Chapter 18
It was nearing seven by the time Peter walked into the Bow Street offices after dropping Jackson off at his lodgings. A light drizzle had started by then, the misty water droplets infusing the chilly air with the kind of dampness that tended to settle deep in the bones.
A strange combination of disappointment and relief gripped his chest when he glanced toward Gabriella’s desk and found her absent.
It was a bit too early in the day to expect her presence, he reminded himself.
Besides, it had felt as though they’d been circling each other with wary uncertainty since their discussion at the barracks.
Neither had broached the subject regarding their mutual attraction for each other again.
Instead, they’d settled into a highly professional partnership that only involved discussions pertaining to work.
As much as Peter enjoyed the insight she offered, he hated the awkward void wedged between them. It was a point he’d repeatedly thought of addressing, but that would only force them both to voice their conclusions pertaining to marriage.
Peter had already made his choice, but feared hers might be different. Or maybe she was struggling with her decision, which didn’t improve his spirits. If she felt as he did, it ought to be simple.
Either way, he’d no wish to press her.
“Would you like some coffee before you go?” he asked Anderson, the Runner who’d been on night duty with Jackson when news of Orwell’s death had arrived.
Anderson yawned. “I had a cup not long ago so I think I’ll just add some more wood to the fire and be on my way.”
Peter thanked him, then strode through the empty front office where desks would soon be filled by Runners and clerks. He entered the room at the back — a modest space used for storing cups, saucers, and utensils. A small wood-burning stove provided the means by which to boil water.
The task took time, during which Peter reflected on that night’s events.
What he required was some peace and quiet in which to sort through his notes.
He’d need to prepare more detailed lists of the people with whom he’d spoken.
The crime scene itself should be described in full detail while it was fresh in his mind.
Lewis’s sketches would help.
Peter added the coffee grounds to the water and allowed it to boil for a while before removing it from the stove. He poured the coffee into a serving pot, collected a cup, and took all the items with him.
Lewis and Gordon, who’d made sure Mr. Orwell’s body was sent to the morgue, had arrived while Peter was making coffee. He greeted the pair and suggested they go get some sleep as well.
Hesitation creased Lewis’s brow and Peter followed his gaze toward the back of a chair across which a white scarf now hung. Lewis cleared his throat. “You should know that Miss Hastings arrived while you were back there.”
“And where is she now?” Peter asked, the coffee pot and cup growing heavier by the second.
“In your office.”
Peter shifted his gaze toward the hallway that led to his private domain, before returning his attention to Lewis and Gordon. “Did you mention the murder to her?”
“She arrived with her father, who asked if there was anything he ought to know about. Telling him what happened seemed like the right thing to do since he holds the highest rank here.”
“Of course.” Peter considered whom to brief first. The chief magistrate or his daughter. Deciding the former was more important in this instance, on account of his authority, Peter set aside the coffee pot and his cup, and went to address his superior.
The briefing, which took roughly ten minutes, supplied Hastings with the most pertinent facts. A more detailed account would be provided later in the day, once Peter had managed to write his report.
“Exceptional work, Kendrick.” Hastings held Peter’s gaze. “Let’s make sure we use the information we’ve gathered to catch the guilty party.”
Hastings’s message was clear. Mr. Keith Orwell came from wealth and that made him a prominent figure.
Much more so than poor Mr. Stewart Warren, whose father Peter had managed to locate thanks to details provided in Stewart Warren’s military record.
While the Warrens weren’t exactly poor, when compared to those who truly struggled to make ends meet, they belonged to the lower middle class.
Peter didn’t think this ought to matter, yet it did. The Orwells would be connected. If the case didn’t reach a swift conclusion, Bow Street would once again come under scrutiny and pressure.
“My men and I will do what we can to provide results,” Peter promised.
“Have my daughter help,” Hastings said as he opened a ledger and picked up his quill. “She may just find a connection you’re missing.”
“Of course,” Peter murmured, and retreated through the door. He closed it and drew a deep breath. It was time for him to face the woman who took up more space in his brain than was prudent.
She was sitting behind his desk when he arrived in his office, her attention on some papers that lay before her.
Peter paused in the doorway and took her in, a powerful sense of male satisfaction curling around him as he watched.
There was something intoxicating about how relaxed she appeared while occupying his chair.
When her gaze rose to meet his, the coffee pot and cup he’d collected turned cumbersome in his hands. Feeling the need to set them aside, he made his approach.
“Good morning.” He placed the items on a vacant part of his desk. “What a pleasant surprise, finding you here this early.”
Polite, welcoming, non-confrontational. He prayed it would set the tone for an easy talk.
“I can’t believe you went to inspect a murder scene without me,” she said, dashing all hope of avoiding an argument.
On the other hand, it might be nice to butt heads with her for a change. It would certainly be more interesting than the tepid exchanges they’d been enjoying since visiting the barracks in Woolwich.
He filled his cup with coffee while she kept her sharp gaze on his every move. Heat swept the nape of his neck. His heart beat a fraction harder.
“It was a grim experience,” he said, recalling Keith Orwell’s vacant gaze, his slit throat, the cravat shoved into his mouth. Despite all he’d seen during his time at Bow Street, certain sights continued to plague him.
Lady Eleanor’s corpse, riddled with stab wounds, the eye sockets empty, was one. Stewart Warren and Keith Orwell were now another.
“Are you suggesting you wished to protect my sensibilities?” Her voice was curious more than anything else.
