The Nearly Notorious Nun Read online

  The Nearly Notorious Nun

  Book Two of The Conn-Mann Chronicles

  By

  Rie Sheridan Rose

  Second Edition Copyright © 2016 by Rie Sheridan Rose

  The Conn Mann Chronicles

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Rie Sheridan Rose.

  Cover art by Brad Fraunfelter (frame)

  Brad Fraunfelter Illustration

  Raluca Caragea (nun image)

  notblackenough.deviantart.com

  Wojciech Wojcik (back cover image)

  wtek79.deviantart.com

  Cover advice by Tamian Wood

  Beyond Design

  Cover design by Rie Sheridan Rose

  Editing by Elizabeth Burton and Mel. White

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Author's Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Dedication

  In the first edition, this book was dedicated to Wynelda Deaver, and, as always, Newell. These two are my life-support system. I also would like to dedicate this edition to Jim Reader, who is my go-to beta reader and voice of reason.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to acknowledge Ella Grey for lending me her name; Brad Fraunfelter for providing me with terrific promotion artwork, and the series continuity frame; Raluca Caragea and Wojciech Wojcik for the use of their images; Tamian Wood for cover design advice and aid; Wyndie Deaver for her support and enthusiasm; Sharon Kay, Tino Manning, and Wyndie Deaver (again…) for sub-mitting the winning names for the kittens; and Elizabeth Burton, Jim Reader, and Mel White for helping me smooth out both plot and execution. Doris Beetem and Doris Frazar for amazing beta-reading. I'm sure I am forgetting someone…if it's you, I'm sorry.

  And, as always, thanks to Newell for putting up with me.

  Author's Note

  I just wanted to take a moment and say that this version of the book is extremely different from the original. I rewrote several sections of it, including the entire Dime Novel. There are liberties taken—with time, for the most part—but remember, this world never actually was. Many of these inconsistencies were pointed out to me by beta-readers. I, being as stubborn as Jo, ignored them for the sake of the story I wanted to tell. The faults are all my own.

  Still, I hope you enjoy it, whether you are meeting Jo and Alistair for the first time, or are old friends.

  --Rie Sheridan Rose, August 2016

  Amy Archer hugged the brick wall, her breath caught in her throat. The pistol in her right hand felt strangely comforting. The moonlight seeping past the heavy curtains barely illuminated the contours of the furniture in the room. Her fingers itched to light the lamp on the nearby table, but that would shift the advantage from her corner to that of the intruder. She knew these rooms like her own name. She didn’t need much light to make her stealthy way.

  On the other hand, the villain who was currently rummaging through the things in her bedroom was an unwelcome guest—and about to meet the business end of her revolver.

  -- Garrett Goldthwaite

  Analytical Amy and the Case of the Covetous Cad

  Chapter 1

  “Josephine Mann!”

  I had my head down, shuffling through the stack of mail I had just picked up from the post office. Was there any chance Alistair might have sent an update on the progress of the trial of Paul Blessant, the villain who had stolen my employer’s marvelous mechanical man, Phaeton? There would be a separate proceeding about the men he had attacked and killed in the process, but Alistair's participation should not be required for that. No, nothing from my employer, but I was pleased to see a thick letter from my new friend, Winifred Bond—which hopefully included her itinerary for her move to New York.

  We had missed the carrier’s delivery that morning, and I had gone to the post office to fetch it for my landlady. When the voice accosted me, I stuck the letters into my reticule and glanced up. Such a hail was unusual in a city the size of New York—I was not well known outside my own circle of acquaintances.

  “Excuse me?”

  The fellow who addressed me wore a pair of twill trousers held up by suspenders but ending well above his ankles, where socks that could have used a bit—make that a lot—of darning peeked above scuffed boots. His shirt was collarless muslin, and absolutely reeked of body odor and beer. He was not the sort of person with which I had any level of acquaintance.

  “Girlie, I’ve got a message for you.”

  I sniffed with, I blush to admit, more than a bit of disdain and started past him.

  “Don’t go giving yourself airs, girlie. You ain’t no better than me and mine.” He jerked his head, and a second man stepped up behind me.

  “What is it you want? I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

  “We want a word with Alistair Conn.”

  “And what makes you think I even know this person?”

  The man behind me grabbed my arm. Quite hard.

  “Don’t play with us, chit. We know you work for him. And if you want to keep working for him—as in, if you want him to keep living so he needs an assistant—you will give him the message.”

  “Oh, that Alistair Conn. I haven’t spoken to the man in weeks. He’s in—” I stopped myself from an indiscretion at the last second. “He’s incapacitated. Ill. I haven’t been allowed near him.”

  “You better find a way to deliver the message,” the first man growled, leaning in and exhaling the smell of liver and onions into my face. “You tell him he better not testify at Paul Blessant’s trial, or he won’t like what happens next.”

