by Shelley Gray
“This is so kind of you,” she said quietly.
Not trusting his voice, he simply nodded. Actually, it took everything he had not to respond when his fingers accidently skimmed the bare, satin-soft skin at the nape of her neck.
Or when he smelled the faint scent of her perfume.
Yes, he was a cop and Irish. He was scarred from too many fights when he was young and too many scuffles with criminals during his work on the force.
All he knew about good manners was from spending a year as his captain’s errand boy just before going to the police academy—and from watching Owen.
At thirty-two, he was twelve years older than Eloisa and far more cynical and hard.
But, as Eloisa again smiled at him softly and placed one white-gloved hand on his forearm, Sean Ryan knew that he was, at the moment, the luckiest guy in the city.
Maybe even the whole world.
CHAPTER 3
I appreciate your escort more than I can ever say,” Eloisa said as Detective Ryan guided her around two men loitering under the dim glow of a lamppost. Though both her home on Sable Hill and the Gardner home were in the best of areas, one never knew who might be lurking about on Michigan Avenue between, especially late at night. It was also a comfort to know Detective Ryan was no doubt armed.
“It is very kind of you, especially given the circumstances,” she added.
Recalling just what those circumstances were, she shivered. It was doubtful that she’d ever completely forget seeing poor Danica Webster lying on the ground, her pink gown marred by a profusion of tears and stained with blood. Only the knowledge that her wounds weren’t life-threatening gave Eloisa any comfort.
“I promise, it is my honor, Miss Carstairs,” Detective Ryan replied in what she was coming to understand was his usual quiet way. “It is not often that a man like me gets to walk down the avenue with such a lovely lady on his arm.” Though he didn’t smile, his eyes warmed. “I’m sure to be the envy of all who know me.”
“Hardly that.”
Seeing that he was on the verge of stepping a few inches farther away from her, no doubt in an attempt to give her more space, she tightened her grip nervously.
She felt his muscles contract under the thick layers of his suit jacket and wool coat. However, he didn’t pull away but simply stayed by her side—and looked at her searchingly. “Are you sure you are all right?”
“I don’t know.” All she did know was that she wasn’t quite ready to step inside her home and spend the next ten hours in the quiet of her bedroom, alone with dark memories. Though it wasn’t fair to him, she wished their walk could take hours, not the thirty or so minutes that was the norm. “I keep thinking about Danica.”
Anything to hold on to his reassuring presence.
“That’s understandable,” he murmured. “It was a disturbing sight, to be sure.”
She shivered. “I imagine she was terrified.” Remembering when she’d been at another man’s mercy a few weeks ago, Eloisa privately amended her words. No, she didn’t imagine anything.
She knew Danica had been terrified. She remembered the sound of her scream.
“Do you know Miss Webster well?”
Eloisa glanced at his profile. His features weaved in and out of view, all in accordance with the flickering torches on the lampposts that lined Michigan Avenue. To her relief, the detective didn’t seem to be questioning her for any purpose. No, he was merely making conversation.
Probably because she was holding onto his arm like it was a lifeline.
And though she knew she should release him to go do his job, she found herself exhaling in relief. He wasn’t going to leave her. Not just yet.
Focusing back on their conversation, she answered his question. “We are acquaintances. Good enough friends, I suppose.” When she realized she hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know, she added, “Danica is about my age. She made her debut two years ago, like I did. We move in the same circles.”
For a moment, she was tempted to give nuance to what she had said. While it was technically true, it had not truly described her relationship with Danica. They had, indeed, made their debuts at the same time. They also did move in the same circles. But that was where the similarities ended. Eloisa had been immediately embraced and fiercely sought after by the best families and the most distinguished gentlemen. Danica, however, had merely been politely welcomed into the fold.
But telling the detective all that made her uncomfortable. It sounded too pompous, too disdainful of Danica, and Eloisa didn’t feel that way at all. So she remained silent.
Which she then was afraid the detective had misinterpreted.
He glanced her way, but nothing in his expression told her how he felt about her description.
“Seeing someone you know in such a way is always shocking.”
His voice was gentle, gliding over her frayed nerves. “I have to keep reminding myself she is alive. That she will be all right.” She closed her eyes. “But I have to admit that for those first few seconds, I was sure she was dead.”
“I feared the same thing, if you want to know the truth.”
He was so composed, so assured. So stalwart. “Does it ever get easier?”
“It?”
“Witnessing the results of violence?” She was already so burdened by her dreams and memories of Douglass Sloane’s attack, she couldn’t imagine living in a world where she saw such pain on a daily basis.
As he scanned their vicinity, he murmured, “You might not believe this, but I still find it difficult to brush off much of what I see on the job. People can be so cruel.”
She’d never thought of that in such a way. “I suppose that is true.”
After giving a pair of men passing by them a hard look, Lieutenant Ryan continued. “The job is hard enough when the victims are men. But when I see violence done to the innocent, to women or children? It is never easy to observe, or investigate for that matter.”
