered why her friend continued to allow him to court
her from the way he constantly tried to control her and quell her
vivacious personality. Though he was right in this one instance—
Isadora had been indeed behaving in a way that was inappropriate
—Josephine didn’t like it when Duncan tried to shame her friend.
“I don’t have to answer to you, Duncan, at least not yet. We’re
not formally engaged.”
“Nor do I want to be if you continue to conduct yourself like
this,” Duncan warned with irritation. “A proper noblewoman
shouldn’t behave in such an untoward manner.”
“Was that what I was doing?” she asked in a pretend-naïve
voice, placing her gloved hand gently on top of Duncan’s. “Come
now, let’s not squabble over a simple misunderstanding.”
“That’s not what this is—I simply cannot understand why you are
unable to conduct yourself like all the other respectable women in
our social set. Take Lady Josephine, for example, you would do well
to mirror her demure demeanor. No one ever questions her
propriety.”
Uh-oh, this wasn’t going to end well for Duncan. Isadora didn’t
like being compared to anyone, let alone one of her friends.
Josephine stiffened under the observation. Her eyes darted from
Isadora to Duncan and back, bracing herself for the barrage of fiery
words that were going to come tumbling out of her friend’s mouth.
“How dare you!” Isadora jumped from her seat, placing her hand
on her hip. “I will have you know that many men love my spirited
nature. I happen to think my pluck is my best asset.”
“Oh, Isadora, you’re sadly mistaken. Your reckless disposition is
going to get you into trouble you can’t get out of if you don’t watch
out.”
Isadora pressed her lips together, her eyes flashing with anger.
For a solid three seconds, Josephine was certain that her friend was
going to burst from her rage. Instead, she snapped her fan shut and
threw it in on the chair. “I need to visit the privy.” Josephine moved
to join her friend, but Isadora raised her hand to stop her. “Alone, I
want to be alone.”
Josephine shifted in her seat, folding her hands in her lap as she
tried to concentrate on anything other than Duncan. She’d known
him since she was a girl, but he always made her feel uneasy. He
watched her like a prowling cat waiting to pounce.
“You would think I would be used to Isadora behaving like that,”
Duncan said with a shake of his head. “How can you stand it?”
“I find her company enjoyable. If you don’t, perhaps you should
rethink your courtship.”
“I don’t have a choice. My father wants the match. He thinks it
will elevate our family to be married to a cousin of the royal family.”
“You really shouldn’t confide such a delicate matter in me. What
if I told Isadora your reasons for wanting to court her?”
“She knows; she preys on it. Isadora laps up the attention her
status as a member of the royal family like it’s honey. I would prefer
a wife who favors obscurity to the limelight,” he said as he looked at
her pointedly, moving closer to her on the settee. He was close
enough she could smell his breath, the scent of liquor and cigars
lingering on it like a foul cologne. “I have learnt we don’t always get
what we want, no matter how badly we desire it.”
Josephine didn’t like how Duncan’s hand had found his way onto
her knee. Though there were several layers of petticoats and a
velvet skirt between her flesh and his fingertips, she could tell from
the desire gleaming in his eyes, he wished it weren’t the case. She
quickly jerked up from her seat and scurried towards the exit,
wanting to get away from him as quickly as possible.
“I should go check on Isadora,” Josephine mumbled, before
slipping out without waiting to hear what Duncan had to say in
return.
She made her way through the theater, reaching the hall that
led to the privy. Before she entered though, she noticed Isadora
standing at the end of the hall. Her friend had her back towards
Josephine, and as she approached, she noticed Isadora was talking
to a man she’d never seen before.
He was handsome, with dark brown hair, matching eyes, and a
tall, thick frame. Though he was dressed in an impeccable suit,
something about the way he carried himself made Josephine certain
he didn’t belong. He wasn’t nobility or she would have known who
he was, and she doubted he was even part of the merchant class.
Why was he talking to Isadora? Was he a secret lover of hers?
Josephine doubted her friend would deign to have a dalliance with
someone of the lower class, let alone talk to them. What was going
on?
Before she could approach and ask of their connection, the man
looked up and locked eyes with her. There was something intriguing
about them, almost mesmerizing, but a quick flash of danger from
the pools of coffee made a shiver crawl up her spine.
The stranger raised his hand to signal the end to their
conversation, then spun around and disappeared around a corner
quicker than Josephine had time to process.
Isadora turned around to find her there. “What are you doing out
here?”
“I came to check on you,” Josephine explained, conveniently
leaving out the fact that she’d also followed after her to escape
Duncan’s unwanted attention.
“I didn’t need you to do that,” Isadora snapped. “I told you I
wanted to be alone.”
“From what I just interrupted, it’s clear you weren’t alone for
long. Who was that man? Did you plan to meet him here?”
Isadora shook her head. “He’s just an editor from the London
Tribune. He wanted to write an article about the charity work the
women’s auxiliary is doing for the schools. Since I’m the president,
he approached me and asked for an interview. I told him another
time would be better.”
Something didn’t sit right with Josephine. The man didn’t look
like any scholarly editor she’d ever seen, but she supposed she
wasn’t an expert on the matter.
“The third act is about to start. Are you ready to head back to
our box?”
“I never made it to the privy. I’ll be along shortly,” Isadora
explained. “Why don’t you go ahead so you don’t miss anything. I’m
sure Rachel will be antsy to have you back under her watchful eye.”
Josephine didn’t agree with Isadora’s claim. Rachel was far more
preoccupied picking out baby names for her future litter of children
than she was about playing chaperone. It didn’t matter, Josephine
wasn’t the type to get caught up in a scandal; she was as prudent
as they came.
She arrived just as the lights dimmed and the music started to
play. Taking her seat next to her sister, she didn’t have to worry
about Duncan. He wasn’t present. He must have taken off to lick his
wounds from Isadora’s rejection, and her own sudden departure. He
never did take well to not getting his way.
The action escalated quickly in the final portion of the
production, keeping Josephine on the edge of her seat as she
watched the final pieces of the plot unfold. There was only one song
left before the finale, and she was excited to see the final
showdown between the hero and villain.
Just as the final song was about to start, a blood-curdling
scream filled the theater. From across the room, she saw a figure
fall from one of the balconies. Was that part of the show? Had they
changed it to make it more dramatic? Was it a stunt of some sort?
Josephine swiveled her opera glasses to look at the commotion.
She heard her sister tell her to look away, but it was too late. She
recognized the dress. Isadora was the figure who had fallen.
Her mouth went dry as she clutched her opera glasses in her
hands, scanning for any signs of life, but though she wasn’t close
enough to see the rise or fall of her chest, she could tell from the
odd angle of her body, her best friend was already gone.
Nausea took hold of Josephine. She jumped from her seat,
hoping to make it to the privy before her dinner surfaced, but it was
a bad impulse. The room started to spin, and before she knew what
was happening, she was falling backwards as blackness was
enveloping her.
 THREE

