by Erica Monroe
Closing the door behind her, he showed her into the library. In a few minutes, the housekeeper would appear with a moderate dinner of boiled chicken, buttered shrimp, roasted potatoes, and partridge soup. Nothing too fancy—intrinsically, he sensed that would put Poppy on edge.
How could he prove to her that they had more in common than she thought? He watched as Poppy’s eyes widened eagerly again as she stepped into the room, immediately heading toward the section of modern novels.
They might be from different backgrounds, but this they could share.
“I’m more prepared today.” He gestured to the fire he’d built. The usually cold library was toasty from the flames.
She granted him a small smile. “Aye, and your appearance is much more in line with what society dictates.”
He’d managed to bathe and shave before her arrival. His neckcloth was neatly tied, and his coat was fresh from the laundress.
“What society dictates, yes, but what does Mrs. Corrigan dictate? Do you prefer me disheveled?” He wasn’t sure where the flirtatious words came from so easily, when he’d never been particularly skilled with coquetry. “What I mean is—”
He stopped. Her face had pinked from her cheeks to her ears. He ought to feel ashamed about embarrassing her, yet one look into her eyes and he was certain he’d not mortified her sensibilities. Her pupils had darkened, and her breaths came heavily.
All of his books on physiology confirmed it: she was aroused.
He gulped. He was so unprepared. But by God, he wanted to be good at this. For her.
“I’ve been thinking about how you can accept the copy of King Lear,” he blurted.
Her lips turned down in a pout of irritation. “I already told you it’s not proper.”
He could think of about seventy things she could do with him that weren’t proper but would feel oh-so-good. Some of them he’d attempted before, but most were known to him through books with detailed diagrams of the different contortions a human being could undergo. Damnation, he wasn’t even sure he knew how to assume those positions.
He swallowed again. If he didn’t look at her, if he didn’t see how her bodice dropped down enthrallingly as she stooped to check out a book on the lower shelf, didn’t think about how her breasts would be perfectly fitted to cup in his hand, her pert nipples ripe for his mouth...
Shaking his head to clear out those thoughts, he plucked another play down from above her head. Macbeth. That was safer than say, Measure for Measure.
“Consider the book a loan.” He sounded strained, like he was breathing through the scarf she’d gifted him.
She didn’t meet his gaze, but her voice was huskier than he remembered it. “I haven’t time to read quickly.”
“A long-term loan.” He shrugged. “I’ve practically memorized all the plays. I don’t need to have a copy in front of me to enjoy them now.”
“Really?” she grabbed the copy of Macbeth from his hands, flipping it open to a random page. “Act III, Scene III, first lines.”
He closed his eyes, envisioning the page before him. “Let us seek out some desolate shade, and there/Weep our sad bosoms empty,” he recited. “Spoken by Malcolm in front of the King’s palace.”
Bosoms. He realized it after he said it by the way her face had pinked, until her cheeks began to resemble her red hair.
“Yes, well,” she sputtered. “Very impressive, that. Hopefully, you have similar recall when it comes to Anna Moseley’s case.”
“Ah, yes,” he stammered.
The appearance of his housekeeper with the sideboard saved him from more single-syllable unintelligence. Mrs. Clery wheeled the cart into a vacant space to the right of the fireplace, poured two cups of tea from the silver teapot, and set them on the coffee table with a small pitcher of cream and a bowl of sugar cubes. All this she did without a word, as Mrs. Clery rarely spoke unless a direct question had been asked. It was one of the reasons why Thaddeus liked her so much.
Poppy blinked at Mrs. Clery’s retreating back. When Mrs. Clery had shut the door behind her, Poppy set down Macbeth and moved over toward the tea. She reached for the pitcher, splashing cream into her cup. “Are you aware your housekeeper bears a distinct resemblance to a ghost?”
He shrugged. “The notion has occurred to me before, yes.”
“As long as she doesn’t start haunting you as Banquo did Macbeth,” Poppy jested.
