“Thank you,” she said to the constable, but the words landed in Oliver’s ear. She pulled her arm back, holding a white cloth. She placed it against his cheek and held it for a moment, frowning at him, and then bit her lip as she examined the side of his face, lifting the edge of the cloth.
He was too stunned to move, completely at sea, entirely out of his element. The day before, when Oliver had expressed frustration over his role as Miss O’Shea’s bodyguard, Conley had said, “You’ll allow she’s extraordinarily pretty.” He swallowed. Pretty did not begin to describe Emmeline Castle O’Shea. The woman was a force of nature, and he was holding her intimately.
“Your face,” she muttered. “Perhaps we should visit Sam and Hazel.”
“I am fine,” he managed. He cleared his throat, trying to make sense of their tangled limbs. She still held the cloth pressed to his face, and when he moved his hand to his cheek, she shook her head.
“Wait.” She lifted the cloth and examined his face. Her eyes narrowed as she dabbed at his skin, gently at first, and then firmly.
He winced. “It will be fine.”
“Be still. You’ve rocks in your face.” Her eyes flicked to his, and she gave him a wry smile. “Surely a big, strong man can withstand a few scrapes.”
His mouth went slack. “Miss O’Shea, are you attempting to soothe my fears?”
“Well, forgive me, Detective, but you do seem a mite flustered. There.” She flicked away a pebble and dusted off his shoulder. “No more embedded rubble.” She flashed another smile, and he blinked. She folded the cloth and pressed it to his jaw. “Hold it here for a moment—there’s one spot that still wants to bleed.”
Oliver was so rarely caught off guard that he momentarily lost his objectivity. He placed his hand against the cloth and felt her flingers slip from beneath his. He took close note of her face; she was extremely pale. As she dropped her arm, she flinched in pain and put her hand to her shoulder.
“I knew you landed hard,” he murmured and wiped firmly at his jaw before dropping the handkerchief and gently probing her shoulder. “I am sorry. There was so little time. I tried to take most of the hit, but—”
“Don’t be silly. You saved my life.” She bit the inside of her lip, which he was coming to recognize as one of her nervous habits. She tilted her chin up, though, and put on a brave face. “Dare I hope that was an accident?”
“I do not know.”
“Do not ever shield me from the truth. I would have your word that you will always inform me when you learn something that concerns me.” She paused. “Please.”
“My primary objective is to keep you safe. As such, there may be instances where judgment must be mine to make.”
Her jaw tightened. “Will you compromise?”
“Not as it concerns your safety.”
She shook her head impatiently. “No. I mean, will you reach an agreement with me? If you will be honest, forthcoming at all times regardless of circumstance, I will follow your directive without question.”
One of the constables cleared his throat, and Emme held up a finger at him while still looking at Oliver. “I cannot bear remaining in the dark, Detective. Ignorance is the worst vulnerability of all.”
He nodded. “You have my word.”
Relief flickered in her eyes. “Thank you.”
“Sir?”
“Yes, Constable.” Oliver shifted his weight and looked down at himself, realizing Emme’s leg was bent at the knee and sprawled over one of his, which was extended. He raised a brow, glad there were few people about.
“Emme!” The cry carrying down the street pulled his attention, and he turned to see Sam and his wife, Hazel, running toward them.
“Oh, dear.” Emme sighed and moved, kicking Oliver in the process and offering a mumbled, “Apologies,” before shoving herself upright.
Oliver also stood, dusting his clothing, his actions and occasional grunt of discomfort mirroring Emme’s.
“Well, we are a sight, aren’t we,” she muttered. She pulled at the side of her coat and twisted around, trying ineffectually to wipe dirt from her back.
Oliver awkwardly brushed her shoulder, dropping his hand when she subtly winced. Instead, he took stock of his own clothing, noting a small tear near the jacket hem. He removed his coat and shook it as Hazel skidded to a stop next to them, grasping Emme’s shoulders.