T he news of Lady Isadora’s death reached Charles later that

evening when one of his informants told him about the tragic
event at the theater.
“The investigators aren’t giving out details, but I listened in on a
couple of them talking. They think someone is responsible for her
death. They don’t think it was an accident.”
Lady Isadora—known to Charles as LI—was dead. She had been
scared when he talked to her earlier that night, worried she had
made a mistake in helping him.
When Charles told LI her father was one of the men that the
blackmailer was threatening to expose, she had asked what she
could do to help. She hated the fact her father had a gambling
problem that resulted in heavy debt; however, the family had
managed to keep it quiet until the blackmailer threatened to expose
the embarrassing information to the world. With her connections to
the men being blackmailed, and most likely the blackmailer himself,
Charles figured she could help him determine who was behind it.
She had agreed to spy for Charles in order to keep the blackmailer
from releasing the truth about her father.
“I’m frightened, Mr. Gilbert, that the blackmailer suspects I’m
working for you.”
“Why do you assume that?”
“It’s not an assumption,” she said, pushing a piece of paper into
his hands. “I found this under the edge of my horse’s saddle at the
park earlier today.”
Charles read the contents:

I know what you’re doing.

Continue and you’ll regret it.

“Perhaps this has nothing to do with our investigation. Isn’t it

possible that someone you know, perhaps a rival for one of your
suitors, placed this there to scare you?”
She pressed her lips together, squeezing her hands in front of
her. “I suppose that’s possible, but my instincts tell me it was from
the blackmailer. Mr. Gilbert, I think I need to give you this before it’s
too late.”
She handed him a second piece of paper. He read this one as
well.

Lord Richard Charles Crawley IV, Duke of Witherton

Mr. Martin Bennett, Shipping Tycoon
Lord John Selborne, Earl of Davenport

“Who are these men?”

“They’re the three men I’ve narrowed the blackmailer down to.
From the conversations I’ve had with them, or heard them in while
at social events, I believe one of them is the culprit. I’m still
working on figuring out which one for certain.”
“Why are you giving them to me now when you don’t have a
final name for me?”
“I want you to have the names in case something happens to
me. I don’t want all of this to be for nothing,” she said with a shiver.
“Come now, Lady Isadora, I think you’re overreacting.
Blackmailers don’t resort to violence. Their crime is a cowardly one,
hidden in secrecy. They make threats, but the most they ever do is
release the information. You have nothing to worry about. The
blackmailer won’t hurt you.”
 “For my family, that would be as good as murdering us if he told
the newspapers about my father’s gambling and massive debts. It
would ruin us. I’d never find a suitable match, and we would lose
everything.”
“I’ll find a way to stop the blackmailer, Lady Isadora, I promise
you that. If you have been found out though, perhaps it’s time you
stop working for me. I can find someone else to investigate these
men.”
Lady Isadora shook her head. “No one has the connections I do.
My position in high society, due to being a part of the royal family,
allows me access to all the best parties and social events. You need
me to continue this.”
She hadn’t had the opportunity to search their homes yet to
confirm which one of the men it was, and now she would never get
the chance. Why hadn’t he stayed to talk to her longer? Why hadn’t
he remained at the theater and kept an eye on her? She had been
scared—enough to ask him to meet with her in a public place where
anyone could have stumbled upon them talking. If he had taken her
concerns more seriously, she would be alive right now.
Charles pushed the guilt down and focused on the job he had to
do. He needed to find out who the blackmailer was to stop him
before anyone else got hurt. The problem was, he didn’t have the
right social connections as a newspaper editor to access these
men’s homes. Even if he asked for an interview, they were the
types that would agree to meet him at his office, rather than let him
invade their personal space. Charles needed someone who
socialized in the same circles as LI. Immediately, the pretty face of
the woman from earlier in the night came to mind. It had surprised
him when the brunette beauty had stopped behind LI and watched
them. The woman was smart enough to realize their conversation
was worth her attention. Her focus on them had been enough to
cause Charles to quickly excuse himself and leave. He hadn’t
wanted anyone to see him with LI. He wondered who she was, and
how he could arrange a meeting. He supposed his next task was to
track down the mysterious noblewoman from the theater to ask her
to spy for him.
 FOUR

