by Robyn DeHart
“Have a strong enough constitution?” she bit out. “I can assure you, sir, I am quite able to manage any sort of situation. I am not some delicate young flower. I’ll have you know I am nine and twenty,” she said, as if her age changed the situation.
“This has nothing to do with age. This is a murder.” He tapped the file against his leg.
“Well, it’s really quite sweet of you to be concerned.” She did nothing to hide her sarcasm. “But you can put your confidence in the heartiness of my stomach. I’ve never once been the slightest bit queasy from the sight of blood.”
He wasn’t being sweet—he was trying to rid himself of a pest. But no matter what he said, she would not be dissuaded; he could see that clearly enough. He would devise a plan to rid himself of her later.
“Well, let us be off then. I have not been there as of yet.”
She opened her mouth to argue, then must have realized he had consented, because she closed it abruptly, nodded, then stepped aside.
He stepped back into the open office and the room fell silent. “If you say one word…” James said as he passed Finch.
“She doesn’t look like your preferred bit of fluff,” his friend said.
James glowered at him. “It’s a long story and one I’m not partial to digging into at the moment.” He grabbed his coat, and then turned to face Finch. “Make sure none of these gossips run off to Randolph with this.”
Finch nodded.
“Bluestocking,” one of the others yelled.
He turned slowly.
It was Beck, and he pointed at James’ coat with laughter. “Don’t forget to toss that on the ground should you happen upon any puddles. You wouldn’t want her ladyship’s slippers to get wet.” The men around him roared with laughter.
James gave them a mock laugh and then stepped into the hall.
Willow did her best to match his stride as they walked around the large granite building, but his legs were far longer than hers and she found it increasingly difficult to keep up. But she wasn’t one to complain, so she kept her mouth shut and walked as swiftly as she could manage.
The New Scotland Yard was a majestic-looking building, almost castle-like in its design. With large circular turrets on the corners of the building, and spires and chimneys rising from the top, it was a forceful presence on the Victorian Embankment.
She snuck a glance at the man beside her. He was glowering. Apparently he was none too thrilled at the prospect of working with her. For some indiscernible reason, that pleased her. He should have considered that when he’d proposed the wager, baiting her in such a brazen fashion.
She edged her chin up a notch and faced forward. Stumbling slightly, she regained her footing before she required assistance.
He stopped and leveled his gaze on her.
She braced herself for him to drone on about how her presence was a nuisance, but instead he ensured she had properly regained her balance before setting off again, this time at a much slower pace. Perhaps Amelia was right, and he wasn’t a total cretin. No, this only proved he had manners when he chose to use them.
“The carriage house is right over here. We maintain a fleet.”
He called for a rig and for a moment she hesitated. Without a chaperone, she should not be alone with him. It seemed foolish to consider that now after entering into a wager with him. Besides, since she was nine and twenty and had no prospects of marriage, precisely what would be ruined? Surely such rules did not count when it came to men in his position. It would be a perfectly acceptable situation had he come to her rescue. She nodded and allowed him to assist her inside.
They sat in silence as the carriage jostled through the streets. Willow had never before been in such close—not to mention private—quarters with a bachelor. She glanced around the inside of the rig, which was modest but considerably better than most hackneys on the street. She looped a finger beneath her high-necked collar and tugged on the stubborn fabric. Her ministrations did nothing to ease the warmth that had begun to spread through her body. She needed some fresh air. The carriage jarred them as it hit a hole in the road, and the inspector’s knee jammed into her own. He met her eyes briefly but said nothing of the intimate encounter.
Oh, good gracious, she needed to get ahold of herself and stop acting the green girl. She straightened her back and turned her legs ever so slightly away from his. It seemed quite probable that Mr. Sterling was involved with a woman—although she knew from Amelia that he was not married—but right at this moment it was she, Willow, who was alone with him.
“Precisely what is the nature of this investigation?” she asked, unable to bear the silence a second longer.
“It appears that Malcolm Drummond was murdered.”
“The photographer?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“How dreadful. He’s rather popular in Society at the moment. The gossips must be twittering this morning.”
“I know that my mother will be most distraught at his passing, as she had scheduled a sitting with him in the fall.”
Well, that was most curious. “Your mother, sir?”
“Lady Fiona Dandridge,” he said dryly.
“As in the Earl of Dandridge?” She couldn’t prevent the surprise from seeping into her tone.
“One and the same.” He pulled aside the curtain on the window. “We’re here,” he said as he opened the door.
They climbed the steps to the red brick townhome.
He probably thought this meant she wouldn’t ask any more questions about his parents, that she would forget her curiosity. He was sadly mistaken. She simply had to know how the son of an earl had become an inspector. Why had Amelia never mentioned that tidbit? Surely it was noteworthy that he came from a rather prominent family.
Inspector Sterling used the large bronze knocker. Soon after, a short, wiry man answered the door. His old face was all wide eyes over a beak-like nose. Willow barely noticed the man’s lips, which were pulled into a tight, worried line. As it was, she could scarcely concentrate on anything save the warm and very masculine hand resting against her elbow.
