Chapter 3 #2
The compliment had been double-edged. Nell had once been destined to use her beauty as a weapon in the Academy’s service.
But after the girlhood accident that had injured her leg and damaged her smile, she had instead poured all of her energies into being a faithful friend, a devoted teacher, and an enthusiastic mentor.
Admirable qualities, to be sure, but they weren’t the roles Miss Corvus had originally envisioned for her.
Indeed, it seemed to Nell that she’d begun this mission with her credit already in the red. Success would have balanced the books for her. While failure would only prove to Miss Corvus, once and for all, that Nell had no value outside the walls of the school.
Nell refused to accept that.
She turned back to Miles. “How long do you expect it will take you to find Reverend Pettiman?”
“With luck? Not long. When I return to my offices, I’ll send a man to inquire at a few of the nearby hotels. If Pettiman’s taken rooms in one of them, it shouldn’t be difficult to track him down.”
“You might have done so immediately if you hadn’t insisted on accompanying me,” she remarked, a touch ungratefully.
“I didn’t realize you wanted him found until we were already approaching the street,” Miles said.
Neither had Nell. In the aftermath of being compromised, her first concern had been to get to the hotel. She’d sent her bags ahead from the station. She couldn’t depart London without retrieving them.
“Given the fall you took,” Miles continued pragmatically, “and the fact that you were overset, it seemed more important that I escort you to your lodgings.”
Overset!
Nell bristled at the description. She didn’t get overset.
Then again, it wasn’t every day that one’s reputation was effectively ruined.
“You needn’t have,” she grumbled.
“On that,” he said, “we’ll have to disagree.”
Nell subsided into silence. There was no point in quarreling with him. She didn’t require his agreement any more than she required his chaperonage. She had greater concerns weighing on her mind.
As the carriage turned down Commercial Street, her thoughts began to coalesce into something like rational order.
She reminded herself that when Effie had encountered an obstacle to her first mission it was Nell she had turned to for advice.
It didn’t matter one whit that Nell had never been outside the school.
She was still intelligent, resourceful, generally unflappable.
Why else would Miss Corvus have appointed her as deputy headmistress?
There was no reason Nell couldn’t handle this situation as capably as she handled every other crisis that had come her way. All she had to do was approach things sensibly, and she may yet avoid returning to the Academy empty-handed.
The carriage came to a halt outside a crooked black building squeezed between a greengrocer’s establishment and a forlorn-looking chandler’s shop. A paint-chipped placard proclaimed its name: Mrs. Marigold’s Hotel for Women.
Miles gave the place a doubtful look. “Are you certain I can’t convince you to remove to a more reputable establishment? It would be safer.”
“I’ll be safe enough, thank you,” she said. “I’m only remaining long enough to collect my luggage.”
“You mean to return to the charity school?” he asked.
“I believe I must,” she replied. “I shall catch the next train from Shoreditch.”
Miles didn’t argue with her, though it looked as though he very much wanted to. He opened the door and climbed out. “I’ll walk you in,” he said as he handed her down from the carriage.
Nell stepped onto the pavement. She gave her skirts a shake. “You may escort me to the lobby. I expect it’s the only place gentlemen are allowed.”
“Fair enough.” He offered her his arm and she reluctantly took it, allowing him to walk her inside.
She was painfully conscious of her limp. It was far more noticeable than it had been when she’d arrived at the Courant this morning. The fact didn’t escape Miles’s attention. He cast her more than one troubled glance as he escorted her through the front doors of the hotel.
As it transpired, there was no lobby, only a small—and presently empty—foyer. It stood adjacent to a cramped visitors lounge, furnished with worn couches and chairs, and two strategically placed potted palms.
Miles drew Nell to the lounge’s entrance. The air was stale, with a lingering aroma of dampness and rot. “There will be several trains leaving from Shoreditch this afternoon,” he said. “You would do better to take a later one.”
She stilled. “Oh, would I?”
“You already have a room reserved. Allow me to summon a doctor for you. There’s time enough, if you’ll take it.”
Nell recoiled at the suggestion. She’d had her fill of medical men as a girl. Officious imbeciles all, with their leeches and lancets, and their endless poking and prodding. They inevitably made things worse. “I don’t require a doctor,” she said. “Whatever you might think.”
“I think you worsened your injury when you fell,” he said. “It would set my mind at ease if you would have it looked at.”
It.
Her leg, he meant. For surely it was obvious to him that it was the source of her discomfort.
She ignored her embarrassment. “My injury is none of your affair,” she informed him. “In any event, it will right itself with a little rest.”
“Rest awhile, then,” he said. “Give me a chance to find Pettiman. I’ll return this afternoon with any news. Our heads will be clearer. It will give us an opportunity to talk.”
Nell drew back from him, understanding what the subject of this talk was likely to be. She shook her head. “There’s really no need.”
Miles closed the small distance between them. “There’s every need,” he said with sudden intensity. “You and I still have an issue to settle between us.”