T he horror of the previous night kept replaying in Josephine’s

head. One moment, she was laughing and having an
entertaining evening at the opera, and the next, Isadora was
dead. Murdered—from the rumors circulating about what happened.
Why on earth would anyone want to hurt Isadora? She was the life
of the party. Everyone loved her. She could be a little much at times
with her flamboyant personality, but it wasn’t enough to get her
killed.
“Do you need anything else, my lady?”
With a shake of her head, Josephine dismissed the personal
maid, who took the tray of uneaten breakfast with her, leaving the
mid-day meal in its place. She had no plans of touching it either.
The very thought of eating made her nauseous. How could she eat
at a time like this? Her best friend was dead, murdered by some
monster who thought they had the right to take her life. It didn’t
seem real. She kept thinking that it had to be a nightmare, but the
barrage of sad looks from the servants that continued to come in
and out of her bed chambers made it clear it was reality. Isadora
was gone, and there was no waking up from that truth.
She knew that the very best detectives would be assigned to
investigate her murder—after all, Isadora was a member of the
royal family—still, Josephine wanted to help in any way she could.
Since she was one of the last people with Isadora, she was certain
they would be contacting her to ask her about the events of the
night. She wanted to be ready. She went over every part of the
night in her head, hoping to remember anything she could tell the
detectives that would give a clue as to what happened to her friend.
The night was routine with nothing of note. Isadora socialized,
Josephine watched. Isadora flirted, Josephine watched. Isadora
fought with Duncan, Josephine watched. Isadora talked with a
stranger, and Josephine watched. Who was the stranger that
Isadora had been talking to right before she was killed? It was the
only part of the night that stuck out as unusual. He’d seemed out of
place, like he didn’t belong there, and Isadora’s reason for the
conversation never made sense to Josephine. Perhaps, he could
shed some light on what happened to her friend last night.
Where could she find the stranger? Hadn’t Isadora mentioned
something about him being an editor for a paper? Which one was it?
Josephine racked her brain, trying to come up with which
newspaper. The London Tribune. That was it.
Isadora hadn’t mentioned the name of the editor, but Josephine
would recognize him in an instant once she saw him. Deciding she
needed to ask him about his conversation in person, she rang for
her servants and explained she would be going out. She ignored the
surprised looks on their faces as she let them dress her in one of
her green gowns. One of the maids placed her black locks into a
French twist while the other gave a quick application of powder to
mask the fact she had been crying all night. She grabbed her purse
and headed out of the house, determined to figure out what
happened to her friend.
A half hour later, she arrived at the newspaper office. There was
a blonde woman sitting at a desk when she entered. The other
woman glanced up and looked surprised to see her. Josephine
assumed it wasn’t often that a noblewoman entered the premises.
“I’m here to see the editor of the paper,” Josephine declared as
she stopped in front of the desk.
“May I ask for your name?”
“Lady Josephine Bradley, daughter of the Duke of Rothenbury,”
she said, knowing the title would immediately grant her an
audience. Even though she was merely the second daughter, and
her older brother would inherit the keys to the kingdom, her father’s
title still opened many doors for her. She hardly liked to depend on
it, but since this was to find out what happened to Isadora, she
would use whatever she could to find out the truth.
“Just give me a moment, my lady,” the woman said, standing up
and heading through a door behind her. A few moments later, she
returned. “Mr. Gilbert will see you now.”
"Thank you,” Josephine said, as she made her way through the
door, entering the small office that had a single desk, two chairs, a
wooden filing cabinet against a wall, and a secondary desk that had
articles laid out across it. It wasn’t an office designed to impress like
her father’s, but one built for function—a working man’s place of
business.
A look of surprised recognition crossed the man’s face, but he
quickly masked it when she locked eyes with him.
“What can I do for you, Lady Josephine?”
“I’m here to ask after your dealings with my friend, Lady Isadora
