window with his back to the door, staring down at the activity in the street below. He whirled around at her entrance. “Miss West! I see you are wearing another of your prison-garb ensembles.” He sighed. “Pity, since I know you can do so much better.”
She shut the door. It was hard not to feel like a brown wren beside his flawless attire, but she didn’t care. “I have to quickly solve a problem, and I desperately need your help.”
“Ouch,” Romulus said. “What a split infinitive.”
Stella couldn’t believe her ears. “Are you quibbling over my grammar?”
“No self-respecting publisher can overlook such flawed syntax,” he said. “The modifier goes after the verb, not before. I’m surprised they didn’t teach you that at Cornell.”
While she stood here getting lectured on grammar, the papers in her desk were probably being thrown into the trash and lost to her forever. All her work over the miserable weeks as a stenographer would be useless. She hadn’t had a proper night of sleep in months, her feet hurt, and she was further than ever from finding A.G.
It was too much. She plopped down into the guest chair and burst into tears.
“Oh dear,” Romulus murmured. He rounded his desk to stand awkwardly at her side, but she couldn’t bear to look at him. He was her only hope for finding a way to get into her desk before the horrible Mr. Grimes destroyed her list, and he wanted to argue about grammar. She cried harder.
Romulus tried to offer a handkerchief, but she pushed it away. “Come now,” he coaxed. “This is about more than bad grammar. Tell me.”
“I don’t have bad grammar,” she said on a shuddering breath.
“You do so, dearest . . . but please. I’m afraid I’ve never been able to resist a pretty woman in tears. And you are pretty, despite the potato sack you’re wearing.”
If she wasn’t so terrified of what was happening at her office, she would have laughed. Romulus pulled out his desk chair, folded his hands, and focused his entire attention on her. Blubbering wasn’t going to solve her problem, so she forced herself to calm down and wipe away her tears.
“Out with it,” he said. “What can I do to help?” All trace of teasing was gone, and his voice was tender and genuinely concerned.
“I got fired from my job at City Hall. It doesn’t matter why, but they told me I couldn’t go to my desk to retrieve my personal papers. I have an important document in my desk. I need to get it back before they ruin it.”
“I don’t know how I can help you with that.”
“Can they do that?” she asked. “Is it legal? Don’t I have any rights to my personal property?” She explained how Mr. Grimes had offered to have an officer fetch specified items for her, but she’d turned it down. “They have no business looking at that document. It’s private.”
“I’m no lawyer, but it seems you may not be entitled to privacy for things stored in their desk.”
“But I need that document,” she insisted. “I don’t care if I have to hire a lawyer or a private army to get it back, but it needs to be done quickly. If they clean out my desk, it will probably be thrown away.”
Romulus shifted in his chair, the corners of his mouth turned down and his eyes darkened in concern. He parsed his words carefully. “Miss West, you seem to be engaged in something entirely underhanded. I can’t help you if I don’t have a better understanding of what’s going on.”
His concern was fair. She needed his help, and perhaps if she explained everything, he would be more willing to give it.
“I’ve already told you my sister died under mysterious circumstances. Gwendolyn uncovered a web of corruption at City Hall and was working with a partner to root it out. All I know about her partner is that his initials are A.G. I need to make contact with this man. I’ve spent the past six weeks combing through the archives, trying to identify everyone whose initials are a match.
She shut the door. It was hard not to feel like a brown wren beside his flawless attire, but she didn’t care. “I have to quickly solve a problem, and I desperately need your help.”
“Ouch,” Romulus said. “What a split infinitive.”
Stella couldn’t believe her ears. “Are you quibbling over my grammar?”
“No self-respecting publisher can overlook such flawed syntax,” he said. “The modifier goes after the verb, not before. I’m surprised they didn’t teach you that at Cornell.”
While she stood here getting lectured on grammar, the papers in her desk were probably being thrown into the trash and lost to her forever. All her work over the miserable weeks as a stenographer would be useless. She hadn’t had a proper night of sleep in months, her feet hurt, and she was further than ever from finding A.G.
It was too much. She plopped down into the guest chair and burst into tears.
“Oh dear,” Romulus murmured. He rounded his desk to stand awkwardly at her side, but she couldn’t bear to look at him. He was her only hope for finding a way to get into her desk before the horrible Mr. Grimes destroyed her list, and he wanted to argue about grammar. She cried harder.
Romulus tried to offer a handkerchief, but she pushed it away. “Come now,” he coaxed. “This is about more than bad grammar. Tell me.”
“I don’t have bad grammar,” she said on a shuddering breath.
“You do so, dearest . . . but please. I’m afraid I’ve never been able to resist a pretty woman in tears. And you are pretty, despite the potato sack you’re wearing.”
If she wasn’t so terrified of what was happening at her office, she would have laughed. Romulus pulled out his desk chair, folded his hands, and focused his entire attention on her. Blubbering wasn’t going to solve her problem, so she forced herself to calm down and wipe away her tears.
“Out with it,” he said. “What can I do to help?” All trace of teasing was gone, and his voice was tender and genuinely concerned.
“I got fired from my job at City Hall. It doesn’t matter why, but they told me I couldn’t go to my desk to retrieve my personal papers. I have an important document in my desk. I need to get it back before they ruin it.”
“I don’t know how I can help you with that.”
“Can they do that?” she asked. “Is it legal? Don’t I have any rights to my personal property?” She explained how Mr. Grimes had offered to have an officer fetch specified items for her, but she’d turned it down. “They have no business looking at that document. It’s private.”
“I’m no lawyer, but it seems you may not be entitled to privacy for things stored in their desk.”
“But I need that document,” she insisted. “I don’t care if I have to hire a lawyer or a private army to get it back, but it needs to be done quickly. If they clean out my desk, it will probably be thrown away.”
Romulus shifted in his chair, the corners of his mouth turned down and his eyes darkened in concern. He parsed his words carefully. “Miss West, you seem to be engaged in something entirely underhanded. I can’t help you if I don’t have a better understanding of what’s going on.”
His concern was fair. She needed his help, and perhaps if she explained everything, he would be more willing to give it.
“I’ve already told you my sister died under mysterious circumstances. Gwendolyn uncovered a web of corruption at City Hall and was working with a partner to root it out. All I know about her partner is that his initials are A.G. I need to make contact with this man. I’ve spent the past six weeks combing through the archives, trying to identify everyone whose initials are a match.
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