Her heart gave an uncharacteristic quiver. It wasn’t only apprehension. It was—
She didn’t know what.
She dismissed the feeling. This wasn’t the time to interrogate girlish palpitations. Miles wasn’t being romantic. Whatever method he suggested to settle the issue of having compromised her—and there could only be one method, she knew—it would be compelled by duty, not attraction.
“Mr. Quincey—” she said. “Miles—” Again she stopped herself, seeing a flicker of some unidentifiable emotion at the back of his gaze.
She continued with an effort. “I’m not insensible to the issue you’re referencing, nor to its obvious solution.
But believe me when I say that, where I’m concerned, such a remedy would be impossible. ”
He studied her face, brows notched in a frown. “You’re not a widow after all?”
She bent her head. “No, indeed, but—”
“And you’re not wed already? Or engaged to be wed?”
“No, but—”
“Then I don’t see how there’s any impossibility to what I must propose.”
Propose.
The word was enough to make Nell’s insides tremble.
She had no experience with men, let alone proposals.
Not unless she counted the ones in the novels she sometimes read in the evenings in the privacy of her small bedroom in the staff wing of the charity school.
Even that much was an indulgence, and one she could scarcely afford given the weight of her responsibilities.
She forced herself to meet his eyes. “My life is at the Academy,” she said. “I wouldn’t alter it, not for any inducement. I’m happy as I am.”
“So am I,” he replied with harsh candor.
“But my happiness doesn’t matter any longer.
This involves more than our own inclinations.
We have our reputations to think of—and the reputation of the Courant.
It’s already been negatively affected by my articles exposing Lord Compton’s crimes.
A scandal like this one could damage it even further. ”
Had he said anything even remotely sentimental, Nell might have found it harder to withstand him. But this…this was bitter truth, however painful to swallow. He didn’t want to join his future with hers. He didn’t want her full stop.
And she didn’t want him.
“Quite so,” she said with forced briskness. “Which is exactly why you must run Reverend Pettiman to ground and convince him he didn’t see what he believes he did. As for all the rest—”
“Nell—” Miles interrupted gruffly.
Her heart spasmed on an ache of regret. She couldn’t recall when a gentleman had ever before used her given name. It was an extraordinary intimacy, and one she doubted she would experience again.
“I release you from any further obligation,” she cut in before he could finish whatever it was he had been about to say. “Now please, sir, go and find Pettiman. And do see to the wound your cat inflicted before it festers.”
Miles dropped a glance at his gloved hand. “It’s nothing. She didn’t even draw blood.”
“No?” Nell directed a pointed look at the crimson streaks on the front of his waistcoat. “Then where did that come from?”
· · · · ·
Miles followed her gaze. A jolt of alarm shot through him.
What in blazes?
He immediately reached inside his coat and withdrew the small, brown-papered box. Blood was slowly leaking through its wrappings.
Miles met Nell’s eyes. As if in silent agreement, they swiftly repaired behind the nearest potted palm. There, they sank down in unison on one of the lounge’s badly sprung sofas, so close to each other that Nell’s wide skirts bunched against his leg.
“Did someone send you a gift from the butcher?” she inquired quietly.
“I suspect not,” Miles said.
The Courant wasn’t above inspiring the basest of responses to some of its articles.
During his time as editor in chief, he’d seen his share of dog excrement and rotting fish.
Had he not been so preoccupied by this business with Nell, he’d have refrained from taking the package from Higgins in the first place.
But, small as it was, it hadn’t occurred to Miles that it could be anything harmful.
He withdrew his handkerchief from his pocket.
Shaking it open, he spread it over his knee.
Setting the box upon it, he methodically untied the twine bindings and stripped away the bloodstained paper.
He paused before opening the box itself to look at Nell.
“It might be anything,” he warned her. “If you’d prefer—”
“I’m a teacher,” she replied. Her countenance was surprisingly businesslike. “I’ve seen all sorts of vile anonymous gifts. Nothing could possibly shock me.”
Miles gave a stiff nod. He opened the box. The item within was wrapped in a handkerchief of its own. The blood-soaked square of linen bore an elegant monogram that the anonymous sender had prominently displayed.
L. C.
“Lawrence Cowgill,” Miles murmured.
“Who is Lawrence Cowgill?” Nell asked.
“My missing gossip columnist.” Miles unwrapped the bloody handkerchief.
Nell sucked in a horrified breath. “Good lord. Is that—?”
“His tongue,” Miles said with a sinking sense of realization. It appeared to have been cut out, possibly with a razor. And not too long ago, judging by the still-seeping blood.
He swiftly closed the box, hiding the contents from her view. He stood. “Forgive me, I must return to my office at once.”
Nell rose. Her face was pale, but resolute. “Naturally, you must. But shouldn’t you first notify the police?”
“Quite,” Miles said. “I’ll be back as soon as I’m able.” He bowed to her, and turning on his heel, strode out of the hotel.