Saxe-Saalfield.”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” he rebuffed. “I don’t
have regular dealings with nobility, let alone with noble women.”
“That might be the case, but I think Isadora was the exception.
Don’t try to deny it; I saw the two of you talking together at the
theater last night.”
“Oh that, I heard she was going to be at the opera last night and
thought I would try to get her to agree to an interview regarding
her charity work with the women’s auxiliary for the schools.”
“Interesting—that’s exactly what Isadora said, almost word for
word. One might think it was even rehearsed.”
Mr. Gilbert leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his
chest. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“I think the two of you were discussing something other than
charity work, something that got my friend killed. At least, that’s
what I’m going to tell the detectives when they question me about
my time with Isadora at the theater. If you won’t tell me the truth,
maybe they can get it out of you.”
 The man looked irritated. “We don’t need to involve the
authorities.”
“Don’t we?” she questioned. “You obviously know more than
you’re admitting, and my friend is dead. If you won’t tell me why,
then I will bring someone here that will make you.”
A look of what almost looked like admiration filled his eyes as he
stood up from his seat and came around to where she was
standing. “You’re pretty smart, aren’t you, Lady Josephine? Brave,
too, from the way you marched in here and accused me of being
involved in Lady Isadora’s death.”
“I suppose I am on both accounts,” Josephine admitted. “When I
need to be. Not many men appreciate a smart woman, so my
mother constantly tells me to hide the fact.”
“That’s a shame. I think it’s a fine attribute for any woman,” Mr.
Gilbert praised, moving closer to her.
She shrank back, not wanting him to get too close without
knowing his connection to Isadora’s death. “Whatever you’re trying
to do, if you’re trying to disarm me with your flattery, it won’t work.
I’m not leaving here until you tell me what you were really doing
with Isadora.”
“Fine, take a seat,” he said, gesturing to the seat in front of his
desk. He took his original spot back behind it. “I was planning on
arranging a meeting for us anyway. This works out better.”
“What do you want with me?” Josephine asked defensively.
“I want you to take up where your friend left off. Isadora was
working for me.”
Josephine snorted. “I doubt that. Isadora doesn’t—didn’t—work.
She considered attending balls and dinner parties work enough.”
“It wasn’t a traditional type of work.”
What was he getting at? Was he trying to imply that Isadora
was having an affair with him? He was handsome enough with his
dark features and strong build, but Isadora would consider him
socially inferior. There was no way Isadora would have an affair
with a man from the working class.
“Mr. Gilbert, I don’t like you lying about my friend. She wouldn’t
be with someone like you. To talk about her that way without her
being able to defend herself—I can’t believe—”
“No, it wasn’t anything like that,” the man said, shaking his
head. “She was helping me look into something.”
“Like a reporter?” she asked with even further disbelief.
“No, that wasn’t it, either. I’m going to be honest with you, Lady
Josephine, but you need to understand what I’m about to tell you
cannot go beyond this room. It’s vital that it remain a secret for the
sake of the Crown.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m not an editor, well, I’m not just an editor. That’s the job I
have to cover up my real job. I’m a spy for the British government.”
This time, Josephine couldn’t help herself. A laugh escaped as
she shook her head. “You really had me duped, Mr. Gilbert. I almost
thought you were going to tell me the truth there for a moment.”
She stood up from her seat and started to head towards the door.
“Enjoy talking with the detectives that will be by shortly. Good luck
explaining to them that you’re a spy.”
“Stop, right now,” he barked out behind her in a menacing tone.
Her hand froze on the knob of the door. Was it possible she
misread the situation last night? This whole time she thought he
knew something about what happened to Isadora. Now she
wondered if he was behind what happened to Isadora. Did he kill
her friend?
Josephine could hear him push back his chair and his footsteps
come around the desk. She turned to face him, trying to conceal the
fear in her eyes. She needed to say whatever he needed to hear to
let her go. “Look, I won’t say anything to the detectives when they
