by Alyson Chase
He grunted. “Regardless, I’m dropping you at the apartment. This next stop isn’t a place for women in any case.”
“Really?” She scooted forward. “But those are the best kinds of places. Where are we going?”
“I am going to Newgate Prison to speak with Pickens. See if I can’t get the information we want straight from the horse’s mouth.”
She shook her head. “When I went there the guards said only attorneys and magistrates could enter. And family, but I couldn’t bring myself to say I was related to him.”
Brogan blinked. And he blinked again. “You went to Newgate?”
“Of course.” She frowned. “That was one of my first stops. I told you I was investigating. Did you not believe me?”
He didn’t know what to believe when it came to Lady Juliana Wickham, except that she was the most foolhardy, falsely confident woman he’d ever had the misfortune of meeting. And he decided to tell her just that. “Newgate is not a place women should visit, especially not gently bred women. The idea was asinine, foolish, and reckless. And to go there unattended, completely—"
“Being born with a bosom and without some dangly bits down yonder,” she swept her hand over her lap, “has no bearing on my ability to walk into a building. My feet and my mind work as well as any man’s. Well, I wasn’t born with a bosom, but you take my meaning, I’m sure.”
Brogan sagged into the carriage seat. No words came to mind, not after a statement such as that. He stared at the creature across from him as though she were a newly discovered species. Her hair was done up in the way of most woman, with some scattered curls grazing her shoulders in a charming manner. She had the requisite number of eyes and nose as other females, the rounded figure common to her sex. And her lips were averagely formed, with perhaps her bottom lip being more full than typical.
But the words that came out of said mouth didn’t belong to those of a lady. If one of those talking birds he’d heard sailors to the East Indies describe had said the same thing to him, he couldn’t have been more surprised.
“I’ve shocked you senseless.” She sighed. “How disappointing. My father, bless his heart, found no reason to raise his daughter differently than his son. I was treated to the same education, encouraged to speak my mind just as often. And if you think my speech shocking, I shall never take you to one of my salons. What you hear there could make you faint dead away.”
He watched her, making sure this new form of woman didn’t make any sudden moves, and slowly reached up to pound on the ceiling. “New direction,” he shouted to the driver. “Newgate.”
Juliana squealed and clapped her hands together. “There is hope for our investigation yet.”
He didn’t know about that. Brogan couldn’t remember ever feeling an emotion akin to hope. He’d grown up used to the feeling of an empty stomach before bed, of walking around with holes in his shoes. He worked hard, helped feed his family, and kept his head down. With his new employment, he thought perhaps he would be able to save a bit of money. But hope never entered the equation.
He did know Lord Withington deserved a good thrashing for the way he’d raised his daughter. “Nothing of the sort,” he told her. He ran his hand up the back of his head. “But with the mouth you have on you, you just might stun Pickens into a full confession.”
***
Juliana tipped up her chin as she marched past the guard at the front gate of Newgate. Of course, he would accept a bribe to let unauthorized people into the prison. Why hadn’t she thought of that before?
Also, why hadn’t she thought to wear her worst pair of boots? The soles of her lovely kid leather ones stuck to the floor with each step, some substance she didn’t want to identify making the floor tacky. The idea of a visit to a prison had been thrilling; the reality not so much.
She tugged on the hem of her glove. But she was here to save her father. A sticky floor was nothing to that.
“Follow me.” The stocky, and unethical, guard grabbed a ring of keys from the wall and led them into a dank hallway. He nodded at another guard, who didn’t even raise an eyebrow at their being inside the prison.
Brogan was a warm presence at her back, perhaps walking a bit too close for propriety’s sake, but his nearness was comforting. And she was never one to care for propriety.
“You have twenty minutes, no more.” The guard unlocked one thick wooden door, leading them down another corridor. “And if I were you, I’d stay back from the door. Some of the prisoners like to throw things, if you get my meaning.”
Juliana didn’t, but she nodded as Brogan gave his customary grunt of assent. The guard turned down another hall then stopped in front of a door with metal bars forming a window about a foot square. “Pickens,” he called. “You have visitors. Twenty minutes,” he reminded them before returning back the way they’d come.
“Sister?” Fabric rustled and a shadow crossed the barred window. “You’ve come back?”
Brogan stepped to the door. “No. It’s Brogan Duffy and Lady Juliana.”
“Lady Juliana?” The pale face of her father’s former secretary pressed to the bars, his jaw and cheeks buried under a mat of a dark beard. “What on earth are you doing here?”
A small shiver worked its way down her spine. The last time she’d seen this man he’d been trying to throttle her to death. It wasn’t a happy memory. She pushed out a deep breath. But she was an intrepid investigator now. There was no time for such missish feelings. “I’ve come to discover the truth. The real reason you tried to kill my father, Mr. Pickens.”
He scowled. “I never admitted to trying to harm Lord Withington. Don’t try to get me charged with that, too.”
Brogan shifted closer. The smell of soap and man almost beat back the stomach-rolling odor of the prison. “We don’t need to. Theft and attempted murder of Lady Juliana is quite enough to see you in prison for life. It’s a shame you won’t live to enjoy the rewards you earned.”