“Eugene said you were nearly run down by a carriage!” Hazel held Emme at arm’s length and looked her up and down. “He witnessed the whole incident from the front window!”
Emme’s face brightened, and Oliver watched her transform into the devil-may-care woman he so often encountered in times of trouble. She rolled her eyes and, with a small laugh, hugged her friend. “I am completely fine, as you can see. It was an odd accident and nothing more.”
She met Oliver’s gaze over Hazel’s shoulder and widened her eyes at him with a subtle shake of her head. Her attention flitted briefly to Sam, and then she pulled back from Hazel with another smile.
“Accident?” Sam murmured to Oliver. “And why are you here?”
One of the constables handed Oliver his notebook and pencil, which had gone flying in the chaos. He pocketed them as he regarded Sam. “Protective detail.”
Sam pursed his lips and nodded. “So, not an accident.”
Emme interrupted, motioning to Oliver’s face. “Dr. MacInnes, perhaps you’ll offer your professional opinion regarding the detective’s wound. Will he require bandaging?” She looked at Oliver. “I’m happy to continue to Castles’ alone. I can meet you there later, if you’d like.” She brushed a hand over her coat again as the family carriage finally approached.
Oliver narrowed his eyes. Such a plan would fit beautifully with Emme’s clear preference to go about her day independently. Her acceptance of the situation was tenuous; he’d not be surprised to learn that a corner of her brain still believed her life wasn’t truly in danger.
“My face is fine,” he told her drily and wiped at his bloodied cheek again with the constable’s donated handkerchief.
Sam frowned and moved closer as if to take a look, but Oliver brushed his hand aside. He spied Emme’s notebook on the ground and retrieved it and her hat. “Your notes. We’d best be off in order to maintain your schedule for the day.” He motioned to the constables and quietly said, “One of you remain here. The other go around to these homes and talk to witnesses. Take down every detail, no matter how small.”
“Yes, sir.” The constables nodded.
By now, the ruckus had alerted the butler and two other servants from inside. Emme huffed out a breath. She shrugged out of her dirtied coat and handed it to the butler, saying, “Wouldn’t you know, the weather has warmed considerably! Barnesworth, please give the pelisse to my maid for immediate laundering.” A brisk gust of wind rushed over the group, nullifying her statement.
“Here.” Hazel removed her own light-colored coat and placed it around Emme’s shoulders.
“Nonsense, Hazel, I—”
Hazel’s lips firmed, and she looked in Emme’s eyes as she reached for Emme’s wrist and shoved it into the sleeve. “Something is amiss, but I’ll not insist on explanations now.”
Emme closed her mouth and obediently threaded her other arm through the other sleeve. Hazel straightened the collar and tucked a few stray curls back into Emme’s braid. “We’ll visit later, make no mistake.” She took Emme’s hat from Oliver and placed it carefully back on Emme’s head.
Oliver still held Emme’s notebook and pen, which he now handed to her. “Yes, we’ll chat later,” he told the MacInneses, who looked at them with a combination of concern and suspicion. “As it stands, we are late for a dress fitting.”
Sam’s eyebrow shot up, and Hazel squinted, first at him, then Emme.
“Miss O’Shea,” Oliver said and gestured to the carriage, whe
re a footman held open the door.
Emme planted a quick kiss on Hazel’s cheek. “I am well. I promise.” She turned and accepted the driver’s hand, climbing into the carriage.
Oliver followed closely on her heels, suspicious she might give the driver instructions to leave him behind. With a quick wave to their friends, who were still frozen in place, Oliver settled into the seat across from Emme.
Emme blew a kiss to Hazel through the window, giving her a quick smile as the carriage pulled away from the curb. The smile slowly faded as the carriage moved down the street, and Emme settled back, resting her head against the seat.
She closed her eyes and said, “It may have been only an accident. A novice driver, perhaps.”
“Perhaps.” He felt the opposite to be true, and he suspected she did, also. He reached into his pocket and retrieved his own unsoiled handkerchief and handed it across to her. “You’ve a smudge of dirt, just there.” He motioned to her jawline.