question me. Your secrets are safe with me.”
“Somehow, I don’t believe you,” he growled out as he stared at
her, “Which means you can’t leave her until I make you understand
what’s going on.”
“You don’t have to; I’m sure whatever happened between you
and Isadora was an accident,” Josephine said, hoping she could dart
out the door before it was too late. “Why don’t you just let me go.”
He moved even closer, stopping only inches away. He reached
around her, clicking the lock on the door. “You aren’t going
anywhere.”
Should she scream? Would the secretary on the other side do
anything, or was she afraid of Mr. Gilbert, too? Before Josephine
could yell though, he grabbed her by the arm and pushed her down
into the chair. He sat down on the edge of the desk, looking down
at her.
“Listen to what I’m telling you, Lady Josephine. I’m a spy for the
government. I have been for nearly ten years now. I use my
position as an editor to gather information to keep anything from
befalling the Queen and our country. I’m very good at my job, but
I’m only one man, so I enlist the help of other people. I’m in charge
of an organization filled with dozens of informants and spies, all
working towards the goal of protecting our way of life.”
She could tell he believed what he was saying. She didn’t know
anything about spies or what they did, but it sounded plausible.
Could he be telling the truth?
“If I were to believe you, what does that have to do with
Isadora?”
“She was one of my informants.”
Josephine’s brows came together in a furrow. “Why would she
ever agree to do that?”
“Because someone is blackmailing several members of the
nobility and merchant class, including Isadora’s father. Due to the
intimate nature of the blackmail, it was clear early on the
blackmailer was also from the same social class. I needed someone
on the inside that could find out who knew anything about it. She’d
been working for me for two months and has narrowed it down to
three suspects. That was the information she gave me last night.”
“That doesn’t explain what happened to her,” Josephine pointed
out.
He nodded. “I know. She also told me last night that she had
received a threat. She was worried the blackmailer knew what she
had been doing and was going to do something about it. I
dismissed her concerns, since blackmailers never resort to violence.”
“Until last night,” Josephine seethed out in anger. “Last night,
whoever is blackmailing all those men decided to kill my friend.”
 A look of guilt filled the man’s eyes. “I know; I miscalculated
what this blackmailer was capable of. If I had known, I would have
never left her alone. I can tell you this, I won’t stop until I find out
what happened to Lady Isadora and who was behind it.”
“Thank you for that, but how exactly are you going to manage
it? You were the one who said you need access to the upper class.”
“I had planned on tracking you down and asking you to take
Isadora’s place, but the more I think about it, the more I realize it’s
a bad idea. I don’t want to jeopardize your safety.”
“It isn’t your choice though, is it? Like you said, I’m smart. I
know, that without my help, your chances of finding this blackmailer
and making him pay for Isadora’s death diminishes greatly. I want
to help you—for my friend.”
“That’s admirable, Lady Josephine,” Mr. Gilbert said, pushing off
the desk and going around to take his seat back behind his desk
again. He pulled out a note, scribbled down something on another
piece of paper, and handed it over to her. “Those are the names
Lady Isadora gave me last night.”
“I know all three of these men,” Josephine said in dismay,
processing the fact that someone in her social circle was a
blackmailing murderer. “Two of them I would think would never do
such a thing. The third man, he’s a rake and a scoundrel, but I can’t
imagine him killing anyone.”
“Are you having second thoughts?”
Josephine shook her head. “No, I’m still determined to help. I
just have no idea where to start. I’m not as vivacious as Isadora. I
tend to blend into the background.”
“I can hardly believe that from what you demonstrated here
today.”
“That is because I was upset about Isadora’s death. I don’t do
things like this normally.”
“Listening is an important aspect of spying—probably one of the
most; that and observing. You can do both better without being
brash. If no one is paying attention to you, they won’t know you’re
watching them.”
Another random document with
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Nobody's
Rose
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
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eBook.