  “He’s already given his testimony,” I scoffed. “If you’re trying to prevent that, you’re far too late.”

  “No, he ain’t. He’s been put off a week. And if he don’t appear in court, Blessant goes free. There ain’t enough testimony to convict without him.”

  I jerked free of the man holding my arm.

  “You’re wrong about that. Mike Halloway and his grandfather both agreed to speak, and so did Phaeton.” We had been pleasantly surprised when the judge proved open-minded enough to allow the automaton to give his account of the events surrounding our adventures in Ohio several weeks ago.

  “An old man and a young boy—neither of them very interested in court proceedings anymore. And there ain’t a judge in the world gonna let that mechanical freak’s say-so make a difference to the trial.”

  A chill ran through me. He was probably right about Phaeton’s testimony not being considered anything more than a novelty. Even if the judge let him speak, he could order the jury to disregard his statement. There was a long way to go before he would be accepted by the world in general.

  If Mike and his grandfather had been intimidated into changing their minds, the
whole trial really would hinge on Alistair. He refused to let me testify, believing a courtroom was no place for a lady—and, I fear, not trusting me to keep my temper in check.

  I didn’t actually know if he had testified yet or not. He was not a loquacious letter writer, and I had convinced him that the expense of a telegram was unjustified in day-to-day affairs. Still, I wished I knew for sure he was all right…but at least I could warn him of this development.

  I resolved to spend the money to send a warning as soon as I was clear of these miscreants. I did, of course, know the address of his hotel and the room number—although I had no intention of saying as much to them.

  “Well, then, I suppose Blessant will go free,” I replied, with a brittle smile. “Good for you. Now, if you will excuse me...” I pushed past the men and continued on my way, head held high.

  As soon as I was out of their sight, I put my back against the sturdy brick of the nearest building, and leaned over, fighting nausea as I attempted to get myself back under control. The encounter had been absolutely terrifying.

  I considered further what to do. If Blessant’s men were planning something heinous, I needed to contact Alistair as soon as possible. A letter would take far too long to reach him. Telegram it was.

  I hurried up to the counter of a telegraph office on the way back to the boarding house.

  “I need to send a telegram to Alistair Conn at the Continental Hotel in Cleveland, Ohio—room 103.”

  “Of course, Miss.” The clerk picked up a pen and poised it above a blank form.

  I thought hard. There had to be a succinct message which would let Alistair know quickly that he was in danger. I had to put it in terms that a scientist would understand—they could be hard to communicate with at times.

  Finally, I dictated:

  Alistair:

  Danger! You can’t testify if dead. Move.

  Jo

  “Send that.”

  The clerk quirked an eyebrow.

  “Are you sure this is the message you would like to send, Miss?”

  “Yes.” I nodded emphatically. Of course, I was sure. It was a perfectly understandable message. Who was he to question my judgment? “Send it at once.”

  Hopefully that would get the job done. One never knew, with engineers, inventors, and the like.

  I paid for the telegram and added a less generous tip than I might otherwise have given.

  I felt much better about everything now. Alistair had been warned, and that was all I could do from here. Short of travelling to Ohio myself—something he had absolutely forbidden me to do—I had fulfilled my obligation to my employer…and the man I was coming to care for…who happened to be the same person.

  Well, at least Alistair was safe from Blessant’s thugs. I had no doubt he would heed my clear instructions and find somewhere safer to be at once.

  Now that Alistair’s problem was sorted, I pulled out the letters I had retrieved once more. One of the envelopes that the postal clerk had handed me was dusty and marked with faint stains and creases as though it had been traveling around for some time—and perhaps it had. The original destination was the address of my old boarding house, which had been scratched out and Ma’s added in its place. I had made sure Mrs. Milligan had a forwarding address just in case. It looked like I had been right to do so.

  From the desk of the Mother Superior was inscribed in the upper left corner in an elegant hand; below it was the address of the orphanage where I had grown up.

  I hesitated, turning the letter over in my hands for a few moments. The Good Sisters of the Convent of Our Lady the Star of the Sea took me in when I was orphaned, but we parted ways many years ago. Why would Mother Superior be contacting me now?

  When I was a girl, I had wondered why none of the families seeking a new daughter were interested in adopting me, but by the time I set out on my own at sixteen, I had figured out what was what. None of those quiet, desperate parents were interested in a copper-haired hoyden with the knees out of her stockings and, like as not, a nose dripping some unsavory substance. Especially since she met every query with “You ain’t my ma!”

  I must say, now that I am an adult, I don’t blame them. I was a complete disaster as a child. I am surprised I ever survived to my ripe old age of twenty-five!

  “From the desk of the Mother Superior,” I murmured. That was ominous. What on earth had I done now?