“Oh,” she said, and taking it from him, rubbed her face, somehow managing to wipe every part of her skin except the dirty segment. “Thank you. Wouldn’t do to arrive at the boutique looking as though I’ve been playing games at the park.”
He frowned and gestured impatiently to the handkerchief, which she returned with a smirk.
“I wasn’t going to keep it, Detective.”
He scoffed and shook his head, moving toward her with a beckoning motion. “You’ve missed the spot entirely.”
She scooted forward warily, turning her head as he took her chin in one hand and wiped at the dirt with the cloth.
What had begun perfunctorily enough merged into a moment altogether more intimate. He’d never had occasion to gently hold her face, and he was disconcerted to note the softness of her skin beneath his fingertips. She swallowed, and the subtle movement of her throat drew his attention to the lines of her neck and the evidence of a rapid pulse just beneath her skin.
He cleared his throat and pulled back slightly, dismayed to see the stubborn dirt clinging to her face. “Doesn’t want to come clean,” he murmured, for the first time feeling awkward in her presence.
The corner of her mouth turned up. “Please do not spit on the cloth. It will bring to mind my mother’s relentless scrubbing and scolding when I played as a child.”
“There,” he said, relieved to have most of the spot cleared, and pocketed the cloth. “Unfortunately, the rest seems to be a small bruise.” He settled back into his seat and considered flipping through his notebook to give his hands something to do.
“Thank you.” She nodded once, completely composed, and had he not seen the evidence of her rapidly beating heart, he’d have believed she was unaffected by the awkward moment. Of course, she might still be feeling the aftereffects of nearly being run down by a carriage.
“You’ll want to glance in a mirror.” He gestured to her cheek. “To be sure the spot is gone.”
“No, I mean, thank you, Detective, for saving my life. Accident or no, I might be in very different circumstances right now if not for your quick action.” A light flush stained her cheeks, and she looked down at her hands.
“You’re welcome.” He smiled in spite of himself when her right knee began bouncing. It was her tell. Agitation, nervousness, discomfort—that bounce signaled her state of mind while seated. He’d have to observe her while standing; she was rarely still, so he had no notion of her idiosyncrasies then. Of course, it could be that her constant movement was another tell.
She was complicated—most people were—and he rarely made the mistake of analyzing a person in only one dimension. Defining Emmeline O’Shea as “a nuisance” had been tidy and convenient for him but would no longer suffice. If he were to truly keep her safe, he figured he’d better start digging.
Emme forced herself to be still. She stood on a stool in one of Castles’ Boutique’s three plush fitting rooms as two seamstresses pinned her dress. It was the eighth dress her mother insisted she’d needed, and with an inwardly resigned sigh, she mentally readjusted the size of traveling trunk she’d need.
A quick knock sounded before the door opened a crack to reveal Hester and Lysette, who slipped into the room and took stock of the progress, both examining Emme with hands on hips.
“Lovely,” Hester announced with a satisfied nod. “The ice-blue is perfect, just as I knew it would be.” She smiled at Emme. “You’ll wear this when you address the international representatives the last night of the Summit.”
Emme’s heart thumped at the pride in Hester’s expression. She smiled, absurdly wishing she and her mother could spend the day together alone, just the two of them.
“Have you been falling out of trees again, Emmeline? You’ve an enormous bruise on your shoulder blade and elbow!” Lysette’s voice carried from behind and grew as the young woman circled around Emme to stand beside Hester.
Hester frowned and moved around Emme. “Oh, Emmeline!”
Lysette’s mouth ticked up slightly. It was inevitable. Lysette smelled blood and circled like a shark.
Emme gritted her teeth. “A minor skirmish with a runaway carriage, Mother. It was not intentional, I assure you.”
There was a beat of silence, and then Hester appeared in front of Emme. Even the seamstresses pinning the dress paused as though fearful of her reaction. “Runaway carriage?”