“Well, I have not murdered any kings, so I do think I’ll be safe from harm’s way.” He moved over to the sideboard, loading his plate.
Poppy sat in the chair by the fire, hands folded in her lap, eyes fastened on the food but not making a move toward it.
“Please, don’t make me eat alone, Mrs. Corrigan.” He signaled toward the loaded food cart. “I wasn’t able to eat at the station, and so I asked Mrs. Clery to hold dinner in case you were hungry too. Help yourself to whatever strikes your fancy. Mrs. Clery is an excellent baker.”
“Is this soda bread?” She pointed to the smaller plate to the right of the boiled chicken.
He nodded. “Mrs. Clery was born in Dublin. Was that where your relatives are from?”
“No. County Cork.” She didn’t offer anything more, her lips pursed.
Whatever secret she was hiding, she was no nearer to confiding in him than she’d been a few days prior. He thought of the letter to Beauregard with a tinge of guilt.
“I make excellent soda bread,” she said, as she settled back in the chair. On her plate was a leg of chicken, two buttered shrimps, and the roasted potatoes. She’d skipped the partridge soup.
“I’m sure it’s delicious. I’ll have to try it sometime,” he replied.
He did a quick calculation of what he knew weavers made, and the rent of a cottage like hers, with the added cost of supporting a child. As she dug into the food on her plate with relish, he doubted she’d eaten since breakfast.
Or that she could afford a proper meal.
But he didn’t draw attention to that. Pity was something a prideful woman like Poppy Corrigan wouldn’t tolerate. He liked that about her.
Instead, they ate in silence, each focused on their meal. When he’d polished off a second serving of soup, he set his plate down next to the overstuffed folder on the coffee table.
Poppy finished her food. The color in her fair cheeks had returned, and he made a silent promise to concoct more reasons to invite her to dine with him. She might not let him protect her, but damn it, he could at least make sure she and her daughter were well fed. He’d have to find out which cottage was hers on Finch Street and bring her a basket of bread one morning.
“Well?” She nodded toward the file.
“This is everything I know about the Larkers.” He handed her the file, careful not to drop any of the smaller scraps of parchment sticking out from the edges. Quickly, he summarized what he knew about the case.
“I had hoped that for once, the Larkers wouldn’t turn out to be as bad as I’d thought.” Poppy sighed. “I ought to know by now wishes and hopes are for the weak.”
He hated how downtrodden she sounded. For him, work was an option, pursued by choice. He loved his work at the Met. He had enough money set upon him by his parents to take a less active vocation.
For Poppy Corrigan, working was a matter of life and death.
“When you’re at work, how many men does Larker usually have on the floor overseeing the operations?” Knight asked.
She paused to count. “Two, I’d say, with his wife reprimanding those who don’t work fast enough. Ian Jennings and Frank Clowes.”
Thaddeus went to his desk, dipping his quill in ink and scrawling out the information on foolscap. “I met them both when I went to the factory. What’s your general opinion of Clowes?”
“He’s not a bad man, if that’s what you mean,” Poppy replied. “He’s young, probably about nineteen or so. Anna had a fancy for him, but he was too old for her. I don’t think he encouraged her—he seemed to treat her more like a sist
er.”
“Do you think Anna would have acted on her feelings?” Thaddeus stopped writing, turning his full attention to Poppy. “Fourteen is on the cusp of womanhood, some might say. Anna might have entertained the thought that when she was older, Clowes would marry her.”
Something flashed across Poppy’s face that he couldn’t quite define. Pain? An old wound? Had some sort of scandal caused her to marry Robert Corrigan?
“I’m not condemning her,” he said swiftly. “Far from it. But I’ve seen in this profession what a foul man can do to a young woman with hopes, and it is motivation enough for murder.”
She shuddered. “You think Clowes had something to do with Anna’s murder because she pushed him toward marriage?”
He shrugged. “I’m considering all the options. But what particularly concerns me is that locked room. When I went upstairs, I saw bags, an awl, and a hammer. All instruments that can be used in coin clipping.”