“Yes?” the man said, his voice frail.
“I’m Inspector Sterling from the Metropolitan Police, and this is…” He looked at Willow as if not certain how to introduce her.
She straightened and looked the butler in the eyes. “Wilhelmina Mabson,” she provided.
“I’m heading the investigation of the murder of your employer,” James continued. “Might we come in to ask questions and look around?”
The butler nodded and moved aside to allow them to step through the entryway. “I am Fenby, Master Drummond’s butler and valet.”
James pulled out a notebook and pencil. “I understand you found the body,” he said without looking up. “Have they come to dispose of the remains?”
So he began the questioning right here in the hall. Murder was a rather crude business.
Fenby made a choking sound. “They have not.”
“I’m going to need to see the body,” James said. “Might Miss Mabson have somewhere to sit while I examine the other room?”
Willow shot him a look. She opened her mouth to speak, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the butler.
“If you think to argue this point with me,” he hissed at her, “consider for a second what you are requesting.” He did not allow her to argue. “Under no circumstances will I allow you entrance into that room.”
He continued to drone on, but his words were lost on her. His hand still held her arm, preventing her body from moving away from his side. Her heart beat wildly in her chest, but it was not from fear, and that in itself was frightening. He was trying to protect her. Gone was the charming, arrogant man who would flirt and jest with any available woman. In his place was an intense and protective man who shot awareness through her body and made her very glad she was of the fairer sex.
She reminded herself that he would do the same for any woman in this situation, tha
t this wasn’t something unique for her benefit. Still she’d be fabricating were she to say his actions had no effect on her.
“You might think yourself prepared to see a deceased body, but believe me, you are far from it,” he said.
“Are you quite finished?” she asked. She couldn’t handle any more of his close attention.
He nodded.
“Well, then, I was merely going to suggest that I was perfectly capable of waiting in the hall. I need not a place to sit or rest.”
He eyed her silently, then nodded. “Very well.” He turned back to Fenby. “The lady wishes to remain in the hall.”
Willow watched as both men started down the hall, leaving her to her own devices. She took the opportunity to calm her frazzled insides and make some observations.
The wood-paneled hallway smelled of fresh lemon oil and shone from the high, arched ceiling to the cold marble floor. Evidently, photography was more profitable than she had imagined. Then again, it was quite like Society to pay a small fortune in order to participate in something deemed fashionable. And oftentimes all it took was one well-named member doing something different to start the latest frenzy.
It was not long before James and Fenby rounded the corner. James carried his bag as if he was a doctor, but Willow knew there was nothing healing tucked within the folds of the leather case. Instead it would contain evidence from the room and James’ notes regarding what he’d seen.
Willow imagined the room covered in blood and she shivered. She might not have gotten ill when Edmond had cut his arm that time, but James was right—she was not prepared to see death.
“Someone should arrive later to remove the body,” James said. “Did you ever find the weapon? Or remove anything from the room? Because I saw nothing there that could have caused that damage.”
Fenby shuddered. “I touched nothing. I sent for the police as soon as I found him.” Then he swallowed visibly. “How was he killed?”
“Knocked over the head,” James said.
“Knocked over the head,” Fenby repeated. “Then I suppose I might know what the weapon was. At first I thought Master Drummond might have moved it to a new location, but I have been unable to locate it.”
“It?” James asked.
“There used to be a rather heavy vase. It was from China, I believe, and was nothing more than a decorative piece. But I noticed just this morning that it was missing.”
James nodded, then made another notation. “Did you collect any pieces of the vase anywhere, shards or fragments? Because there were none to be found on the floor.”
The butler shook his head. “No. As I said, I thought it had been moved, because there was no sign of it anywhere.”
“So it must not have been made of clay,” Willow pointed out. “Else it would have shattered. Unless they swept it up. Was there blood on the floor?”
James’ eyebrows rose and she thought she detected a slight twitch of a smile. Then he nodded to answer her question. “There was blood on the floor.”
“No, the vase was not clay at all,” said Fenby. “Bronze, actually.”
James eyed Willow briefly but said nothing. She took in his full height. He stood shoulders and head over her and at the moment his dark blond hair hid his eyes as he jotted a note. Hid eyes that she knew were a startling crystal green. Knowing that made her feel slightly uncomfortable, as if she knew a secret he kept. But it was not her fault that she was so observant. It was hard not to notice him. He was such a…presence.
“Was anything else missing?” James asked.
“No, I don’t believe so.”
James nodded. “I trust you are not planning on leaving town.”
The old man was gracious enough to look offended. “Of course not. My duties are not finished with the Drummond family. I must facilitate Master Drummond’s burial and services. Not to mention finalize the financials with his solicitor.”
“So he was doing rather well, then?” James asked. “Financially speaking.”
“Oh, yes, sir. All to the help of His Grace,” Fenby said.
“And who might that be?” Willow asked.
