An Agent for Brutus Read online

  An Agent for Brutus

  An Agent for Brutus

  The Pinkerton Matchmaker Series

  Book 65

  Parker J. Cole

  Copyright Information

  Copyright © 2020 Parker J. Cole

  Cover Art by Black Widow Books

  All rights reserved.

  First Edition: March 2020

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the authors.

  CONTENTS

  Copyright Information

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  The Pinkerton Matchmaker Readers Group

  About the Author

  Join Parker’s Bodacious Readers

  Works by Parker J. Cole

  DEDICATION

  For Tam,

  Her continued support of authors of all genres is amazing. She is a book devourer and an editor who knows her stuff about what makes a good story.

  She helps authors promote their work and get better at writing. She pushes others hard because she pushes herself hard. She supports me as a person and as a writer.

  And who was the catalyst for this book when she simply said: “Why is their daddy still on the island...He needs to come and find him a Pinkerton honey and fall in love!”

  For you, my dear friend. Thank you for everything.

  PROLOGUE

  Twenty years ago

  How did he manage to marry the most beautiful woman in the world?

  Brutus rubbed his face in awe as he stared up at the ceiling of his home in Arabette Grove.

  Roseline, his new wife of less than a day, lay by his side. She snored in gentle tones her brown full lips slightly askew. The moonlight flowed over her supine body, exposing her dark brown skin haphazardly draped in the rumbled sheets. Carefully, he tugged the sheet closer around her although he couldn’t prevent his fingers from sliding across the silken texture of her skin.

  He turned onto his side and stared. Surely, Roseline had to know there were far better men in the world to give her heart to. Yet, for some unfathomable reason, she felt as if he would be the best keeper of her affections.

  A wooly curl fell forward on her high clear forehead. He pressed it back into the wild disarray of her hair. For three years, Roseline had pursued him with a tenacity most men lacked. Though never vulgar, she made it known that eventually, he would succumb.

  “You will be my husband, Brutus Bradford. Make no mistake about that.”

  Brutus had resisted her. At first, it had been a simple thing. Though she professed to have the maturity of a grown woman, her age did not reflect that. At fifteen years old, she stood on the brink of womanhood.

  For three years, she tailed after him, interfering with the rare and spontaneous liaisons he’d had with a few women. She’d put herself in the forefront of his awareness, ensuring that he never forgot her.

  Then a year ago, on her eighteenth birthday, she came to him.

  “I am a woman now, Brutus,” she’d declared.

  No truer words had ever been spoken. She stood before him, dressed in finery that showed her slender form, her dark vibrant skin, and exquisite features laced with delicateness and strength. He wouldn’t have believed three years would have made such a difference, but womanhood and all its intricacies lay upon her.

  “You will make me your wife.”

  Brutus had resisted her overtures for years, but at that moment, some protective instinct rose inside. Maybe it was the lure of her he’d fought. A lure that had been growing in strength over the last three years.

  Whatever it was, he scoffed her assertions. Mocked her in cruel, unkind words, so much so that tears had gathered in those proud brown eyes. The sight of her vulnerability had stirred something foreign within his chest.

  After that meeting, she ceased to come around. Ceased her pursuit.

  He’d welcome the cessation of her presence in his life at first with joy. Then over time, Brutus found himself ensnared in a trap. He looked for her at every turn, but she no longer came.

  Was it then that he’d come to understand his true feelings for her? Had they always been there but he had simply waited until she reached womanhood?

  All he knew was he craved her presence once more in his life.

  “What is wrong?”

  Roseline’s sleepy voice drew him back to the present.

  “Nothing, mon amour.” He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. “Rest.”

  “How can I rest when something keeps you awake?”

  Brutus grinned as he gathered her close in his arms. “I can think of other ways to occupy my wakefulness.”

  His wife let out a sultry, husky laugh. “Cher,” she purred.

  He kissed her and then tucked her head against his shoulder. “Rest, mon amour.”

  “What were you thinking about, mon mari?”

  Hearing her refer to him as ‘my husband’ in that honeyed husky voice sent a wave of pleasure along his limbs. “You. How you chose me over much more worthy men.”

  Her finger twirled in loose circles on his chest. “You are worthy of my love. I knew that the moment I laid eyes on you.”

  A streak of possessiveness came over him. “I’ll never let you go, Roseline. You’re bound to me for the rest of our lives.”

  She sighed in a contented fashion. “So be it.”

  Brutus shook his head at her acceptance. “You are an easy conquest.”

  “No, you are.”

  The humor in her voice made him smile in the darkness. Then all at once, he felt a sudden tension grip her limbs.

  “Roseline, what is wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Tell me.” He rubbed her stiff back, tracing the arch of her spine with his fingers. “You can tell me.”

  “I was just thinking of—” Her voice trailed off.

  Brutus’s fingers froze along the supine trail. “Why?”

  “I was unkind.”