“My attorney thinks I have a shot at getting out in ten years or so.” He gripped the metal bars. “I won’t die in here.”
Brogan inclined his head. “And what will you come out to? Your sister is doing a fine job of spending the blunt you were given to make an attempt on the earl’s life. Ten years in prison and you’ll have nothing to show for it.”
Pickens’s knuckles went white. “My sister is a good woman.”
Juliana snorted. “She’s good at picking jewelry. Her new emerald pendant was lovely.”
“She doesn’t wear jewels.” Pickens’s voice had lost some of its assurance. “She wouldn’t.”
“Every woman would when given the chance.” Brogan crossed his arms. “And that’s a fact.”
Oh, really? Juliana glared at the man. That is what he thought of her sex? She ground her teeth. But his prejudice was of no matter. She was here to learn the truth, not become bosom friends with Mr. Brogan Duffy.
“She wouldn’t do that,” Pickens said weakly. He dropped his forehead to the bars and closed his eyes.
“I think you know the truth.” Brogan rested his hand on the wall above the door, thought better of it, and wiped his palm on his trousers. “Confess now and we’ll speak with the judge. Give you a good character.”
Pickens shook his head. “I have nothing to say.”
Brogan took her elbow. “We’ll be back, and perhaps then you’ll be ready to talk. Your victim pleading for leniency to the magistrate can make all the difference in your sentencing. Think about it.”
He drew her away from the cell, back down the corridor, and for once she didn’t protest. Even she could see that they wouldn’t get anything from the man today. He’d looked too beaten. He’d need some time to understand that his grand plans were for naught. That he wasn’t coming out of here a rich man.
Her belly fluttered. But he was going to tell them who’d hired him. She could sense he was giving in. Soon, she’d have her answers.
They came to t
he barred door, and Brogan pounded on it three times.
“I don’t know how good I’ll be at convincing a magistrate to give him a lighter sentence.” She rubbed her arms, the chill of the prison setting in her bones. “He tried to kill my father. I have very little forgiveness for that.”
“He tried to kill you, too.” Brogan glanced down at her, his eyes curious. “That is the charge he’s in here for. Have you forgiven that?”
She stepped back as the door swung open. “It’s easier to forgive injuries to yourself.”
Brogan’s brows drew together. “But—”
“Good.” The guard waved them through the door and locked it. “I was about to come back for you two. Have a nice chat?” He chuckled.
“Thrilling,” she said dryly. “I’ll recommend the tour to all my friends.”
The guard laughed some more, the keys in his hand jingling. “You lot are a bit of all right.” He opened the outer door, and Juliana had to will herself not to race forward into the sunlight. Just that short bit of time inside a prison had been almost more than she could bear.
Brogan nodded to the guard as they made their way outside. He inhaled deeply once they hit the street.
Juliana’s lips quirked. She hadn’t been the only one uncomfortable in that place. “Where to now?”
He slanted a glance down at her. “Home.” He guided her to their carriage and helped her inside. “You to the apartments. We’re done for the day.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders slumped. Done, and they hadn’t learned much at all. She arranged her skirts and settled onto the seat. “Does all detective work go at such a snail’s pace?”
He didn’t answer.
Juliana tilted her head. “Mr. Duffy?”
“I wouldn’t know.” He looked off to the side. “You were my first investigation.”
“Oh.” She flopped back in her seat. Having a new detective on her case wasn’t optimal. Her father deserved someone more experienced. But Duffy had discovered her whereabouts. She nodded. And he had her as a partner now. They were sure to succeed.
They rolled to a stop, and Juliana peeped out the window. The three-story stone building the agency’s apartments were in stood next to them. “Your woman who keeps the apartments, she said she would have roast duck for dinner tonight. Join me?”
Brogan turned his hat in his hands. “No, thanks.”
“Do you have other plans?”
“No.”
She sat, waiting for further explanation.
None was forthcoming. “Then why, pray tell, don’t you want to eat with me? I may not be a diamond of the first water, but I am not a wholly unappealing dinner companion, I hope.” Her heart twisted queerly. It wasn’t as though Brogan Duffy’s regard mattered. She was his employer, in a manner of thinking, and as long as he performed his duties well, she could have no complaints.
His regard shouldn’t matter; but it did.
Something about this large, blunt man was…endearing. She liked him. Was it too much to hope he liked her in return?
“It wouldn’t be smart,” he said.
Her shoulders relaxed. He was worried about impropriety. He wasn’t rejecting her company.
He stepped down and turned for her hand.
She took it and hopped to the ground. “Nonsense. We will discuss the case. Assess where we’re at. Besides,” she said, laying a hand on his arm, “I don’t like to eat alone.”
He looked at her hand, looked at his boots. He slapped his hat on his head. “Dinner. But I can’t stay for dessert.”
She hid her smile of victory. She’d always been prone to making snap decisions, and tonight was no different.
She turned for the front door to the building, leading Brogan to the staircase. Brogan Duffy seemed like a man who had been denied too many desserts.
It was time someone sweetened his life up a bit.
Along with discovering who was after her father, Juliana saw no reason she couldn’t also make Brogan’s life happier in the process.
