Read Online Night Storm by Tracey Devlyn - Free Book Online

purchased the items that she kept stowed away from her regular customers. Or, sometimes, like today, they sent their servants to fetch a month’s supply.
    “You’re sure?”
    Piper nodded. “If I’m to have my own shop one day, I mustn’t be squeamish about such things.”
    Squeezing her assistant’s arm, Charlotte went to the back room to see to Mrs. Dimwicker. She paused on the other side of the curtain, angling her head to listen.
    “Good morning, Mr. Evans,” Piper said with only a slight quaver in her voice. “Your usual order?”
    “Yes, miss.”
    A sense of pride filled Charlotte like warm chocolate flowing into a cup. Even though only a few years separated her and Piper, there were times like this when she felt like the proud mama. Or, more appropriately, the big sister. Seeing that Piper had things well in hand, Charlotte went to talk with her best customer.
    “Miss Scott thrives under your care.” Mrs. Dimwicker set down her reticule and removed her gloves. “She’s going to make a fine apothecary one day.”
    Something clattered against the countertop in the other room. Charlotte met Mrs. Dimwicker’s eyes. They both clapped their hands over their mouths, stifling a knowing laugh.
    “Poor thing must be as nervous as a virgin in a den of knaves.”
    Charlotte recalled all too easily the embarrassment of selling her first French letters to a gentleman. Pounding pulse, shaking hands, flaming face, and all. She also knew negotiating such a mortifying transaction wouldn’t be the worst thing Piper would face in her chosen career.
    # # #
    After eating a light luncheon at Hamlin’s outdoor café, Charlotte and Piper made their way to Russell Street and strolled beneath the theater’s long colonnade. They came to a set of wide double doors, and Charlotte let them into the dimly lit passage that led to the backstage entrance.
    “Can they not afford to light another lamp?” Piper complained, glancing behind them.
    Charlotte shared her assistant’s apprehension. One lamp illuminated the entire corridor, leaving much to shadow. The dark corners alone weren’t enough to excite her imagination. It was the unclaimed sounds echoing down the dark passage that threatened her unaffected façade.
    “Most people arrive through the main entrance,” Charlotte said, adding a lightness she didn’t feel to her tone.
    “I still don’t know how you managed to get us inside. I’ve heard the theater manager is rather selective about who’s allowed to see any part of the play before opening night.”
    Although Charlotte charged a modest fee for her services, some clients still could not afford payment. In these instances, her clients would offer an exchange of some type. A loaf of freshly baked bread, a door repair, a backstage view of The Sacred Tree . Charlotte didn’t mind. The exchange allowed her clients to maintain a sense of dignity, and she always received something special in return. “I’m quite certain Mr. Riordan knows nothing of our visit.”
    Soon, they came upon the theater’s interior door. Following her source’s directions, Charlotte tried the handle and found the door locked. She checked her timepiece. One fifty-five—they were right on time. “Peter said he’d be waiting for us.”
    A few months ago, Charlotte had been called to the Stephensons’ home to care for Peter’s eleven-year-old sister. She’d come down with a horrible cough, making her throat too raw to eat anything but broth. Charlotte had prescribed a decoction of hyssop, rue, and honey, and within a few days his sister was consuming solids again.
    Ten minutes and four bruised knuckles later, the door finally opened and Peter Stephenson emerged in the passageway. Of medium height and stocky build, Peter performed a number of tasks at the theater, which made him an excellent person to help them find an unobtrusive hiding spot.
    “Apologies, Mrs. Fielding,” Peter said, chest heaving as if he had been running. “Have you