His words shocked her. Not because of what it revealed about Detective Sean Ryan, but rather by what it revealed about herself. She was acting as if she were the victim, holding onto him, forcing him to converse with her while he was likely more than eager to deposit her at her doorstep and move on.
Abruptly, she released his arm. “Forgive me, Lieutenant. Here I am, all in a dither when you have things to do. I really should let you go. Surely I can get home on my own now. It’s not too much farther . . .”
“I shall see you all the way home.” His voice was clipped. Definite. “And furthermore, Miss Carstairs . . . there is nothing to forgive. I know many a hardened man at the precinct who would’ve flinched at the sight of a lovely young lady bleeding on the ground. Violence has a way of preying on a person’s soul, I fear.” He grimaced. “All I can say is that I haven’t become so jaded by my job that I have forgotten about the sanctity of a life.” His eyes warmed again, as if he were thinking of something he thought amusing.
She wished she knew what it was.
“H-have you been in the force very long?”
“Thirteen years. I started at nineteen.”
“Did you always want to be a policeman?” she asked. Again, she thought he was probably eager to return to the crime scene, but, well, this was the first conversation she’d had in a long while that she found genuinely interesting.
The corners of his lips curved. “It’s a long story, Miss Carstairs. Perhaps it would bore you.”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t interested. Please, do share.”
“It’s nothing too exciting,” he said as they turned onto the main drive leading to the group of three estates at the top of Sable Hill. “But something happened that was memorable. It changed my path.”
“Which was?”
“Let’s just say I was a boy becoming rather adept at getting into trouble.”
She hated that he was pushing her interest aside. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Ple
ase, don’t treat me as if I have nothing in my head but feathers.”
“I would never presume such a thing.”
“Then?”
For a second, he glanced down at his thick-soled shoes, the ones that had looked so out of place in the elaborate, gilded ballroom but looked so right as he escorted her down the side of the street in the open air. As if he were so solid and strong, that nothing was too much of an obstacle.
She prodded. “Detective?”
After a brief pause, he spoke. “First of all, I should say that I am one of eight children, the fourth child. Third son.”
“Ah.”
“We grew up poor, though by the time my two youngest sisters came into the world, things were better and my parents even moved to a house on Haversham Street. But when I was young? We lived in the tenements.”
“I see.”
He shook his head, then paused to look beyond her at one of her neighbors’ impressive, elaborately carved front doors.
“I doubt you’ve seen anything of the like. I hope you have not.” After a resigned sigh, he continued. “Anyway, one of our neighbors was falsely accused of thieving and arrested,” he said at last. His clipped diction had softened, the vowels a little longer.
He spoke of thievery with the same contempt she would imagine people would only reserve for murder. She stopped abruptly. “What happened?”
“Well, the man who was accused—his name was Mr. Tierney— was an old man. A nice man, but forgetful, I’m afraid. Anyway, one day he came home with a very nice watch for his oldest boy, who was going into the family business. He’d also managed to finish his schooling—not an easy accomplishment where we lived. Most every boy I knew had quit school to support his family.”
He sighed. “At any rate, Mr. Tierney came home with a fine watch and presented it to his son with much fanfare. All of us were invited, and we came, though I guess I should admit that some of us were not all that impressed.”
“Was it not a good watch?”
“It wasn’t the watch, Miss Carstairs. It was the fact that Mr. Tierney’s son wasn’t like the rest of us. While we’d all been working on the streets and docks from the time we were thirteen or fourteen, he’d studied. While we went to work in the cold, he’d learned things. I’m afraid some thought he’d had things too easy.”
“Did you?”
He shrugged. “I did. But along with that resentment was a healthy bit of jealousy. He had a life I could only dream about. And the kind of watch I knew I’d never own.” He looked down at his feet again. “It was a truly fine-looking timepiece,” he murmured. Then he lifted his head and met her gaze.
And, for the first time, truly smiled.
It fairly took her breath away.
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense. What happened?” Remembering Lieutenant Ryan speaking of arrest, she guessed. “Had he stolen the timepiece?”
“Not at all. It turned out Mr. Tierney had bought the watch from a street peddler.” He shrugged. “Well, that was what he said.”
“Is buying from someone on the street illegal?”
He chuckled. “Not at all. The problem was that when the officers came to arrest him, they based it on the fact that a thief had stolen a gold watch from a wealthy man right on the street. When Mr. Tierney showed it off to the neighborhood, someone commented on it, and the next thing anyone knew, half the city knew a lowly Irishman somehow came up with an expensive timepiece.”
“What had happened?”
“As far as I’ve been able to discern, Mr. Tierney bought the timepiece from a street peddler who was actually a fence, someone who made a living selling stolen items.”
“But couldn’t Mr. Tierney have told the police who the peddler was?”
“He didn’t remember much about the peddler. And the man who actually owned the timepiece took one look at Mr. Tierney, who arrived at the police station looking much the worse for wear, and promptly said he looked like he could have been the thief.”