Title: Nobody's Rose

or, The girlhood of Rose Shannon

Author: Adele E. Thompson

Illustrator: A. G. Learned

Release date: November 2, 2023 [eBook #72011]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co, 1912

Credits: Bob Taylor and the Online Distributed Proofreading

Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced
from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOBODY'S

ROSE ***
NOBODY’S ROSE
A STORY FOR GIRLS
 BOOKS BY ADELE E.
THOMPSON.

The Brave Heart Series.

Five Volumes. Illustrated. Each
$1.25.
BETTY SELDON, PATRIOT,
A Girl’s Part in the
Revolution.

BRAVE HEART ELIZABETH,

A Story of the Ohio Frontier.

A LASSIE OF THE ISLES,

A Story of the Old and New
Worlds.

POLLY OF THE PINES,

A Patriot Girl of the
Carolinas.

AMERICAN PATTY,
A Story of 1812.

BECK’S FORTUNE,
A Story of School and
Seminary Life.
Illustrated by Louis Meynell.
$1.25.
NOBODY’S ROSE,
Or The Girlhood of Rose
Shannon.
 Illustrated by A. G. Learned. Price, Net
$1.00. Postpaid $1.12.

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.,

BOSTON.
“Now I’m Rose, I’m nobody’s Rose!”—Page 270.
 NOBODY’S ROSE
OR

The Girlhood of Rose Shannon

BY
ADELE E. THOMPSON

ILLUSTRATED BY A. G. LEARNED

BOSTON
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.
Copyright, 1912, by Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.
Published, August, 1912