  I sighed and opened the letter:

  Dear Josephine,

  Please call upon me at your earliest convenience. I must speak to you about a matter of grave importance. You are the only one I can trust in this matter.

  Sincerely,

  Mother Mary Frances

  Frowning, I read the letter again…focusing on the unfamiliar signature. Mother Mary Margaret had been Mother Superior when I was an inhabitant of the orphanage. I wondered who had taken her place—Sister Agnes of the quick ruler? Sister Grace with the whispery voice? Sister Catherine who slept through most of her classes?

  Only one way to find out, I supposed. I would go around as soon as I changed my clothes. I could hardly go visiting nuns in my summer seersucker. Well, I could, but it would feel very impertinent.

  I blew the fringe of bangs off my forehead with a sigh. Heavens. Today, of all days. Oh, well, it would give me something to concern myself with until Alistair replied to my telegram, or returned to town.

  However, I decided I could really use a cold drink about now. Ma wouldn’t mind waiting a bit longer for her post. I tucked my letter into the reticule along with the rest of the mail and started off in search of the nearest sarsaparilla.

  Amelia Archer came from money. Her parents had it. Her grandparents had it. Even her great-grandparents had it. She expected she would have it too one day, but never having been without it, she really didn’t pay the matter much mind.

  She had gone to the finest finishing school in the state, and her debutante ball was the talk of the town. However, secretly, Amy longed to do more with her life than marry well and deliver the next generation into the world. She was very intrigued by Mr. Poe’s great detective Auguste Dupin. She knew the stories he appeared in by heart. Someday, she dreamed of putting his theories into practice…

  -- Garrett Goldthwaite

  Analytical Amy and the Case of the Covetous Cad

  Chapter 2

  As soon as I finished my sarsaparilla, I hurried toward home, my thoughts turning to my severely depleted wardrobe. Most of my clothing had been lost in the destruction of Herbert Lattimer’s airship, the Pearl. Technically, the mission had been a rousing success—we managed to frustrate the plans of the very unpleasant Paul Blessant—but in the process my luggage had been a casualty. Despite Herbert’s promises to search through the wreckage for my bags, nothing had turned up, and I had not had a chance to replace much of it yet…despite six weeks of trying.

  I had exactly two blouses, a heavy coat, a suit, one pair of boots, and three skirts besides the dress I had bought to be decent in Ohio and the seersucker I currently wore, but nothing suitable for such a formal occasion. Most of the pieces I had replaced so far were work clothes, and the things I had ordered that would be presentable for calling on nuns weren’t ready yet. What on earth could I wear to the convent?

  I sighed. Clearly a trip to Aunt Emily’s was in order.

  Although she was, in truth, Alistair’s aunt, Emily Estes had taken me under her wing when I came to live at Ma Stark’s. Her only daughter having died in childbirth several years before, there was a sumptuous wardrobe enshrined in Lavinia’s old room. Aunt Emily—as she had instructed me to call her—had given me leave to avail myself of those dresses whenever necessary. I remembered having seen several more sober garments among the butterfly silks and jewel-like velvets. There would be something suitable, I was sure.

  “Ma, I’m going over to Aunt Emily’s for a few minutes, and then I must run an errand,” I called, as I clattered down the stairs. “I have your letters here. I’ll leave them
on the hall table.”

  Ma Stark stepped out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. She was always cooking or cleaning, or doing something housewifely. I thanked my lucky stars again that I had found such a wonderful landlady after the way Mrs. Milligan—my former proprietor—had blamed me for every little disturbance in her establishment.

  “Why such a hurry, Jo, dear?”

  “I received an interesting letter of my own,” I answered, pulling it out of the stack and showing it to her. “I’ve been asked to come to speak to the mother superior of the orphanage at once.”

  “Just think of that—it found you all the way here. How do you suppose that happened?”

  “Well, I did tell Mrs. Milligan my new address, in case someone needed to contact me, but this letter is dated several weeks ago. I wonder why it took so long to catch up to me…”

  “The Good Lord’s hand is behind this fer sure,” Ma said, patting my hand. “You go on up to the Good Sisters, and I will take Miss Priss a bit of fish and a saucer of milk.”

  I had sorely neglected my cat Priss today, and she had been acting a bit odd of late. I loved the little animal that I had found trembling in the rain as a kitten, and I hated to leave her distressed, but Ma would take good care of her. And I should be home quite soon.

  “Thank you, Ma. I will be back as soon as possible.”

  As I crossed the street to Aunt Emily’s domicile, I noticed a slender gentleman wearing a worn suit with patched elbows standing in the middle of the street. He looked about my age, with carroty hair under a shiny bowler. He held a scrap of paper in one hand, and appeared to be searching for something, glancing between the paper and the house numbers of the brownstones.