“We have that in common,” Emme said with a wry smile. “Besides, people’s auras are always muddled during the holidays. Too much stress, I suppose.”
He paused. “People’s . . . auras?”
She sighed and muttered, “Never mind.”
“No, no. Are you telling me, Emmeline, that you read auras?”
She frowned, her brows creasing. “And if I do? It is not unheard of, I’ll have you know, nor does it make a freak of me.”
He shook his head. “I am suggesting no such thing. My mother read auras, so I’ve a healthy respect for it. I am . . . surprised. I think I understand the workings of your brain only to realize I do not. You are an enigma.”
She studied him for a moment, chewing on her lip. Soft light from the Tesla torches lining the hallway glinted off his thick, dark hair. His brown eyes were warm, and for a fanciful moment, she imagined he could see through her.
“How does an ability to see auras conflict with whatever interpretation of me you had formed?” she asked.
“You are practical, logical, efficient. Such personalities are often removed from outbursts of emotion.” He paused.
“Continue.”
He tilted his head. “Seeing you protesting at events, leading activities for the organization, one might assume you are a creative sort, very much an emotional sort. But in casual conversation, in the general ebb and flow of daily activities, you are structured, well-ordered. Efficient, tidy. Little use for fluff.”
He paused as if waiting for her response. She looked at him for a long moment, weighing her words and trying to decide what to tell him. She finally sighed.
“I am, by nature, efficient and well-ordered. I prefer a day free from chaos. But I have inside me”—she paused, her voice low, and gestured with her hand—“so many feelings. Some of them are my own. Many of them come from others. As a child, I was bombarded by it, and I saw auras everywhere. By the time I realized it was abnormal, I was old enough to realize I would have to find a solution on my own.”
She took a breath and continued. “I can control the bombardment. Usually. I do not often let it in. People are quite easily read without it. You, however, are not. Well,” she amended dryly, “our usual exchanges are easily enough understood. I am not burdened by you, however, in the manner I experience with others. For that I am grateful.”
Silence fell in the hall for a moment. She finally quietly added, “I do not share that part of myself. With anyone, Oliver. Ever.”
He swallowed, looking intensely uncomfortable. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and met her eyes.
“You would appreciate an intimate admission in kind. Very well.” He paused. “My younger brother, Lawrence, is a vampire,” he admitted quietly. “He lives in Scotland, and last I knew, he was part of a rather nefarious group.” He paused. “I am well-placed professionally to have reached out to law enforcement across the border for more information, but my attempts have been . . . lackluster.” His voice was low, and he fell silent.
She nodded slowly. “You avoid it. I would do the same.” One corner of her mouth tilted up, but she felt a deep stab of sadness for him. “Families are quite the complicated lot. You’ve seen mine.”
He returned her almost-smile. “Complicated. Indeed.” He stepped farther into the hallway. “The day has been . . . eventful. You should rest. Brinley and Tyler will be on patrol outside, on rotation with another pair of constables, around the clock. Should anything untoward occur, alert them at once, and they will contact me.”
“I imagine we shall be fine.” She frowned. “You should rest as well, detective. You seem ready to drop on the spot.” Her mouth turned up then—fully, smugly. “Perhaps you are not accustomed to such a long day’s work.”
He laughed and shook his head as he made his way down the hallway. “That must be the reason,” he said over his shoulder. “My usual day involves a steady diet of bonbons and the theatre.” He paused at the end of the corridor and looked back with a polite nod. Then he rounded the corner and was gone.
No, Miss O’Shea, I will not wait outside the boutique. I will be both outside and inside, observing.” Oliver didn’t know why he’d assumed the day would be a smooth one with few conflicts. They had yet to leave O’Shea property and already the woman was questioning his methods.
The carriage had settled at the curb, and the driver held the door open for them, but Emmeline merely regarded Oliver with a raised brow that, if he’d been a lesser man, might have made him feel like a fool.
“Mr. Reed.” She motioned to the driver to wait and walked over to Oliver. “I appreciate your zeal. We must establish boundaries at the outset, however. I am not accustomed to anyone dogging my heels all day, and I should think you would enjoy a respite from my admittedly exhausting company. I truly cannot imagine danger befalling me while I shop in a building full of people.”
He eyed her evenly. “Two months ago, in Wilson’s Haberdashery, a clerk was stabbed five times in the supply room at the back of the store, arm’s length from oblivious shoppers on the other side of the curtain. The suspect was in and out of the establishment before anyone was the wiser.”
“Oh. Well.” She tapped her foot and looked at the waiting carriage. “Did you apprehend the suspect?”
“Of course.”
She looked at him, lips twitching in a smile. “Of course,” she repeated. She turned her attention to the house with a small shake of her head, and her expression changed, then stilled.
He followed her gaze to see her stepsisters exiting the house.
Lysette O’Shea was bedecked in an ensemble of dark blue and gray, while Madeline O’Shea, truly pretty in her own right, wore a similar style but in muted pastels. Lysette paused and looked Emme up and down, taking in the snug, light-colored breeches and boots, blouse and trim corset that, Oliver had to admit, rested quite nicely on her small frame. A small top hat perched at an angle atop her glossy black hair, which was fashioned into a simple braid hanging forward over her left shoulder.