“Yes. An accident, nothing more.”
Hester pursed her lips, spots of color appearing high on her cheeks. “I’ll speak to Detective-Inspector Reed. Why was he not protecting you?”
“He was. His quick thinking is the reason I was spared.” Emme flicked a glance at Lysette, exasperated when her stepsister arched a brow and lifted one corner of her mouth. Why? Why did Lysette find it necessary to bring attention to Emme’s flaws? Was she looking to cause problems with Hester?
Hester grasped Emme’s hand. “Perhaps it wasn’t an accident. It might have been an attempt on your life!”
“It was an accident,” Emme told her evenly.
“You ought to have ridden with us after all,” Lysette said, studying a cuticle.
“Where is the detective now?” Hester clutched Emme’s fingers.
“Searching for nefarious perpetrators amongst the garters and ribbons.” Emme motioned to the store floor with her thumb.
“Shall I express our thanks for you, Mother? For saving Emmeline’s life?” Lysette asked.
“She doesn’t need you to speak for her,” Emme snapped.
“Girls, please, no quarreling.” Hester put her hand to her head and made her way to the door. “I’ll find the detective myself.” She left the room, Lysette close on her heels.
The seamstresses finished quickly and helped Emme out of the dress full of pins and needles and into a fresh dress; her breeches needed to be mended after the morning’s adventure. She was braiding her hair, thinking of how nice the detective had smelled when her nose had been pressed against his neck as he’d shielded her from danger—she frowned; finding him the least bit attractive was not part of her plan—when a knock sounded at the door.
A shopgirl stood there, with the detective himself hovering close behind.
“Miss O’Shea? The detective wonders if you are finished.” She glanced over her shoulder and then back to Emme.
“I can see that.” She nodded at Mr. Reed. “We must escape before my mother decides I need yet another dress. This fitting has thrown off my schedule.”
She looked around the store’s main level at the newest available fashions on display, matching accessories, glittering crystal chandeliers, and trays of small, sugared treats. The shop invoked feelings of warmth, and Emme had spent much of her life within its walls. It was only later as conflicts increased with Lysette that Emme’s relationship with the store had become complicated.
She waved to her mother, who was consulting with a customer. Hester
held up a finger and mouthed, “One moment!”
Emme shook her head and mouthed back, “I’ll be home tonight.” She made a beeline for the door, gritting her teeth with a smile as she stood aside for an influx of customers. A few women greeted her by name, which she answered with a small wave on her way out the door.
She pulled out her pocket watch, prepared to give the detective instructions, when she felt Oliver’s light touch on her back.
“This way,” he said, gesturing to a horseless carriage cab waiting in the street. “We should be on time for lunch.”
She blinked. “Oh. Well, excellent.” Emme held tight control over the operational details of her life, and she couldn’t decide if she was irritated he had taken the proverbial reins or grateful for the help.
The driver moved to climb down from the front seat of the carriage, but Oliver waved him back. “I’ll see to it,” he told the man. He flipped down the steps for Emme and offered his hand.
She stood for a moment, her mouth quirked at the irony of how their situation had changed. “Look at how well we play nicely together!” She took his hand, realizing she’d forgotten to put on her gloves—not a rare occurrence—and noted he didn’t wear any either. His hand was lean and strong, and she suddenly felt warmer than the air warranted. She settled into the seat, refusing to blush. Emmeline O’Shea was not the blushing kind.
The detective sat next to her, rather than across, and rapped the ceiling to signal the driver. The conveyance pulled into traffic with a clink of gears and a hiss of steam.
“There would never be occasion for us to behave with anything other than perfect cordiality if one of us would remember the rule of law and behave accordingly.” He tilted his head with a bland expression.
“Ha ha. Perhaps the other one of us should endeavor to remember the first is doing nothing but exercising her rights to protest unjust governmental tyranny and buffoonery.”
Brass Carriages and Glass Hearts Page 7