The butler tugged on his vest. “The Duke of Argyle.”
“He was a patron of Mr. Drummond?” James asked.
“Indeed. He gave Master Drummond his very first commission, even passed me to him from his country estate. I much prefer the climate here in London,” he explained. “Once His Grace made it known that Master Drummond was whom to go to for portraits, everyone came calling. The Duke was even sponsoring the exhibit next month.” His voice cracked and he put his hand over his mouth. “Many apologies.”
Willow offered him a smile and the elderly butler gave her a weak smile in return.
James’ brow creased. “What exhibit?”
“Of his latest works. He had been working for months, photographing ladies, and the His Grace was to sponsor the exhibit at Burlington House,” Fenby said.
James made a note. “I don’t suppose Mr. Drummond kept a list of the names of the ladies he photographed? And what of the actual photographs? Where are they?”
“Most of the photographs have already been delivered to Burlington House, although I’m not certain. If he kept a list of the women, it would be in his journal. He wrote in that book every day.”
A diary. Now finding that would probably prove most helpful. “Do you know where he kept his diary?” Willow asked.
James frowned at her. She ignored him. She had every right to participate in the interrogation. How else was she going to win? Well, technically she had no right. She wasn’t an employee of the Metropolitan Police. She was nothing more than a well-bred lady without a cent to her name and nothing better to do with her time. Well, that wasn’t precisely true either. She could and should pass the time at her mother’s side.
Fenby shook his head. “I don’t know where he kept it.”
“I believe that will be all for the time being,” James said.
Were those all the questions James was going to ask? Well, she had one more.
“And what will happen to you once your work here is done?” Willow asked Fenby.
“It depends on the state of Master Drummond’s affairs, whether or not he made provisions for me. Perhaps I shall be retained by His Grace.” Then his face soured. “I do not wish to be ungrateful, but I would hate to return to the country.”
Willow gave the aging man a smile.
“I will be back tomorrow afternoon,” James said as he faced Willow and gestured toward the door. “Miss Mabson.”
She supposed that meant they were leaving. She frowned. He had been on his best behavior with Fenby, but when it came to speaking to her, he was nothing but rude. Since there was nothing else she could do here, there was no reason to argue with him, so she turned on her heel and stepped out of the room.
“Is that customarily all the questions you ask?” she inquired.
He sat on the worn carriage upholstery and lurched slightly with the hackney’s abrupt movement. “The butler was in no place to answer questions today. I had suspected it might be him, but that old man couldn’t pommel a dog, much less a grown man.” Why was he answering? He didn’t owe her an explanation.
“Are we going back to the Scotland Yard offices?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t want an assistant. Especially not one who was so opinionated, regardless of her skills at observation. Frankly, if he had to have an assistant, he’d prefer one without breasts. That included some of the portly fellows at the Yard. He let his gaze fall to Willow’s chest as she sat across from him in the carriage. The modest neckline of her yellow muslin dress did nothing to hint at any cleavage, but he could tell by the stretch of the fabric that were he to sneak a peek, they would be the most glorious breasts.
He looked up and met her gaze, and both her delicate eyebrows rose above her spectacles. She’d caught him staring. She didn’t look annoyed or even scandalized. No, what he saw in the brown depths of her eyes
was nothing more than surprise. Now, why would she be surprised that he’d stare at her breasts? It was his experience that no matter how well bred, a man would shift his gaze to the supple mounds of a woman any chance he could.
So why would she be surprised?
And what else would surprise her? Would those perfectly arched eyebrows rise if she knew he’d not only closely examined her breasts (what he could see of them) but also the graceful curve of her neck and fullness of her lips? Would it intrigue her or enrage her to know he’d found himself wondering what it would be like to move his mouth across her sensual red mouth?
It was then that it occurred to him, a possible way to rid himself of her assistance and distracting presence. “Miss Mabson, it has occurred to me that we never set the parameters of our little wager,” he said.
“Parameters?” she asked, her voice sounding breathless. “Whatever do you mean?”
He grinned. “Meaning, what do I get when I win?”
“Is it not enough to know you are a winner?” She shrugged. “Or the loser, whatever the case may be?”
He watched her mouth enunciate each syllable. So precise. So perfect.
“Then it is nothing more than a race. But a wager—a wager has consequences. You either win something or you lose something,” he said. “It raises the stakes, provides more impetus for success.”
“I’m beginning to think, Inspector, that you have given this much thought. What is it you want from me?” Then she smiled. “If I lose?”
“A kiss.”
Her eyes rounded and her mouth worked itself into a tight line.
“Is that a yes?” he asked.
Those lovely eyebrows of hers fell into a downward point and her eyes narrowed. “No, it most certainly is not a yes. And I find jesting about such a matter completely inappropriate.”
“I’m not jesting. And those are the terms of my wager. If you do not comply, then the wager is off.” He sat back and rested his arms against his chest.
He could see her mentally stammering—trying to develop an argument, a protest—but the only thing that came was a slight tint of red, settling in her cheeks.