And there was no time like the present to start.
Chapter Ten
The agency’s apartments were on the third floor. Which meant three floors of watching Lady Juliana’s hips sway enticingly in front of him as she climbed. Forty-two steps of watching her arse shift back and forth.
She had a most smackable arse.
Juliana took his hat, removing her own gloves and coat and handing them to the older woman who bustled into the entry as they stepped into the apartments. The agency’s rooms took up the entire third floor of the building. Mrs. Forster had her own rooms a floor down, but she came up to cook and clean for whoever might be staying in these.
“Evening, Mr. Duffy.” She slapped at the dust on his hat. “Staying with us for dinner?”
He nodded.
Juliana stood in front of a small mirror, adjusting some wayward strands of hair. She arched an eyebrow at him through her reflection. “I told him all about your roast duck, and he begged me to let him join me. Said he hadn’t eaten a decent meal in months.”
Brogan narrowed his eyes, but allowed Mrs. Forster to pull him into the dining room. “Oh, you poor dear,” she said. “You tell all the boys of the agency that anytime they want a good, home-cooked meal to stop on by. Ever since my Harold passed, I’ve no one to cook for except when someone stays in these apartments.”
“That’s most kind,” he murmured.
“I’ll just go check on the soup.” Mrs. Forster pointed to the sideboard where bottles of liquor stood. “Be a dear and pour yourself and Lady Juliana some wine, would you? I’ll be just a moment.”
Wine seemed like a good idea. He strode to the sideboard and poured himself a glass, taking a healthy chug. Something about Lady Juliana was… unsettling, and if he were to spend the evening with her, alcohol would help.
“Are you going to share or is that bottle yours?” She smiled, like eating with the help was a normal occurrence in her life.
Perhaps it was. Perhaps her dotty father invited all the servants into the dining room to eat with the family. Probably thought it made him a man of the people, or some other such shite.
Placing his own glass down, Brogan picked up a clean one and filled it near to the brim. “Here.” He shoved it at her. When their fingers brushed, he jerked his hand back like he’d touched a porcupine. She’d removed her gloves, and the feel of that velvety skin wasn’t one he wanted to become accustomed to.
“Whoa.” She lifted her hand where a few drops of wine had splashed and licked it clean. Her tongue looked soft and pink, and it was all he could do to drag his gaze away.
“Shall we sit?” Without waiting for an answer, he pulled the chair at the end of the table out, holding it for her. After she settled herself, he took his own. At the other end of the long table.
Juliana pressed her lips together before taking her own healthy swallow. She placed her glass down and gave him another bright smile that seemed only partially forced. “I am optimistic that Mr. Pickens will tell us what we want. I think he knows his sister will spend his money. He had been living on false hope before.”
“Yes.”
She took another sip. “And once we get a name from him—”
“If.”
“If we get a name from him, how quickly will the magistrate have that man arrested?” She leaned forward, placing her elbows on the table, exposing interesting shadows in her bosom. “Could this all be over this week?”
“Depends what name is given.” He stood as Mrs. Forster bustled in, a large soup tureen in her hands.
She shooed him back to his seat when he tried to relieve her of the burden.
He cleared his throat and let her ladle the consumé into his bowl. “If a high-ranking person is named, there will be complications. And delays.” Her father was an earl, so she did have that going for her. An attempt on the life of a titled person would be prosecuted more strenuously regardless of the statu
s of the perpetrator. But Lord Withington wasn’t a wealthy earl, and, more often than not, the wealthier party won the day.
“Thank you, Mrs. Forster.” Juliana waited for the woman to leave the room before returning her gaze to him. “You think our judicial system so corrupt? My father will have justice.”
She dug her spoon into the broth as if digging someone’s grave.
Brogan pursed his lips. She was a determined woman, of that there was no doubt. Even considering her impulsive and naïve nature, he wouldn’t want to be on the opposite side of any battle she decided to fight.
“And what would you do if the courts dropped the case?” His tone was part mocking, part curious.
She flushed. “Well, I…”
“Yes?”
“I…I would start a public campaign. Yes, I would lay out the evidence against the scoundrel, stir up public sentiment until the courts had no choice but to give us justice.” She nodded stoutly. “I know people at The Times. Don’t discount public opinion.”
“Never.” He wanted to laugh at her, but her idea could work. Governments tended to ignore the people until it was no longer possible, and then became most accommodating.
He watched her as Mrs. Forster served the main course. Juliana was so sure of herself, of her own power. She was oblivious to the fact that she enjoyed her style of living only because society allowed it. She was soft. Intelligent, yes, but weak all the same. Without the protections of her family, of the aristocracy, she would be exposed to what the world truly was.
Days of hardship while you waited for death.
He stabbed the duck, tearing a chunk from its breast.
She tilted her head, her dark eyes glittering in the candlelight. “Is there no one cooking for you at home?”
“Are you asking if I’m married?”
Her smile fell. “Are you?”
It would be so much easier if he were. A simple way to keep his distance.
She shifted in her seat, and the silk of her gown rustled.
He ground his jaw. There were many things that kept the distance between him and a woman such as her. “No.” He shoved another bite of duck into his mouth.
