Chapter 27
The following days unfolded in a heady mix of quiet moments interspersed with a furious haste.
Nell was consumed with preparations for their departure to Hertfordshire.
When she wasn’t treating her shoulder injury, applying ice and poultices and praying that her bruises would fade as quickly as possible, she was studying the plans for Northwick House, perfecting her lock-picking skills, and practicing using the new sword-cane that Effie had delivered to her on Tuesday.
Miles was equally busy. He continued going into the Courant each morning, though his days were nowhere near as long.
He returned home in the afternoons, often bringing Nell articles he’d discovered in the paper’s archives on the history of the Fawn-Purvis family, or reports of various people named Innes residing in and around London.
They spent their evenings discussing their findings over long, candlelit dinners in the dining room.
There, seated intimately together at one end of the table, they strategized about how they would proceed with their investigations when they arrived at the shooting party, and what they would say about themselves if anyone presumed to question them.
“I’ve already told Lady Belwood she’s not to share your connection to the paper,” Nell said. “Which means, if someone should ask, we’ll have to come up with another occupation for you.”
“There’s no need to invent an entirely new identity,” Miles replied logically. “I’ll simply say I’m a gentleman of leisure. It’s an easy enough fiction to maintain.”
Nell nodded her approval, lamenting that she hadn’t thought of such an easy solution herself. “You’re right, of course. The best fabrications are often the least elaborate.”
Miles gave her a measuring look as he drank his wine. “You have some experience with fabricating stories?”
“I was a schoolteacher,” she said. “We hear half-truths all day long. You may believe I’ve become an expert in them.”
· · · · ·
As the days passed in rapid succession, they were both of them so focused on the shooting party, and on Mr. Cowgill, Mrs. Pritchard, Lord Amstead, and the mysterious Innes, that there was little time remaining to address any other concerns.
There was, however, always time for kisses.
Miles kissed her before leaving for Fleet Street each morning, and he kissed her again on returning—sometimes in full view of the servants.
And he kissed her at night.
Or rather, she kissed him.
Slow, languorous kisses in the dining room, the drawing room, and in front of the fire in Nell’s bedchamber.
Miles let her set the pace of them. He never pressed or demanded, or crushed her to him in that fierce way he had that night in the library.
But Nell was in no doubt of how much he wanted her—or of how much control he exerted not to take their embraces further.
Indeed, as she clung to him in the evenings, feeling his muscles taut under her questing hands, she had the sense that she was kissing a dangerous beast that could, at any moment, seize her in its grip and—
Well.
It was excessively exciting. A little frightening, too. Despite the warm feelings he kindled within her, she wasn’t ready for further intimacies. Her body was still too much her own. To share it—truly share it—would mean making herself vulnerable in a way she’d never been vulnerable before.
And she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Not when there was a chance it might ruin everything.
None of the servants seemed to notice that their master and mistress’s marriage was still unconsummated.
They treated Nell as if she was in every way Miles’s wife.
She was consulted on household matters—the lighting of fires, the order of candles, and the schedule for changing the linens, to name but a few.
On Thursday morning, Mrs. Bright even went so far as presenting Nell with menus for the following week and broaching the subject of dinner parties.
“Does Mr. Quincey often entertain?” Nell asked in bewilderment as she perused the proposed courses for next week’s meals. She was seated on the drawing room sofa, absent her sling for the first time since her shoulder injury.
Mrs. Bright stood across from her. “Not as yet, ma’am, but the wives of the married editors do often give dinners. With Mr. Quincey being the most senior gentleman at the paper, I did presume he would do the same now he’s wed.”
Nell doubted Miles would want to. He wasn’t the most socially inclined of gentlemen. Then again, he did value his reputation. And if a formal dinner would help to burnish it, Nell would be a poor wife indeed not to host one for him.
How difficult could it be? She’d practically run the Academy.
Planning a dinner party could surely be nothing in comparison.
If she was strategic, she might even turn the chore to the Academy’s advantage.
She could invite the school’s largest benefactors, Lady Summers, Mrs. Crookshanks, and Mrs. Weaving.
Reverend Pettiman, too, since having him for tea was no longer an option.
Nell had received the man’s response to her invitation only yesterday.
