Chapter 1 #2
“You may want to say that in a quieter voice,” Jack said in a mock whisper, “or the general population will begin to panic that Bow Street is not the model of efficiency.”
I wanted to press Mr. Drake for more information.
Jack had been surprisingly tight-lipped about the whole affair since he’d been summoned to help.
I already knew far more than a young lady of gentle breeding ought.
I’d always had an interest in tawdry tales of crime and passion—who would not?
—and this case was far from the quiet, hushed-up affair that Bow Street no doubt desired.
The grisly murder of Viscount Somerton had made headlines in every newspaper, and the articles had not minced words in their descriptions.
I had read every article I could find, horribly fascinated, like everyone in London, by the violence that had not spared even someone of the viscount’s status.
“Where is Rawlings?” Verity asked, glancing about the room. “Is he not coming? I’m certain Mama invited him.”
Mr. Drake sighed. “He was in the middle of an interview when I left the office. He said he was coming, but I have little doubt we will find him still at his desk when we arrive tomorrow morning. The man’s dedication is a touch frightening.”
Dinner was announced, and to my delight, Mr. Drake offered me his arm and led me into the dining room, a warm, brightly lit space, perfect for conversation. A fact I made quick use of when Mr. Drake seated himself beside me.
“You mentioned the case has gotten out of hand?” I asked, trying not to seem too curious. “What do you mean by that?”
Mr. Drake appeared not to share Jack’s reluctance to discuss the case, because he leaned a bit closer.
“The sheer amount of suspects, for one,” he said.
“The viscount was not a peace-loving man, and he had a great many enemies. As such, we have a suspect list with nearly two dozen names on it. It takes an immense effort to organize such an investigation, checking alibis, confirming possible motives, and so on. I don’t envy Rawlings in the least.”
A second mention of the elusive Rawlings. Another officer, no doubt, and likely the one heading the investigation.
“Do you have suspects whom you, well, suspect more than the others?” I inclined my head toward him, my voice low as a servant reached beside me to fill my wine glass.
Mr. Drake gave a half smile, as though he’d guessed my aim. “I’m afraid I cannot divulge that information, Miss Lacey, as much as I’d like to.”
It was probably for the best. In my eagerness to learn more about the investigation, I’d quite forgotten I was supposed to be charming him so that he, in turn, could fall madly in love with me.
It was a plan that showed a great deal of promise, especially as the meal went on. I turned the subject toward the food and the company, asking how he knew the various guests. We had passed a pleasant quarter of an hour in conversation when the door to the dining room opened.
I looked up, along with the rest of the table, as a man appeared in the doorway. And suddenly, I gripped my fork a little tighter.
The man did not simply step into the doorway.
He filled it, with the sort of presence that made men straighten and women forget speech altogether.
His frame was long and lean—not broad but immovable as stone.
His deeply brown hair, almost black, was parted and pomaded to one side, the style efficient and no-nonsense, and a light shadow crept up his jaw.
He wasn’t handsome in the way that normally attracted a lady’s attention, but there was a fierce rigidity to his features that called to mind a painting I’d once seen of Alexander the Great.
My skin warmed, my ears buzzing. I’d never seen this man before, of that I was certain. And yet as I studied him, there was a jolt in the very middle of me. As if a part of me recognized a part of him.
His midnight eyes seemed to absorb the candlelight as they swept over the room, meeting mine for the barest of moments before moving on without so much as a twitch in his expression. Clearly, my reaction was one-sided and as ridiculous as it was impossible.
“Mr. Rawlings,” Mrs. Travers said delightedly, coming to her feet at the head of the table. “How thrilled I am that you could come.”
So this was the Bow Street colleague I’d heard so much about.
“I must apologize for my late arrival,” he said, and his voice was just as deep and rumbling as I’d imagined.
Or at least, as much as I’d imagined in the ten seconds or so since he’d appeared.
What I hadn’t accounted for was the lilt in his words, a slight Scottish brogue that brought to mind sweeping Highland vistas and fathomless, gleaming lochs.
Not that I’d ever been to Scotland. But if one could read, one could travel.
Mrs. Travers only beamed at him, waving him forward. “Never mind that. Come, there’s a place for you just here.”
I took a sip from my glass, watching over the rim as he made his way around the table. He moved with purpose, a careful confidence in his every motion as he seated himself directly across from me.
Mrs. Travers sat again, a queen presiding over her court. “Have you met everyone, Mr. Rawlings?” she asked. “Need we make any introductions?”
Though he’d given the table a cursory glance at his arrival, his shrewd gaze traveled again over the guests, stopping—at last—on me.
I knew he’d seen me when he’d first arrived, but I had the impression he’d taken me in and dismissed me all in a single instant and was only now forced to acknowledge me.
Mrs. Travers followed his eyes. “Oh, yes, you haven’t met Miss Lacey, Genevieve’s friend from home.”
He inspected me a moment longer, then nodded curtly. “A pleasure.”
I was certain it wasn’t. In fact, I was quite sure he’d never been pleased to meet anyone.
I returned his nod with a shallow one of my own. “Mr. Rawlings.”
Pleasantries dispensed with, conversation again started up along the table.
I resolved to put Mr. Rawlings from my mind and turned back to Mr. Drake, who was a perfectly amiable dinner companion.
There was no need to lose any of the progress I’d made tonight simply because a brooding gentleman looked at me askance.
“What do you hope to see while in London, Miss Lacey?” Mr. Drake asked.
“Oh, everything and anything,” I said enthusiastically. “I’ve come for the Season several times before, but I’ve never had the chance to explore the city.”