Eloisa was appalled. “But how could he say that if the thief got away too quickly for him to know for sure? And how could Mr. Tierney, an older man, get away that fast anyway?”
“The man’s word was good enough, I fear. See, the police didn’t much care whether or not Mr. Tierney had done it. As far as they were concerned, he sounded guilty. Had the watch, couldn’t exactly remember where he’d bought it, and couldn’t exactly remember who he’d bought it from.” His mouth formed a thin line.
“What happened to Mr. Tierney?”
“He was quickly tried and sent to prison.”
Though she’d never known the man, she was dismayed. “That is horrible.”
“They lost the family business. His wife and children were forced to move. His boy—Asa, his name was—went to work in the factories and later died in an accident.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“I am too.” He frowned. “But I am just as sorry to burden you with this tale. Now that I have some distance from it, I must admit it sounds even bleaker than I remembered.”
“If the police did such a dreadful job, why did you want to join their ranks?”
“Until that time, I had been getting into a bit of trouble. Nothing too terrible, but enough to try my mother’s patience. When I witnessed everything that had happened with Mr. Tierney, I realized that crimes do have consequences.”
“But he was innocent!”
“I, however, was not quite as innocent as I should have been. Anyway, I started realizing that I wanted to be the person who actually tried to solve crimes. I wanted to be the type of man who actually cared, who solved crimes to make sure the innocents weren’t taken advantage of.” He shook his head. “I wanted to be the type of man I admired. To catch bad men and bring them to justice.” After a pause, he blurted, “I would be lying if I didn’t mention that I also noticed that no cops were living how we were. They got paid more, had respect. They’d, uh, made something of themselves. I wanted that too.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
His lips twisted. “Perhaps not.”
“So you joined the police force?”
“So I began my path toward improving myself and my situation.”
“That’s commendable, Detective.”
“And you, Miss Carstairs, have too kind a heart.”
“Perhaps you, too, have a kind heart. Here you are, spending your evening at a society party and now walking me home.”
He frowned. “Unfortunately, my attendance at the party didn’t prevent Miss Webster from being attacked.”
“But still, I can’t imagine you looked forward to standing around the Gardners’ ballroom and walking their grounds.”
“Mr. Gardner paid me well for my time. One of my sisters is involved with Hope House. I’ll be using most of what I earned tonight for that.”
“What is Hope House?”
“It’s a home for women and children who have nowhere else to go.”
She folded her hands in front of her waist and smiled. “It seems my earlier statement was true. You are rather commendable.”
A faint breeze brushed the hem of her skirts, sliding through the openings of her pelisse. She shivered, both by the frosty air and Detective Ryan’s warm look directed her way.
“Take my arm, miss. I don’t want you getting chilled.”
She needed no further encouragement. Eloisa wrapped her hand around his arm again. She would never have imagined it, but his companionship was soothing. He wasn’t peppering her with questions or filling the silence with lascivious guesses about why Danica had been attacked or malicious gossip about any of the other people at the party.
Instead, he easily walked by her side, keeping his stride shorter in deference to her. Guiding her down curbs. Watching the area around them with a careful eye.
She hadn’t felt so protected in a very long time, which was quite a surprise. Of late, she’d had a difficult time leaving her home. Now here she was, walking next to a
man she barely knew on an almostempty street.
Simply thinking about the danger she could have been in—and the harm that had come to Danica that evening—made her tremble.
And just like that, she remembered being held down by Douglass. The sound of the collar of her dress tearing.
The panic she’d felt, followed swiftly by the knowledge that she’d never be the same.
With effort, she tried to tamp down the panic. Attempted to conceal the rush of nerves. However, she was unsuccessful.
He noticed. “Did, uh, you happen to notice the moon, Miss Carstairs?”
She stared at him blankly. “Pardon?”
“The moon. I believe they call this a harvest moon.”
Dutifully, she followed the direction of his lifted hand. “Indeed. It’s lovely.” With relief, she let her gaze skim the night sky and saw that the moon was indeed wreathed in a vivid orange glow. “It’s hanging so low tonight, one could almost imagine one could snatch it from the sky.”
His eyes warmed again. “Indeed, Miss Carstairs,” he murmured, obviously echoing her words on purpose. “If you’d like, we could stop for a moment so you could try.”
She was embarrassed now. Wonderfully so. “Thank you, but no.”
“I almost wish I could steal it for you. Just to see you smile.”
His nonsensical statement did just what she thought he must have hoped it would. “I bet you say that to all the ladies of your acquaintance,” she teased.
“Not at all.”
However, this evening’s events—and her seeming inability to move on from the incident in her past—made the night anything but perfect.
She felt drawn to him, this man who was so different from her in almost every way society said counted. But just as surprising was the way she felt about that. She realized then that she had changed so much she no longer needed the type of gentlemen she used to seek out.
No longer could she feel comfortable with a person who had no knowledge of what it was like to be at another’s mercy. Or to fear.
Or, most importantly, to have no choices. This man did.
