Almost a Lady Read Online Free PDF

it alone.
    He had taught her to dress and act like a man so she could disguise herself. To fight so that she could protect herself against even the most fearsome enemy. She smiled, remembering the moment student had surpassed teacher—and the limp Robert had suffered for more than a week.
    But even Robert couldn't protect her position with the Agency if his superiors decided to fire her—or assign her so few cases that she would have no choice but to quit. He might be Allan Pinkerton's son, in charge of the eastern and southern sections of the United States, but he answered to. Superintendent Warner the same as she.
    And losing Sammy the Snake did not bode well for her. It wasn't a life-threatening case, or even one that particularly mattered in the scheme of things. But it would be a blemish in her otherwise flawless career file. An easy excuse to have her terminated.
    They stopped to speak to Robert's personal secretary, a pleasant, vibrant older woman, who helped to keep the busy Agency organized.
    " Mrs , Girard, Charlie Barker was killed this afternoon.” Robert broke the news in a matter-of-fact voice.
    The woman gasped.
    Robert nodded solemnly and went on to give her a list of tasks. “Please find five available agents and send them to Grand Central. Then have an arrangement of flowers sent with our condolences tomorrow afternoon. After I talk to Willow, I'll pay a visit to his wife to break the news, if the police haven't already. She needs to know we will do all we can to support and help her."
    They passed into the privacy of his office. He set Willow's valise aside, took her wrap, and hung it on a row of hooks behind the door. His overcoat soon followed.
    "Have a seat,” he said, rounding the large, mahogany desk.
    Not the least worried about her appearance in front of her old friend, she plopped down on the nearest chair, sinking into its cushioned depths.
    "I see you've gotten yourself into another fine pickle,” Robert observed.
    "I wouldn't call it a pickle, really,” Willow answered. “I'd say it's more of a full-blown cucumber."
    He threw her a quelling glance. “I'm in no mood for your wit, Willow. This is serious."
    "How well I know.” She looked down at the stiff, stained folds of her skirt. Blood. Charlie's blood. Soaked through to her shift, no doubt. It took all of her willpower not to rip the clothes from her body just to rid herself of the metallic smell, the sticky feel of it.
    "Are you all right?” he asked, brows drawn, regarding her closely.
    "I'm fine,” she said. She wasn't really, but it would do no one—including Charlie—any good for her to break down. She took a deep breath to steel her nerves. “Why do you ask?"
    "Because a man died in your arms today, Willow. It's all right to show sorrow over that. It's all right to be afraid and to cry."
    Willow noticed the slight shake in Robert's hands and realized he was far from unaffected himself. “I'll be fine, Robert. Truly. Please don't worry about me. I'd rather you put your energies into finding the man who murdered Charlie."
    "Oh, we will, don't worry about that,” he vowed, seemingly letting the topic of her well-being drop. But Willow knew better. He would keep an eye on her for a while to see that she really was holding up as well as she claimed.
    "I suppose that's one of ours,” Robert stated, looking pointedly at the hem of her dress.
    Willow looked down at her marred gown and recognized Robert's attempt to change the subject. Talking about the high cost of fashion was a far sight better than thinking about the sight of Charlie's body, lying supine on the floor of that railroad car, and Willow was more than willing to play along. “Bought for the express purpose of infiltrating St. Louis high society,” she told him.
    "Cost a pretty penny, too, I'm sure.” He relaxed into the soft black leather of his chair. “The Agency will replace the gown,” he said. “Damned women operatives cost us an arm and a leg."
    "I