Chapter 1 #3
“On the contrary. It sounds an admirable goal. I heartily endorse it.” Her face reverted to solemn lines. “Truly, sir, in all seriousness, if that is what you believe, your imagination has run away with you.”
Miles repressed a flare of aggravation. He had long learned not to judge people too quickly, and Miss Trewlove provided ample evidence as to why.
She sat across from him, ladylike and subdued in her faux widow’s weeds, and yet she was sparring with him as effectively as one of the bruisers he often faced in the ring at the boxing saloon.
“I have no imagination,” he said. “I concern myself with facts and only facts. It’s what makes me so good at my job.”
“Facts, then,” she said. “It’s just as I told you in my letters—”
“Your very brief letters.” None of them had been more than a few sentences in length.
She ignored the criticism. “Our charity school is wholly reputable, and the character of both our students and our teachers is beyond reproach. Any member of the local parish council can verify that fact, and that body is uniformly male and hardly what one would label progressive.”
That much Miles did know. He had an appointment with one of its members later this morning. A Reverend Pettiman. Miles had arranged the meeting the prior month in a last-ditch effort to get information about the Academy after Miss Trewlove had repeatedly rebuffed his requests for an interview.
“As to the role of our girls once they enter society,” she went on, “I can give you the current locations of as many as ten of them who have, after leaving our care, found genteel employment. They are governesses. Schoolteachers. And one is private secretary to a gentlewoman of some stature. None of them can be classed as avenging furies.”
“What about the rest of your graduates?”
“You already know Mrs. Royce.” Miss Trewlove’s impossibly provocative mouth tipped slowly at one corner. The expression was uncannily feline. “And now you know me.”
Miles held her gaze, ignoring the pulse of heat that threatened to dull his senses.
He could see what was happening here. Miss Corvus and Mrs. Royce had clearly believed that Miss Trewlove’s astonishing beauty would be sufficient to distract him from his questions.
And it was distracting. But he’d faced worse obstacles in getting a story, and overcome them, too.
“Not yet, ma’am,” he said. “But I intend to.” Again, he picked up his pen.
Miss Trewlove may not be the proprietor of the charity school, but she had been one of its orphans and was now one of its teachers. If there were secrets to be had, she must be in possession of a few of them. All that remained was to wrest them from her.
“At what age did you come to the orphanage?” he asked briskly. “And under what circumstances?”
“I doubt my humble history can be of interest to your investigations.”
“Quite the opposite. You interest me exceedingly. If Miss Corvus has deployed you to the front lines—”
“A troubling metaphor.”
“But an apt one, I discern. You’re the heavy artillery.”
She didn’t smile this time, but a dimple formed to the right of her mouth. “Me?”
“You,” he said.
As they spoke, Shadow emerged from her hiding place, step by cautious step. Encouraged by Miss Trewlove’s stillness, she slowly crossed the carpet to inspect the edge of her skirts.
“If it’s a case study you’re after,” Miss Trewlove said, “I must surely be the least interesting subject of all our graduates. Unlike the other girls, I chose to remain.”
“You had no desire to strike out on your own as a governess or secretary?”
“None at all.”
“Teaching is your prevailing passion?”
“It is, though I wouldn’t describe it in such lofty terms. I—” She broke off, her attention caught by the sight of the little tabby bestowing a delicate sniff to her hem.
Her face lit with genuine pleasure. “Why, hello, little one,” she said.
“I was beginning to doubt your existence.” She glanced at Miles. “Does she have a name?”
Miles required a full three seconds to recollect it.
The look Miss Trewlove had given the cat had knocked him off his axis.
It was so frank. So authentic. The whole of her countenance was transformed by it.
A strange sort of alchemy, but in that moment, she changed from an untouchable goddess into an infinitely more desirable human girl.
He swallowed hard. “I’ve, uh, been calling her Shadow.”
“How appropriate.” Miss Trewlove stretched her gloved hand down as if to administer a pet.
Shadow’s eyes widened to the size of twin saucers. The sofa being too far away, she darted for cover under the only shelter available—the billowing expanse of Miss Trewlove’s skirts.