Emme’s ensemble was typical for her, from what Oliver had witnessed, when she went about her daily business and activities, and sometimes to events she knew might require quick flight or escape. He knew whether an event might require extra manpower to oversee whenever one of his constables reported that “Miss O’Shea’s wearin’ breeches today.”
Emme met Lysette’s rude perusal with narrowed eyes and a smile. “Sisters,” she said. “You’re up and about early this morning.”
“We knew you planned to visit the boutique this morning, and since we also have finalizations on dress fittings,” Lysette told her, “we thought to join you.” She smiled at Oliver.
“The boutique is merely one of many stops on my agenda for the day. If you’re thinking to keep the carriage for your disposal, we should travel separately.”
“Nonsense. We’ll make arrangements when we’re finished at the shop. You may use the carriage as you will.”
Oliver watched the scene play out, learning the dynamics and undercurrents that shifted between the sisters. There was no love lost, that was painfully clear, and he’d realized the extent of Lysette’s penchant for troublemaking the night before when she’d slighted Emme in public.
Madeline, whom he had yet to hear utter a word, finally said, “We can take another carriage, Emmeline.” A faint smile played around her mouth, but at Lysette’s annoyed glance, she fell silent, her brows drawing together over her aqua-colored eyes before she smoothed her forehead into a neutral expression.
“Think nothing of it, Madeline,” Emme said to her with a quick smile. “Dover will help you into the carriage while I grab a wrap. The air is a touch colder than I expected.” She stepped to one side as the ’ton driver helped the other women into the carriage.
“Wait here,” Emme said under her breath to Oliver, then dashed inside. She returned moments
later with a light pelisse draped over one arm. Dover stood at the carriage, ready to assist Emme, but she waved him off. “Settle yourself at the controls, Dover. The detective can assist me.”
Oliver approached slowly, amused in spite of himself, and watched for his cues. He would wager his pension that he and Emmeline were not getting inside the carriage.
Emme made a show of putting her foot on the bottom step and then paused, looking behind the carriage at the empty street. “Oh, Detective-Inspector, I believe I see Isla’s carriage approaching. I must wait just a moment to be sure. Ladies, I’ll see you at the shop; I’ll ride with my cousin.”
Lysette responded, but her words were lost as Emme flipped up the steps, slammed the door shut, and pointed Dover forward.
The servant tipped his hat to her with a wink and set the carriage in motion. The carriage wobbled as someone moved erratically from inside, and Lysette opened a window. Her hand could be seen, and she yelled, “No! Detective, wait!”
Emme watched the vehicle disappear down the street before turning to Oliver with a sigh. “One irritant vanquished. For the moment.”
“Will the driver stop?”
“No. We have an understanding.”
“Might I assume Lysette doesn’t usually ask to accompany you around town?”
“You might, and you would be correct. She wants to weasel information from me or from you, or perhaps she seeks your company. Unfortunately for her, she doesn’t know the things I do.”
“Oh?” He put his hands in his pockets, affecting a casual stance even as his eyes flicked up and down the street, registering two nannies strolling with perambulators, four gardeners tending to roses in front gardens, and a delivery man circling around the house across the way with a wire crate of milk bottles. “What do you know that your sister doesn’t?” He had to admit curiosity. For all that he’d studied Emmeline O’Shea’s movements and general habits, knew of her deeply held convictions, there were aspects of the woman he suspected nobody knew.
“I know you play your cards close to your vest. After last night, you’ll have recognized her as one who manipulates, and so you’ll keep information from her—even the inconsequential—if only to prevent potential drama.” She looked up at him.
He tilted his head. “Astute. Guesswork, though? This charade over the carriage just now was of no import, but you gambled I would follow your lead. Our past interactions would have given you no indication I might.”
Her lips twitched. “Because our past interactions show a decided example of your desire for complete control over everything?”
He lifted a shoulder, and the corner of his mouth turned up, catching him by surprise. He was not one who smiled often.
She shrugged. “As much as you assume you have learned of me in the past few years, I have learned the same of you. Words cannot express the level of disappointment I would experience if a person of your integrity and intellect fell victim to my stepsister’s machinations.”
She paused. “She is mean, Detective. Cruel. If you were to fall under the spell she weaves, as so many unsuspecting men do, I would lose hope for your gender entirely.” She looked at him and then away, and he was surprised to see a light flush on her cheeks. She’d undoubtedly given him much more than she’d intended. “Wait here. I’ll instruct Barnesworth to have another carriage brought ’round.”
Oliver watched as she went back to the door and poked her head inside. She gave instructions to the butler as she shrugged into her pelisse, her movements precise and efficient. She was physically strong and quicker than he’d ever imagined possible, especially the first time he’d been forced to give chase. She’d been caught spying on a PSRC meeting from the grounds outside the building. He’d torn his trousers climbing over a gate she’d vaulted with seemingly little effort, and watched her vanish into the trees. That had been two years ago and had marked the beginning of a steep uptick in his attendance at Gentleman Maxwell’s Gymnasium.