Nevertheless, Peter knew he’d be wise to consider how he chose to answer. He decided to give her the truth. “Jackson dragged me from my bed at two a.m. I decided not to disturb you since doing so would have woken the rest of your household. Your parents included.”
The fact that questions would have been asked was a point so obvious he chose not to mention it.
She pursed her lips, appeared to consider his reasoning. He used the brief reprieve to take a sip of his coffee, managing to swallow the warm drink before she asked, “Had this not been an issue, would you have let me come with you?”
Careful.
Her phrasing could easily land him in trouble.
Another sip of coffee kept her waiting for his response. He set the cup aside and took a seat in one of the chairs intended for guests. “I don’t believe any person is in a position to let you do anything. Had you desired to come, you’d have done so, whether or not I approved.”
“Then let me rephrase.” She dipped her chin and peered over the top of her spectacles at him. “Would you have invited me to join you?”
For a second he considered lying, only to hear himself say, “No.”
Her hazel eyes held his with unrelenting determination. Peter’s muscles strained. His heart beat with increased force. Something simmered within her gaze.
And then she asked, “Why not?”
It was a damning question, brutal in its simplicity, a dangerous move in their battle of wits.
Again, he considered his options and chose the truthful path.
“Because once this sort of thing is seen, it cannot be unseen. Because your father agreed to my stipulation when you and I started working together — that you would not be exposed to such horrors. Because I want to protect you from bearing witness to monstrous acts of violence as much as I can.”
“I do not require protecting,” she answered, her tone stubborn.
He snorted his disagreement and earned a quelling look of disapproval.
“Everyone needs protecting from this sort of thing. Were I able to protect myself from it, I would. Unfortunately, I’m forced to absorb every detail in order to do my job.
” He leaned forward, one elbow braced on the edge of the desk.
“Don’t think for one second that’s easy to do, simply because I’ve seen death before.
Because I can assure you, Gabriella, there’s death and then there’s the stuff of nightmares. ”
A couple of creases appeared on the bridge of her nose. “You probably think me unreasonable. I just don’t want to be treated as though I’m too weak to stand shoulder to shoulder with you. Especially not after what happened last time.”
He could only assume that she was referring to the panic she had succumbed to when they’d descended into the subterranean levels beneath St. George’s Hospital. However, it was the doubt with which she spoke — doubt in him — that made him feel like she’d reached inside his chest to crush his heart.
“Never in a million years would I think you weak.” His words were but a breath of air drifting between them. “My regard for you as a person, as a woman, is far too great.”
She swallowed and he watched her throat work with the movement. His fingers gripped the edge of the desk, digging in hard to keep himself steady. To not round the desk and pull her into his arms — to not press his mouth against hers — to not make her whimper with need as he pushed up against her.
His breath was hoarse in his throat. More so when his treacherous gaze dipped lower, to the soft swell of her breasts. Croft’s words from earlier returned in that moment, increasing his desire for her tenfold.
With a muttered curse, he forced his gaze back to her face and found her cheeks flushed, her lips slightly parted as though she knew precisely where his mind had gone.
Aware of the work he had to get on with, he determined to clear his head of all impassioned thoughts for the moment. No simple feat, but a necessary one if he were to get the results Hastings expected.
“There’s more than the murder investigation for us to deal with,” he told her. “Mr. Croft’s wife has also been taken, supposedly by the same man who killed Callahan.”
All hints of potential interest in seeking pleasure drained from her face. A firm, business-like manner took over. “The man left in the corner of The Mad Bull tavern?”
“Precisely.” Peter relayed the details while she listened closely.
He then moved on to the murder committed at Moorland House.
“Here’s what I have.” He retrieved his notebook along with Lewis’s sketches from his jacket pocket.
“If you’d like to transcribe the notes and create a file, it should provide you with all the details. ”
She pulled the notebook toward her. “I can probably use the witness testimonies to create a time-line of events, if you think that would help?”
“I’m sure it would in terms of figuring out where everyone was at certain times. Remember, when it comes to killing a person, a motive is far from enough.”
“Opportunity is also required.”
“Precisely.”
She nodded and prepared to rise, but then her gaze went to the papers she had been reading when Peter arrived. She worried her lips between her teeth as though waring with a decision, and finally told him, “I prepared this for you.”
He craned his neck but couldn’t discern the contents from this distance. “What is it?”
“An, um…agreement. Between you and I.” A slight cough accompanied the flurry of movements she produced as she picked up his notebook along with Lewis’s sketches, and stood.
Choosing to round the far side of the desk that would not require her having to brush past Peter, she cut a path straight for the door.
Curious, Peter moved toward the spot she’d vacated, and glanced down at the top-most page that seemed to form a small pile of additional pages. A Formal Agreement of Consideration and Conduct. Both their names were printed below.
He shot a glance toward the door and found her there, carefully watching him. Befuddled, he returned his attention to the papers. There were three, the final one containing a spot for both of them to sign.
Peter’s pulse leapt. His mind began racing. It couldn’t be, yet it very much looked like… “Is this what I think it is?”
“Probably not,” she said, confusing him even more. As though she realized he needed clarification she said, “It’s not a marriage contract.”
“Then what…” He shook his head.
“It’s precisely what it says it is. An agreement between the two of us.” Her face brightened once more but she held her chin high. “Sign it, and I’ll marry you, Peter.”
She departed then, leaving him standing by his desk.
Paralyzed by the impact of her words, he stared at the empty spot she’d left behind.
If he weren’t mistaken, the world he knew had just been turned on its head.