A patronizing refusal, referencing fallen women, Christian forbearance, and some self-important nonsense about “treating with sinners.” Tea, it seemed, was too private an affair to suit his elevated opinion of himself.
He wanted his good opinion to be courted in front of witnesses.
“Of course,” she said decisively. “We must plan something for when we return from Hertfordshire.”
Mrs. Bright beamed her approval. “Very good, Mrs. Quincey.”
· · · · ·
The next day, Nell’s dress order was delivered from Mr. Malik’s shop.
The elegant merino and muslin delaine blouses, colorful poplin skirts, and silk and velvet gowns were carefully folded within more than a dozen tissue paper–lined dress boxes.
She was upstairs unpacking them, with Gladys’s assistance, when Albert, the footman, materialized at the door of her bedchamber.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Quincey,” he said, “but there’s an Inspector Garrick to see you.”
Nell straightened to attention. Inspector Garrick had come? He must have news about the investigation. “You may put him in the library, Albert,” she said. “I’ll be down directly.”
Straightening her woolen day dress and smoothing her hair back into its chignon, Nell made her way downstairs. She was entering the hall when Miles walked through the front door.
She came to a surprised halt. Her mouth curved into a smile. “You’re home early.”
Miles’s dark eyes gleamed to find her standing there. Removing his hat, he shut the door behind him and, without faltering, crossed the marble-tiled floor to take her in his arms. “I thought I’d better. We’ve an early train to catch tomorrow.”
Nell set her hand on his chest as he bent his head to kiss her. His lips were warm and firm, making her pulse flutter madly.
And she wondered if she’d ever get used to it. The strength of his embrace. The way he held her, kissed her, made her feel wanted and protected, even as her knees quivered and her blood heated to a dangerous simmer.
Her fingers curled in the fabric of his black waistcoat. “Miles,” she murmured against his mouth.
“Yes, love?”
“Inspector Garrick is in the library.”
Miles went still. He drew back a fraction to meet her gaze. There was a question in his own.
“I was just going to see him,” she said. “If you’d like to accompany me? I’m sure he’d prefer to speak to us both.”
Miles composed himself before her eyes—reverting all at once from an affectionate husband into a single-minded reporter determined to get his story. He was still in his black wool overcoat and gloves. He made no move to divest himself of them. Wordlessly, he offered her his arm.
She took it gratefully.
“Where is your sling?” he asked as he led her to the library.
“I’m practicing going without it,” she answered. “In preparation for the shooting party.”
“And is it—?”
“It’s bearable,” she said. “So long as I don’t move my right arm overmuch.”
Her shoulder joint was still too swollen for her to raise her arm above her head or to lift anything even remotely heavy without pain.
As for her new sword-cane, though she was getting better at flourishing it with her left hand, Nell couldn’t manage it at all with her right.
It made the cane all but useless as a practical accessory.
She sincerely hoped she wouldn’t need to lean on it during their time in Hertfordshire.
Entering the library, Nell and Miles found Inspector Garrick at the hearth, warming his hands in front of the fire. He came to attention when he saw them. “Mr. Quincey. Mrs. Quincey.” He bowed. “Good afternoon.”
“Inspector.” Miles escorted Nell to a leather chair by the fireplace. He waited for her to sit before turning to address the policeman. “You have news?”
“I do, sir,” Garrick replied. “Not all of it favorable.”
Miles remained standing by Nell’s chair. “Go on.”
“We arrested Silas Davidson yesterday morning,” Garrick said.
Nell hadn’t been aware of Silas’s surname.
“On what grounds?” Miles asked.
“Not murder,” the inspector said. “I’ve yet to prove that particular charge.
Mr. Davidson was arrested for the abduction and unlawful imprisonment of Flora Brent.
He attempted to flee, but was in no fit state to do so.
You may or may not be aware that he was recently beaten by an unknown assailant. ”
“Was he?” Nell affected an expression of concern. “How dreadful.” She paused, unable to resist adding, “Though I’m sure it was no less than he deserved.”
Miles was inscrutable. “Unknown, you said?”
“These things happen in that part of the city,” Garrick replied. “It won’t impact our bringing him to justice. The assault doesn’t appear to have anything to do with his abduction of Miss Brent or his alleged involvement in the murder of Mr. Cowgill.”
“I’m confident you’re right,” Miles said.