Chapter 16 #2
“Describe my Sarah?” Mrs Carson’s laugh barely made it past her throat. “She has the hair of an angel, sir. The colour of spun gold. So pretty it takes your breath.”
His fingers flexed around the pencil. Emma’s hair was gold too, though he doubted Sarah’s carried the scent of cardamom and rare roses.
“Did your daughter give you reason to think she was frightened before she left?” Hugh added a line beneath Sarah’s description.
What had Sarah seen? Something at the mine?
“Frightened? No.” Anne answered too quickly. “She was happier than I’d seen her in months. That’s what’s strange.”
“And Miss Bellingham never came here asking for Sarah?” Emma said, pre-empting his next question.
John looked at his wife. “We’ve not seen her since Sarah left.”
Hugh closed his notebook. “If you’re willing, Mr Carson, I’d still like to speak with you about the mine.”
By the time they left the cottage, John had agreed to give evidence on mine safety, and Hugh had promised to send word should they learn of Sarah’s whereabouts.
Hugh had three pages of notes and not a single useful conclusion. Some Devil of Fleet Street. The visit had brought more questions than answers. He was stumbling through a play without knowing his lines while a murderer watched from the stalls.
“The Earl of Berridge will be pleased when you tell him about Mr Carson,” Emma said, pausing before deciding to jump over a large puddle.
She didn’t quite make the leap and landed in the deepest part, splashing them both with muddy water.
Her shriek knocked some of the weight from his chest. “Good God, woman. We should have hired a sedan.”
She laughed, her eyes far too bright for such a miserable morning. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“It’s fun you want?” He’d have paid a king’s ransom to have her back in that marquee, beneath him on a bed of furs. But she had chosen mud and nonsense, and after the Carsons’ grim news, he could hardly begrudge her either.
She kicked at the puddle, splashing him again. “Just a brief escape from all the madness.”
“I’ll make no allowances,” he warned her.
That only seemed to excite her more. “Do your best, Mr Stanton. I promise to be a worthy adversary.”
“I don’t doubt it.” He advanced one careful step. “You should know I never fight fair.”
Her gaze narrowed as she looked from him to the puddle. “Neither do I. I’m still waiting to meet this devil half of London complains about.”
He caught her hand as if he meant to kiss it, then flicked a neat spray of water over the hem of her gown with the toe of his boot.
She scooped water into her palm, knocked off his hat and tipped it over his head. “Oh, dear. It might be raining.”
Water ran down his brow. He stared at her long enough for her smile to falter. “I do nothing by halves, Miss Vane. If you want to be wet, I shall oblige you.”
“Hugh,” she warned when he caught her by the waist and pulled her hard against him.
“Too late.”
He claimed her mouth before she could argue or flee, kissing her with all the hunger the damned lane, the Carsons’ grief, and the weight of unanswered questions had failed to temper.
She gave a muffled sound against his lips, half protest, half surrender, then slid her arms around his neck as if she had forgotten the mud, the waiting carriage, and every rule sensible women were supposed to follow.
He tightened his hold, turned with her in his arms and pulled her down into the puddle.
Muddy water splashed over his coat and soaked through the folds of her gown. Emma landed half across his chest, laughing and cursing him in the same breath, her hands braced against his shoulders.
“There,” he said, water dripping from his lashes. “Now you have met the devil half of London complains about.”
She pushed a damp lock from his brow. “I expected horns.”
“You should lower your expectations.”
“Why?”
“It saves disappointment.”
“But I’m not disappointed.”
Damn her. She said it lightly, yet the words found the chink in his armour. She would be. She thought him a man of good breeding, not a servant’s bastard with a borrowed name.
He should have released her. A man with any sense would remember they were hunting a murderer.
He kissed her again.
Not to tease this time. Not to win some muddy skirmish on a Surrey lane. She was warm and laughing in his arms, her mouth soft beneath his, and he had to force himself to let her go.
When he lifted his head, his hand remained at her waist.
Her gaze searched his. “You probably think I’m mad.”
“At this rate, we can share a Bedlam cell.”
She laughed as she wiped water from his cheek. “I don’t care. I love being reckless with you.”
The strange ache began in his throat and worked its way down, deepening in his chest. He liked these bouts of madness. Liked everything about being with her.
“There’s a limit to how long a man can sit in a puddle.”
“We wouldn’t want you shrivelled.”
“Passionate men don’t shrivel.”
“And you’re definitely a passionate man, Mr Stanton.”
There it was: the reminder of what they’d done last night, and the conversation they were both avoiding. He had half a mind to demonstrate properly, but he needed her out of his lap. If they continued in a puddle on a country lane, they would end the day in a prison cart.
“Up,” he said, because the only other thing he could say might be considered indecent. He caught her under the arms and eased her to her feet. “Before I do something that gets us both arrested.”
She gestured to the mud on his coat. “If we’re measuring this by who is wettest, I’m the clear victor.”
“Are you sure that’s the safest measure? I could overturn the result in a heartbeat.”
“There you go again, proving your point. A cold husband would merely say, No, you’re not.”