All Rights Reserved

Nobody’s Rose

NORWOOD PRESS
BERWICK & SMITH CO.
NORWOOD, MASS.
U. S. A.
 CONTENTS

CHAPTER I
PAGE

How Posey Came Adrift 11

CHAPTER II
An Exposure 30
CHAPTER III
The New Home 42
CHAPTER IV
The New Life 54
CHAPTER V
The Picnic 71
CHAPTER VI
The Storm Breaks 85
CHAPTER VII
A Desperate Resolve 93
CHAPTER VIII
A New Acquaintance 108
CHAPTER IX
Two Happy Travelers 123
CHAPTER X
Ben’s Story
 135
CHAPTER XI
A Storm, and a Shelter 147
CHAPTER XII
A Parting of Ways 162
CHAPTER XIII
A Door Opens 173
CHAPTER XIV
Posey Becomes Rose 185
CHAPTER XV
At the Fifields’ 195
CHAPTER XVI
Under a Cloud 206
CHAPTER XVII
Sunshine Again 219
CHAPTER XVIII
Great-Uncle Samuel 236
CHAPTER XIX
Rose Finds a Resting-Place 247
CHAPTER XX
Paying Debts 257
CHAPTER XXI
The Box from Great-Aunt Sarah 266
 CHAPTER XXII
Quiet Days 275
CHAPTER XXIII
A Visit from an Old Friend 284
CHAPTER XXIV
And College Next 294
 ILLUSTRATIONS

“Now I’m Rose, I’m nobody’s Rose!” (Page 270) Frontispiece

FACING PAGE

Out of the door of the cabinet a white, shadowy little

32
figure had lightly floated
It was an hour that Posey never forgot 76
“When I get a farm I shall need somebody to keep the
144
house”
“Here is a clue to Rose’s family” 216
“Clear Jarvis and no mistake” 238
NOBODY’S ROSE
 CHAPTER I
HOW POSEY CAME ADRIFT

Out in the open country the day was dull and grey, with low-
hanging clouds and occasional drops of slow-falling rain, but in the
city the clouds of smoke hung still lower than those of the sky, and
the dropping soot-flakes made black the moisture gathered on the
roofs of the houses, the leaves of the trees, and the sidewalks
trodden by many feet.
It was on a city street, one where the smoke-clouds from the tall
chimneys trailed low and the soot fell in its largest flakes, that ever
and again a sound asserted itself above the beat of hurrying feet.
The sound was not loud, only a little girl sobbing softly to herself as
she shrank with her head on her arm at one side of an open
stairway; and the words that she repeated over and over to herself,
“What shall I do? Where shall I go?” were less in the nature of
questions than a lamentation. But children tearful, loudly, even
vociferously tearful, were in that vicinity so frequent that people
passed and repassed the child without giving to her thought or heed.
For the street was one more populous than select, and while the
tall red brick houses that bordered it had once aspired to something
of the aristocratic, they were now hopelessly sunken to the tenement
stage; while the neighboring region leading through the sandy open
square of the Haymarket, where loads of hay always stood awaiting
purchasers, down the long steep hill to the river, with its crowded
shipping and its border of great lumber yards, shops, and factories,
had never made pretense to anything except poverty of the most
open and unattractive kind. In summer the whole region fairly
swarmed with the overflowing inmates of the overcrowded houses.
Children were everywhere, in large part barefooted, ragged, and so
dirty that they might easily have been taken for an outgrowth of the
sandheaps in which they burrowed and buried themselves when
tired of the delights of the street. To see them there, in utter
indifference to the constant passing of heavily loaded teams
sometimes prompted the inquiry as to how many were daily killed?
But though, on occasion, they were dragged from under the very
horses’ hoofs by the untidy women whose shrill voices were so often
heard sounding from open doors and windows, few were the
accidents to either life or limb.
The not distant city market house increased the crowds, especially
at certain hours of the day, as also the street venders and itinerants
who contributed their full share to the noise and confusion. Hook-
nosed old men, with bags over their shoulders, and shrill cries of “P-
a-p-e-r r-a-g-s” abounded; the organ-grinder with his monkey was a
frequent figure, with the invariable crowd of youngsters at his heels;
the maimed and the blind, wearing placards appealing to the public
sympathy and extending tin cups for contributions, were to be found
on the corners; the scissors-grinder’s bell was a common sound, as
were the sonorous offers of “Glassputin.” Here was a man loudly and
monotonously appealing to the credulity of the public, and soliciting
patronage for his wonderful fortune-telling birds, a little company of
dingy and forlorn-looking canaries, who by the selection of sundry
envelopes were supposed to reveal the past, present, and future.
There, another man exhibited a row of plates with heavy weights
attached, and extolled the wonderful merits of his cement for
mending crockery, while the sellers of small wares, combs,
pocketbooks, letter-paper, cheap jewelry, and the like, added their
calls to the rest.
A few of the houses still retained a dingy scrap of yard, where thin
and trampled grass blades made an effort to grow, but the most part
had been built out to the street and converted into cheap
restaurants, cheap clothing shops, cheap furniture shops, and the
class of establishments that are cheap indeed, especially as regards
the character of their wares.
In such a confusion of people and sounds it is not strange that a
small girl crying to herself would attract so little attention that even
the big, fat policeman on that beat passed her a number of times
before he noticed her, and then did not stop, as he saw that she was
well dressed. At last, as she still remained crouched down in a
dejected little heap, he stopped, moved as much by the thought of a
little girl in his own home as from a sense of duty, with the inquiry,
“Here, Sis, what’s the matter with you?”
She started up at the brusque but not unkindly tone, and lifting
from her sheltering arm a round and dimpled face, with wide grey
eyes, now swollen and disfigured with tears, answered brokenly and
in a half-frightened voice, for the policeman stood to her as the terror
rather than the guardian of the law, “Oh, I don’t know what to do! I
don’t know where to go!”
“You don’t, eh? Well, it seems to me you are a pretty big girl to get
lost; where do you live?”
“I don’t live anywhere,” with a fresh sob.
“That’s rather queer, not to live anywhere,” and he looked at her a
trifle more sternly. “What’s your name, if you have any?”
“Posey Sharpe.”
“Oh, indeed,” and he glanced at the stairway before him, where a
small black sign with gilt lettering on the step just above her head
read,