Blinking, Poppy stopped mid-turning of a page. “Counterfeiting?”
“Aye,” Thaddeus said. “The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. Have you noticed any surges in production orders to justify all those looms the Larkers produced?”
She thought for a second. “Not really. I wasn’t around prior to the takeover, but Abigail once said she didn’t know why they’d upgraded when there already wasn’t enough work to go around. It is strange.”
Thaddeus explained his suspicions about the Larkers using the factory as a cover for their counterfeiting. He’d expected to have to elaborate on how he’d arrived at this conclusion, but to his surprise, she followed his reasoning. She even made a few surmises of her own. He’d worked with seasoned patrollers that had fewer deductive skills.
It was not often Thaddeus was impressed, but damn, he loved watching her work through a puzzle. The funny quirk of her brow as she contemplated, that dash of freckles across her wrinkled nose the delight in her voice when she reached a conclusion.
She continued to flip through the file, grimacing at the sketch he’d had drawn of Anna’s corpse.
“Ah,” he said. “My apologies. I should have removed that.”
“No,” Poppy murmured. “Maybe I needed to see it. When I don’t think of what happened to her, it’s too easy to pretend she never existed.”
He thought of Ems Moseley, her one-room ragged cottage. Of Miss Stewart’s family, to this day wondering if she was alive.
Poppy sighed. “Death takes an uneasy toll, and we are left alone with memories.”
“I’m sorry.” He let out a long breath, collecting his thoughts. “You haven’t spoken much about your late husband, but I can imagine in times of loss, the motions become the same. Grief has its stages, smaller in relation to how well one knew the victim.”
For a second—so brief he wasn’t certain he’d truly seen it—shock flared upon her face.
“Yes, yes, of course,” she murmured.
“You weren’t thinking of your husband, were you?” He ought not to broach this delicate subject, but she was holding back information. How was he supposed to help if he didn’t have all the details?
She shifted on the sofa so that her entire body faced him. “I don’t see that it is any of your concern, Sergeant.”
“It shouldn’t be,” he admitted. “But it is, nonetheless. I care about you.”
Her expression tempered, her voice almost a whisper. “As I care about you.”
“Then believe me when I inquire about your welfare, Poppy.” So quickly her Christian name popped from his lips, for she’d stopped being Mrs. Corrigan to him with that first brush of their fingers in this library.
“It isn’t that I don’t believe you.” She rubbed her thumb against the back of her bare finger, where once a wedding ring had laid.
“What is it?”
“Robert...” Again went her thumb, to and fro. “Do not think less of me when I say that I didn’t mourn for love lost when Robert passed. He was a good man, yes, but he was more like a friend to me than anything else. We were very young.”
He nodded. She’d been seventeen; he knew that much.
“The marriage made sense at the time,” she said. “I miss Robert, but I choose to live in the present. To take care of my daughter.”
“Did Robert get to meet her?”
“No.” She exhibited the proper amount of chagrin at this. “I think that has made it easier. It has been Moira and me for her entire life.”
Poppy’s past reminded him of her Jacquard loom: each tick of the punch card was another fact, doled out sparsely to keep him interested. Was everything between them a fabrication of his mind?
If she couldn’t trust him, what hope did they have?
“Thaddeus.” She said his name tentatively, as if trying it out first to see how it tasted upon her tongue. “I do want to help you find Anna’s killer. For her family, and for you. But my past is my past and I prefer it to stay that way. It’s not a reflection upon you. Since we met, you’ve been nothing but wonderful to me.”
His profession had made him distrust everyone around him; he saw lies in denials and omissions. Some people were simply more private than others. He should accept this. When he received Beauregard’s letter, he would disregard it.
“I’m pleased you have revised your opinion of me from ‘bit of a bounder’ to ‘wonderful,” he chuckled.
She colored. “I’m terribly sorry for that.”