She rejoined him at the curb and pulled a notebook and pen from a reticule hanging from her wrist. “Today’s itinerary, as you’ve requested. First, Castles’ Boutique for a torture session I hope will last less than one hour. I trust you will clear the storage rooms of any potential assassins.”
He withdrew his own notebook, glad they were finally getting to the business of her schedule. He shot her a flat look at her reference to the murder. “Continue.”
“I plan to dine with Isla and Daniel Pickett for an early luncheon at the Tea Room. Fortuitous for you, is it not?”
“Indeed. Odd that our social circles seem to overlap.”
She looked up at him, finger poised on her notebook. “Of course they overlap. My blood is not blue but for my mother’s marriage, Detective, and while you enjoy a reputation of certain renown, it is not from birthright either but from impressive military service.” She paused, her gaze turning speculative. “Which you left.”
“True enough.”
“Could have climbed through the ranks, they say.” She tapped her pen against her lip and narrowed her eyes. “Already well on your way . . .”
He nodded at her notebook. “Next item on the schedule.”
She regarded him for another long moment through narrowed eyes but finally turned back to her schedule. His military service and reasons for leaving were nothing he cared to discuss with anyone.
“Yesterday descended into mayhem, what with the Bad Letter and all, so I was forced to reschedule a meeting with the International Shifter Rights Organization president. Thankfully, he was willing to accommodate me. He hasn’t much time but is available today for twenty minutes at three o’clock.”
Oliver nodded. “Giuseppe Giancarlo?”
“Yes. His London office is in the International Relations Building, not far from the Tea Room, should our schedule run late.”
The International Relations Building housed organizations and committees from various countries, and security was tight. It was one of a few buildings where she ought to be safe. “Will I require official clearance to sit in the meeting?”
She frowned. “We’ll not be discussing state secrets. Not that I’m privy to those, Detective-Inspector. I daresay your clearance for all things secretive exceeds mine every day of the week.”
“Perhaps not so much now. I wonder if you realize the significance of your position. As the spokeswoman for the organization, you ought to have had personal security options in place long before now.”
“We discussed it briefly, but there didn’t seem to be a reason—until now.” She chewed on her lower lip for a moment and released it with a small sigh. “I shall see how matters stand once the Summit meetings conclude.”
An automated carriage sounded in the distance, and Oliver lifted his head to see it was a rented hack farther down the street and not one belonging to the family. Emme was jotting something in her notebook, and he glanced down at her schedule to see the next calendared item.
The carriage engine sounded louder as it approached, and the hair on Oliver’s neck stood up as he realized it was gaining speed at an alarming rate. He whipped his head up in time to see it barreling down upon them, swerving toward where he stood with Emme.
He threw his arms around her and hauled her back, stumbling. He tried to shield her as they fell to the pavement, but they came down hard on his arm and her shoulder. Wincing, he cradled her head with his hand as they rolled, and as they came to a painful stop, he lifted his eyes. The carriage was fast disappearing down the street, and he squinted to see any distinguishing marks on it.
“Sir!” Footsteps sounded beside them as the two uniformed constables assigned to the house that morning came running from the side yard. “Sir, are you hurt?”
Oliver grunted as he rolled slightly and looked at Emme. One of her arms was wrapped around his back, and her other hand clutched a fistful of his shirt. Her breath was quick,
and her large green eyes searched his, confused. They also held an element he’d never seen in her: fear.
“Are you hurt?” he managed. He tried to loosen his hold but felt as though his arms had locked in place. His hand still gripped the back of her head, and he forced his fingers to relax. The constables hovered nearby, apparently uncertain which limb to grab in assistance.
She inhaled shallowly and licked her lips, her expressive brow drawing in a frown. “Nothing broken, no. What on earth . . . I couldn’t see . . .”
“Carriage nearly ran us down.” He finally was able to loosen his arms, feeling the scrapes and bruises in full as he moved.
She pulled her arm from around his back and winced. She looked at his face. “Oh! You’re bleeding.” She looked up at the constables, who still gaped. “Give me a handkerchief.”
She shoved at Oliver’s chest, and he shifted to take his weight off her, involuntarily grunting when she caught him in the stomach with her elbow.
She winced again as they sat up, favoring her side, and he was reluctant to release her entirely. Dirt smudged her cheek, and her hat and notebook lay on the walk next to his. He looked down the street, but other than catching the attention of the gardeners and nannies, nobody else was about, and all was as it had been moments before.
“No, turn your head back this way.” Emme placed her hand on Oliver’s cheek and reached around his other shoulder, effectively embracing his head.
“I’ve got to see if there are other threats—”
“If you see a carriage, we’ll move.”
He was trying to see around her arm, which was reaching up to the constable who’d now moved behind him, probably in an effort to help them stand. Oliver turned his head toward her, and the tip of his nose brushed against her neck. He smelled the light floral scent he’d come to associate with her. He’d never experienced it in a situation that didn’t also involve one of them antagonizing the other, and he was suddenly very much aware of his arm still holding her, his hand splayed across her back.
Brass Carriages and Glass Hearts Page 6