“Never had the chance?” he repeated.
“You see, I was always scheduled rather tightly with balls and dinner parties and such,” I said. “My mother saw the Season as something of an investment and did not wish to waste it on such silliness as the Royal Menagerie or Astley’s Amphitheatre.”
In fact, Mother and Father disliked London as a whole, making the journey only to introduce me into Society and for my subsequent—and unsuccessful—Seasons. They far preferred a quiet country life, the same as Ginny.
“Well, that simply will not do,” Mr. Drake declared. “You must make the most of this trip.”
“I intend to,” I assured him. “I am determined to spend my time quite selfishly and do everything I’ve wanted to over the years.”
Mr. Rawlings made a sound of disapproval across the table. I darted a glance at him, but he only intently speared a potato on his plate. Had I imagined it?
“I am glad to hear it.” Mr. Drake drew my attention back to him. “A little selfishness is never amiss.”
“I quite agree,” I replied, picking up my wine glass to take a sip.
“Tomorrow night, we are going to Vauxhall, Mr. Drake,” Ginny cut in, apparently having eavesdropped upon our conversation from down the table. “You ought to come with us so that we might have even numbers.”
I shot her a look—she was being terribly obvious. But she ignored me innocently and waited for Mr. Drake’s response.
He smiled, not seeming to mind her interference. “I should be delighted, assuming my schedule allows it.”
“I wouldn’t assume anything of the sort,” came that deep Scottish brogue.
We all looked at Mr. Rawlings, who met our gazes with cool impassivity.
“We already made an exception for tonight,” he said. “I can’t imagine we can spare both you and Jack again tomorrow.”
“Come now, Rawlings,” Mr. Drake said, unperturbed. He must be used to his friend’s abruptness. “We’ll either find the murderer, or we won’t. Leaving an hour or two early won’t change that.”
“It very well might,” Mr. Rawlings countered. “Every minute counts in a case like this. We cannot waste our time with frivolities.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Rawlings”—I raised my brow and offered a curled smile—“it might benefit you to join us in our frivolities. All work and no play, as they say.”
I didn’t know why I said it. It wasn’t as if I wanted him to come, watching us with judgmental disdain as we dared to enjoy ourselves while he had a murder to solve.
But there was something so imperious in his nature, and I couldn’t resist taking a jab in his direction, if only to see what he might do.
His dark eyes met mine, unblinking and impenetrable, and slowly traveled over me—the wine glass in my hand, the string of pearls at my neck, the mischievous grin still perched on my lips.
“Better all work than all play, Miss Lacey,” he said slowly, pointedly, “as you seem to favor.” Then he turned away, engaging Mrs. Travers with a question.
My smile dropped. I sat back in my chair, my cheeks pricking with heat. What presumption. Did he think he knew me from a glance? That he could judge me shallow and overindulgent from the barest overheard conversation at a dinner party?
The other guests shifted uncomfortably in their chairs, trying to resume their conversations, though I could feel their quick glances my way. I looked at Ginny, and she only lifted one shoulder, as baffled as I was by Mr. Rawlings’s retort.
“All that to say,” Mr. Drake said from beside me, trying desperately to salvage our conversation, “I should be glad to join you tomorrow night, should my presence not be needed for the investigation.”
I managed a small smile, one I did not feel. “That is kind of you, Mr. Drake, though I do understand if you are unavailable.”
He hesitated, casting a glance at Mr. Rawlings. “I am sorry for that,” he said in a low voice. “He is not usually so . . .” He paused, apparently unable to find the right word.
“I should like to know the end of that sentence,” I said dryly.
He laughed under his breath. “I hope you won’t hold it against him. He is carrying the weight of the investigation, I’m afraid. There is a great deal of pressure from the magistrates.”
I pointedly did not look in Mr. Rawlings’s direction. I wished I could flatter myself that he was exerting the same effort, but I had little doubt he had already dismissed me from his mind once again.
“You ought to come by Bow Street tomorrow before we go to Vauxhall,” Mr. Drake suggested. “I should be happy to show you around.”
“I can’t imagine Mr. Rawlings would be terribly happy about that.”
“Rawlings can have no objection,” he said, amused, “seeing as he does not own the magistrates’ court.”
“Then I should be glad to.” I could not hide my pleasure at his invitation. “Thank you.”
We turned our attention to where Verity had begun telling a diverting story about one of the cases she had worked with her husband. Mr. Denning periodically interrupted to correct her or add a detail, and they soon had us all hanging on to their every word.
Except for Mr. Rawlings, that was. The other guests around him laughed with the story, but he only traced the ceramic edge of his plate with one finger as he stared down at the table, lost in thoughts I couldn’t begin to guess at. But I thought I recognized the barest emotion on his face. Worry.
He glanced up suddenly, seeming to sense my attention on him, and his expression immediately fell back into passive indifference.
He looked away again, but I studied him a second longer.
A man like Mr. Drake was an open book, but I imagined Mr. Rawlings was more like a wrought-iron strongbox—difficult to pry open and just as off-putting.
Thank heavens Ginny hadn’t decided to match me with Mr. Rawlings. He was so far from what I was looking for in a husband, it was almost laughable.
I focused again on Verity’s story, on the easy repartee she shared with her husband and the way he positioned himself to face her, as if she were his whole world.
One day, I would have that, I reaffirmed to myself. I would have what Verity and Mr. Denning had, what Ginny and Jack shared. It was the only way I could ever imagine marrying—for the truest, deepest love.