“Nothing to apologize for.” He waved away her concern. “You were so devilishly intriguing with your in-and-out accent. I’m a gull for a mystery, as you well know.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” she laughed.
Her laughter made him bold. He reached out, tentatively placing his hand over top of Poppy’s. Her smaller fingers dovetailed against his palm, and she did not pull back. Heat against heat, he no longer felt so alone.
Thaddeus ought to be a gentleman and walk Poppy home. He was sure if he suggested this, Poppy would tell him exactly where to place his well-meaning concern. The thought of her roaming the rookeries alone worried him, as it had done that first night he’d met her, but he pushed it aside.
Poppy could take care of herself. She’d made that quite clear.
And so, he leaned against his door and he prayed that she wouldn’t immediately want to run home. He wasn’t ready for their time together to be over. She was tonic to his soul, soothing away all his doubts.
They stood on his stoop. A full moon shone high in the sky, a glistening, perfect orb that cast the sweetest of shadows across Poppy’s face. Abstractly, he marveled at the way the moon was the same shade as Poppy’s dress, a sea blue concoction with lace sleeves. Delicate as she was.
He decided that this dress was his favorite of hers for the way the waist cinched underneath her breasts. More lace trimmed her shoulders, calling out for him to touch her, to slide that fabric down and press his lips to the creamy skin of her neck and shoulders.
In the shadows of his stoop, with the moon silhouetted behind her red hair, Poppy Corrigan was a fiery angel. He’d never seen anything more striking.
They exchanged small talk about the weather. It was abnormally warm for April. A balmy breeze swayed the ribbons tied underneath her chin, holding her hat upon her head. He could attribute the rise in his body temperature to the heat—not the way she looked underneath the light of the moon.
She checked the pinning of her hat to make sure it was secure. Her fingers were callused. Another thing his family would disapprove of, for she was a working woman and her body bore the signs of it. Yet to him, calluses meant she cared enough about something to try for it.
“I think I understand now, why you do what you do. There’s something invigorating about going through that file.” She bit her lip, unsure if her reaction had been appropriate. “Obviously, I wish it hadn’t happened, and that Anna was with us. But…”
“It’s the puzzle,” he finished for her.
She nodded. “Precisely. Going over the differ
ent possibilities with you and weighing the options. I enjoyed tonight.” Her smile sent his heart racing.
He loved that smile. Hell, he knew that smile. The allure of “investigation fever,” as he liked to term it, had struck her too. Cheeks pinked with the notion she’d save the world somehow, she was stunning. He ached to tell her so—but he was a coward, a blind coward.
“Poppy,” he breathed more than spoke.
She inclined her head toward him, imploring him to continue speaking. Had he lost his mind? Was he fit for the madhouse to think there could be something more with her?
He was a man on the precipice, readying himself to jump off a cliff, and that jump would change his life forever.
“Thaddeus.” His name sounded like silk upon her lips, smooth and luxurious. A name for a man who could conquer nations, change the power structure of the world, and help others to find purpose in life.
And he believed he could do all those things with her help.
“Thank you. For meeting with me, for agreeing to help in the case.”
“I want to find who killed Anna,” she said. “I want to make sure they don’t hurt anyone else. I have friends at the factory that I don’t want to see hurt.”
“We’ll get the Larkers,” he vowed.
Quiet descended upon them. They were peaceable in their shared determination. The warm air wrapped around them, an embrace almost as comforting as her arms around him would have been.
“It is so wonderful out,” Poppy murmured. “I should go home, but Moira is spending the night with Kate and Daniel.”
“How is Moira?” Though he had only met the babe once, he couldn’t help but adore Moira because of the way Poppy’s eyes sparkled when she talked about her daughter.
Poppy’s grin lit up her face. It was a smile without pretensions, made more special because of its rarity. For once, she didn’t appear to be holding something back from him.
“Moira is doing well,” Poppy said. “She has learned a new word, doll, because of the clothespin doll you gave her. She quite loves it.”