A rosy blush seeped into Miss Trewlove’s cheeks as the cat disappeared beneath her hem. “Goodness,” she said. “This is rather alarming.”
“She means no offense,” Miles said. “She’s attempting to hide, that’s all. She’s still quite wild. You’ll have to shake your—”
Before he could finish advising her, Miss Trewlove reached under her skirts to remove the cat herself. She jerked back her fingers with a cry of pain.
Miles was up from behind his desk in a flash. He strode around it. “If you would permit me—”
“Heavens!” Miss Trewlove leapt from her chair before he could reach her. She staggered backward. Shadow’s small form was visible beneath the swell of her skirts, thrashing wildly. “I think she’s caught!”
He closed the distance between them. “Caught in what?”
Miss Trewlove’s face flamed. “In my crinoline.” She took another stumbling step back, losing her balance.
Miles extended a hand to steady her, but he was a split second too late. Miss Trewlove’s left leg inexplicably gave way. He caught her an instant before she dropped to the floor, breaking her fall with his body as the two of them landed with a thud on the office carpet.
She struggled up on her elbows. Her veiled hat had been knocked askew and a stray lock of blond hair had come loose from its pins to curl around her face. “She’s still tangled up in it!” she gasped. “And her claws are quite sharp!”
Miles grasped a handful of Miss Trewlove’s skirts, hesitating only long enough to ask permission to inflict what would, in other circumstances, be a reputation-ruining indignity. “May I—”
“Yes, yes,” she said breathlessly. “Anything. Only remove her!”
Miles hoisted up the layers of black silk and starched petticoats, revealing the enormous cage crinoline Miss Trewlove wore underneath (and a pair of shapely, stocking-clad legs he pretended not to notice).
Shadow had woven herself through the wire and fabric tapes of the undergarment’s frame.
The little cat looked at him, panicked, her chest vibrating on a low, continuous growl.
“Easy,” Miles said to her. “I won’t hurt you.” He covered the cat’s body with his hand. She responded by sinking her teeth into his finger. He sucked in a breath. “Bloody hell.”
“Did she—”
“She’s fine.”
“I didn’t mean the cat,” Miss Trewlove said in a strained voice. “I meant you.”
“I’ll live.” He slowly untangled Shadow’s legs from the wires, ignoring her continued hissing and spitting. Extracting her from the crinoline, he set her down on the carpet. The little cat tore free of his grasp the instant she was able. Streaking across the office, she plunged under the sofa.
Miles exhaled. “There,” he said, sitting back on his haunches. “No damage done.”
No sooner had he uttered the fateful words than the door was thrust open and Higgins burst in carrying a small box in his hand.
“Mr. Quincey? This was just delivered at the front desk. Bob said as how you’d want to be notified directly…” The newspaper clerk’s words trailed away as he beheld the scene before him—Miss Trewlove on the floor with her skirts above her knees and Miles looming over her like some vile seducer.
Higgins wasn’t alone. An older, distinguished-looking gentleman stood a short distance behind him in the hall. The esteemed member of the parish council, presumably, come early for his appointment.
Seeing him, the color drained from Miss Trewlove’s face. She scrambled to a sitting position, hastily pulling her skirts into some semblance of order. “Reverend Pettiman!”
Pettiman’s florid countenance went crimson with outrage.
Miles didn’t flinch. Neither did he hesitate.
“I’ll be with you in a moment, Higgins,” he said in the same curt, businesslike tones he employed when dealing with any other workplace catastrophe.
“See to my next appointment before he has an apoplexy, would you? And if you wouldn’t mind closing the door? ”
“Yes, sir. Apologies, sir. Completely my fault.” Higgins backed out of the office, shutting the door after him with a power that rattled the doorframe.
To Miles, the sound was as significant as the crash of the gallows’ trapdoor. His fate was plain. He accepted it with a grim sense of resignation.
Miss Trewlove’s eyes found his. “Mr. Quincey—”
“Given our current predicament,” he said, “I believe you had better accustom yourself to calling me Miles.”