“Madam Atheldena Sharpe,

“CLAIRVOYANT.”

“So that was your mother, was it, who raised all that row here last
night?”
“No, she wasn’t my mother, but I lived with her.”
“If she wasn’t, how comes it your name is the same?”
“It isn’t, really, only I’ve lived with her so long that people called me
that. She said I was her niece, but I wasn’t any relation at all.”
He looked at the sign again, “Madam Sharpe. Well,” with a chuckle
at his own witticism, “she wasn’t sharp enough to keep from being
exposed. And you were the spirit child, I suppose?”
 Posey nodded, a very dejected-looking spirit she seemed at that
moment.
“Well, when she took herself off so suddenly why didn’t you go
with her?”
“I ran up under the roof and hid, and I didn’t know till this morning
that she had gone.”
“I see; and was she so good to you, and did you think so much of
her that you are taking on this way?”
Posey hesitated a moment. “She might have been better, and she
might have been worse,” she answered with a candor of simplicity.
“But I haven’t anybody else to live with, and I didn’t think she’d use
me so.”
“I see; it was rather rough.” There was sympathy in his tone, and
even in the way he tapped his knee with his polished club.
“And,” continued Posey, “this morning the man who owns the
place came and he was awfully mad and cross. He said Madam
Sharpe owed him for rent, and that she had hurt the reputation of the
building, and he told me to put my things in my trunk, and he shoved
it out into the hall and told me to clear out, and he locked the door so
I couldn’t go in again. And I haven’t had any dinner, nor I haven’t a
cent of money, nor anywhere to go, and I don’t know what’ll become
of me,” and she wrung her hands with another burst of tears.
Here was the cause of her misery—the semblance of home, care,
and protection, poor though it was, had been suddenly stricken
away, leaving her a helpless, solitary estray, a bit of flotsam at the
mercy of the world’s buffeting currents. Nor was her misery softened
by even the dubious bliss of ignorance that most children enjoy as to
the sterner realities of life, for already in her eleven years she had
learned only too well what poverty implies, and how sad a thing it is
to be friendless and homeless.
Poor little Posey, with her soft eyes, dimpled mouth, and rosy face,
she seemed made for sunshine and caresses. Scant indeed,
however, had been her measure of either. Her earliest remembrance
had been of a home of two rooms in a tenement, a poor place, from