  He grunted. “I have no wish to think about anything but you on my wedding night.”

  “Forgive me, Cher.” She pressed a kiss to his creased forehead. “I can’t help but worry about—”

  His arms tightened around her. “I would never allow harm to come to you, Roseline.”

  “But—”

  With a sudden movement, he rolled until he lay above her. “No, ma femme. We will never speak of this again.”

  “Brutus—”

  He claimed her mouth in a searing kiss designed to send every other thought out of mind. With his passion, he wanted to drive out the guilt that plagued her until there was nothing left but the promise and fulfillment of his love.

  ***

  Chicago, Illinois

  January 1872

  Tamera Floyd sat in the doctor’s office, her brown hands gripped tightly together, the knuckles almost white with tension.

  “Are you certain, Doctor Peterson?” The words croaked out of her like the deep ribbit of a frog. She had no desire to show how much the news affected her. Never show weakness to anyone was a rule she lived by.

  Not today. Today, her world came crumbling down like an avalanche.

  The older man no
dded, his blue eyes kind and gentle. “Yes. If you do nothing, it will not be to your benefit.”

  “But surgery, doctor!”

  Doctor Peterson raised an eyebrow. “As opposed to death, Miss Floyd?”

  Her full lips pressed together as she tried to swallow the bulge that constricted her throat. The bulge only increased in size and she waited a few moments until she was able to speak again. Even then, it hurt to utter the words, “Thank you, Doctor Peterson.”

  In a rare show of emotion, Doctor Peterson reached forward and patted her hand that gripped the arm of the chair. “If there is anything that I can do, Tam, to aid you in your decision, please let me know.”

  “I will, doctor.”

  Her heart lurched in her chest so hard it almost ached. She took in a deep breath and slowly let it exhale through her teeth. With barely constrained emotion, she stood and gathered her satchel and her hat.

  “Are you going to continue to work for the agency, Tam?”

  A jolt went down the middle of her back like a bolt of lightning.

  The agency. What was she going to tell them?

  Doctor Peterson lifted his brow as he waited for an answer. Tam merely gave a weak smile and wrapped her fingers around the knob to the door. “You have a good day, doctor.”

  She opened the door and walked out. The tiny waiting room was empty for the moment which filled her with relief. She grabbed her coat from the nearby tree and bundled up against the cold wintry elements of a Chicago winter.

  Why was this happening to her? Why?

  No answer was forthcoming, and she lifted her satchel onto her shoulder and headed out the door.

  The harsh wind blew against her as she walked down the crowded street. Building efforts were ongoing as the city continued to expand after the conflagration. Men shouted back and forth to each other despite the frigid temperatures as they hammered and sawed.

  Head down, she stared at her feet as she walked along the slippery streets. Doctor Peterson’s words resounded in her mind. What was she going to tell the agency about her…condition? Should she tell them the truth?

  Panic seized her and she stopped midstride on the sidewalk. An instant later, someone bumped into her.

  “Hey, get outta the sidewalk!” A lilting voice with an Irish accent complained as he went around her.

  Tam ignored the man’s complaint. She loved her work at the Pinkerton agency. Her unique set of skills had given her access to a life of adventure, some danger, but much reward as she helped to bring the criminal element to justice. She continued to walk until she came to the apartment building where she lived. Traveling up the long winding staircase, she reached her living quarters and then sat in the silence once she closed the door and hung up her outer wear.

  Her head fell into her hands and she allowed the agony of her circumstances to overwhelm her. She cried until the tears no longer trickled down and her eyes burned. Even then, she rocked back and forth until she lay down on the cushions of the settee and fell asleep.

  Tam awoke in darkness. A hazy panic draped over her for a moment as the events of the day and their conclusion flowed to the front of her mind. Then, she took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  The answer to her problems had visited her dreams, standing above her in his tall, broad form. If there was any other way, then she’d do it.

  But she had no other option.

  Going over to the small table, she pulled out a piece of paper and a pen.

  She went to write when her hand shook at the force of her emotions.

  Surely there must be another way, dear God. Do I have to?

  Doctor Peterson’s words echoed. “Surgery or death.”

  Did she really have a choice?

  Refusing to address it and give it more importance, since this was her permission to be enslaved to a man’s will, she wrote a single line message.

  I am ready to do your bidding.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Denver, Colorado

  January 1873

  “Sir, may I ask for your assistance?”

  Brutus Bradford turned at the sound of the melodic voice and met the dark, flashing gaze of a Negro woman. Wrapped against the winter elements with a scarf secured around her mouth, nonetheless, her words came through clear.

  “Of course, mademoiselle. How can I be of assistance?”

  “Mademoiselle?” A questioning note entered her voice. “You are French, sir?”

  “Oui.” He suppressed the urge to ask if it was calling her mademoiselle or his accent which gave her that insight.

  “Of course, you are.” She shook her head. “That was a silly question.”

