My Plain Jane (The Lady Janies #2)(61)

“Which teacup is it?” Branwell/Brocklehurst screamed, and charged toward Alexander.

The action started something of a stampede. People ran in every which way, trying to escape the madman with the teacup. Miss Bront? moved to intercept her brother.

The teacup landed with a thump on Alexander’s head.

“Which teacup is it?” Brocklehurst shrieked from Branwell’s body. “How do you like it?”

All around them, people screamed and tried to get away, but there were just enough people who wanted to watch a Society agent be assaulted with a teacup that true exodus was difficult.

Alexander grappled with Brocklehurst, trying to take the teacup, but the ghost pulled back and started yelling at people in the crowd: “Don’t let him near your tea!”

Upstanding British men and women gasped, some holding paper bags to their chests. The crest of the local tea shop was emblazoned across the front.

“Don’t let him near your china!” Brocklehurst shouted.

And this time, house servants with boxes pulled back in alarm.

“He’ll trap you in teacups!”

Alexander tackled Brocklehurst and grabbed for the teacup, but the china bashed against his temple and made him blink back stars. It was a shockingly sturdy teacup.

“Give me the teacup!” Alexander’s fingers scraped against the ceramic—not enough to take it, but enough that the handle slipped from Brocklehurst/Branwell’s fingers and the teacup dropped to the ground.

And it shattered.

Not so sturdy after all.

At once, Brocklehurst shouted in triumph as a thousand pieces of ceramic scattered across the street. “Die, you evil teacup!”

Miss Bront? appeared in the periphery of Alexander’s vision, a huge plank of wood drawn back, ready to swing.

Brocklehurst evacuated Branwell’s body.

Before Alexander could raise a warning, the plank hit Branwell square in the head, and his assistant dropped to the cobblestones with a thud.

“Free at last!” shouted the ghost of Brocklehurst as he skipped down the street, invisible to most everyone now.

“Take that!” Miss Bront? shouted.

“Miss Bront?, Brocklehurst is gone.” Alexander climbed to his feet and dusted ceramic shards off his trousers.

“So I got him?”

“You got your brother.”

She lifted her glasses. “Not Brocklehurst?”

“As I said, he’s gone.”

“You’re under arrest.” A gloved hand clapped down on Alexander’s shoulder.

Alexander groaned. Could this day get any worse?

He turned and straightened his mask. “Good afternoon, Officer. My name is Alexander Blackwood. I’m with the Society for the Relocation of Wayward Spirits.”

The officer frowned. “The Society . . .”

“I work for the Duke of Wellington. I’m happy to put you in touch with him if you have questions.”

The officer frowned harder, like he wanted to inform Alexander of the Society’s decline, but they both knew he couldn’t arrest anyone here. Ghost business was still Society business.

“And what about this fellow?” The officer motioned at Branwell, who was just now rousing himself. A lump already grew on his head.

“He’s my assistant,” Alexander admitted.

“And this lady?” The officer glanced at Miss Bront?.

“My assistant’s assistant.” Alexander glanced over the officer’s shoulder, toward the docks and the PurlAnn. Was the ship in the same place as before? It was hard to tell. “Now, I really do need to go—”

“Very well.” The officer started away. “Have a good evening.”

Just then, Alexander caught sight of the PurlAnn, her blue and green sails full of wind as she vanished toward the Thames.

Mr. Mason was gone.





TWENTY-TWO


Charlotte

“So this is it,” Mr. Blackwood muttered as the downtrodden group shuffled into the third-floor flat on Baker Street. “Home, sweet home. Make yourselves comfortable.”

Charlotte lifted her spectacles to her face. Mr. Blackwood’s flat was neat and meticulously maintained, much like Mr. Blackwood himself. But there was not much in the way of furniture. She spotted a pair of small chairs in the corner of the sitting room and perched herself upon one carefully, folding her hands into her lap. Bran stood near the door as if he half expected to be asked to leave, still utterly remorseful at what had transpired with the teacup and the ghost of Mr. Brocklehurst. Neither of the Bront?s looked remotely comfortable.

“Well then,” said Mr. Blackwood. “Can I offer you some tea?”

Bran groaned and dropped his face into his hands. “I don’t think I will ever have tea again. I couldn’t bear it.”

“Bran, dear, no need to be so extreme.” Charlotte tried a sympathetic smile. “It was a mistake. We all make mistakes.”

“But I make mistakes more than anybody else.”

That was true.

“That is true,” Mr. Blackwood said, not unkindly. “But you’re a new initiate. And you’re learning.”

Bran glanced at him hopefully. “Did you ever handle a talisman mistakenly and end up possessed by the spirit within?”