  “Think nothing of it.” Brutus gave himself a mental pat on the back that he resisted the impulse for rudeness. He tugged on the ends of his coat. “Now, how may I be of assistance, mademoiselle?”

  “I am looking for this building.”

  She recited the address and his eyebrow rose into his hairline. “Oui, I can assist you. As a matter of fact, I am going there now.”

  The woman’s dark eyes widened. “Are you? Perhaps you are an agent then, sir?”

  Brutus laughed. Unlike his children, the life of a Pinkerton agent had no appeal for him. “Non, mademoiselle. Three of my daughters are though.”

  “Your daughters?”

  He nodded. “I can take you there. May I accompany you?”

  She gave a slight dip of her head. “I thank you.”

  The woman was bundled up against the cold weather prevalent in Colorado. Snow had fallen the prior day in heaping drifts. It was days like these when he missed his home in the West Indies. Balmy weather, bright sunshine, and endless fields of sugarcane had greeted his sight every morning.

  However, nothing on earth could drag him away from his daughters, their husbands, and the increasing number of grandchildren they were all giving him. Then again, without his beloved Roseline, the plantation, like the Taj Mahal, had become a mausoleum to the love they once shared.

  Brutus gave a quick bow and extended his hand in a gesture of invitation. “Shall I hire a carriage to take you?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary.” A small furrow appeared between her eyebrows. “Unless it’s far.”

  “It isn’t,” Brutus assured her. “Even though I am still new to this wintry weather, there is something to be had about a brisk stroll in the cold.”

  “I agree.”

  They walked on in companionable silence for a few moments and then he asked, “May I inquire your reason for going to the agency?”

  The woman gave him a sideways glance. “I am a Pinkerton agent, sir.”

  “How long have you been an agent?”

  “Seven years.”

  “Indeed? You must be a woman of many talents.”

  She shrugged. “One would have to be.”

  The enigmatic statement made his curiosity bloom, but he stifled his questions. He would probably never meet this woman again once he directed her to Archibald Gordon, director of the agency.

  “How long have your daughters been a part of the agency, sir?”

  “A little under two years, mademoiselle.”

  “How did that happen?”

  Brutus grinned as he thought about the events. “My firstborn escaped my attempts to marry her off to a man that would tame her wild inclinations.”

  The woman stopped in her tracks and pivoted in his direction. “I take it that didn’t go according to your wishes.”

  He laughed. “My oldest daughter Arielle will never go according to my wishes. Or, anyone else’s for that matter.”

  “She sounds like a woman well-suited as an agent.”

  The eyes of his beloved Roseline flashed in his mind. “She is her mother’s daughter.”

  The woman stiffened by his side and some emotion he was unable to name flickered in her eyes. Before he could ask her if anything was amiss, she spun away. “Your other daughters followed in her footsteps, sir?”

  A bleak
note colored her words. Brutus’s eyebrow lifted. What had caused the woman to act that way? Had he said something wrong? Pursing his lips, he responded. “That’s one way of looking at it.”

  “You must love your daughters to allow autonomy of that nature.”

  Brutus lifted one shoulder. “No man may offer autonomy, mademoiselle. It is an inherent, God-given right.”

  She said nothing to this, and they continued to walk. He noticed for every step he took, the woman took two. He slowed his steps to match her own. They soon came upon the dormitory of the Pinkerton agency.

  He waved his hand in an expansive way. “We’re here, mademoiselle.”

  “I thank you.”

  He knocked on the door and a moment later, it opened to reveal Madame Gordon, Archibald’s wife.

  “How are you?” She greeted as she stepped back to let them inside. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Same, Madame Gordon.”

  She shook her head and a light laugh escaped her lips. “I’ve told you more than once to call me Marianne.”

  Brutus’s eyebrows drew together as he shut the door. “Why would I do a thing like that, madame?”

  With a slight shake of her head, Madame Gordon’s eyes shifted to the woman by his side. “Hello. How can I help you?”

  “My name is Tamera Floyd.”

  Madame Gordon’s mouth formed an ‘O’. “You’re from the Chicago office. We’ve been expecting you, Miss Floyd.”

  Brutus recalled one of his daughters discussing the transfer of agents from Chicago after the Great Conflagration almost two years ago.

  “Thank you.” Mademoiselle Floyd took off her coat, scarf, and hat to reveal the visage of the woman beneath.

  “Handsome” was the only way to describe Mademoiselle Floyd. Not particularly beautiful or incredibly plain, she wavered between the two. Clear dark eyes gleamed from a face sheathed in umber skin. Her features were petite and narrow, reminiscent of a hummingbird, unlike the verdant magnificence of his wife’s loveliness. The most striking part of her appearance was the white streak of hair at the widow’s peak of her forehead.

  Her looks made her age indeterminate but, if he had to guess, he’d put her in the vicinity of his daughters’ ages, maybe a little older.