Brass Carriages and Glass Hearts

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  His lips twitched. “Hmm. I suppose we must content ourselves with a friendly disagreement over the reality of the matter.”

  “Yes, I suppose we must. Now, tell me, did you find anyone suspicious in the boutique? I was most relieved at the lack of assassins in the dressing rooms.”

  He glanced at her and braced one arm along the back of the seat, his hand near her shoulder. He seemed casual enough, but she knew everything he did was calculated. His eyes took in the streets and the people outside the carriage even as they conversed, and the casual posture he affected allowed him a more natural view of the area through the side and back windows.

  “I noted three assassins and dispatched them posthaste to Newgate. Realizing there is little that is more important than a woman being fitted for her wardrobe, I took extra care to be efficient and quick.” He tipped his head deferentially toward her.

  “I do not know if I should be amused that you are willing to engage in silly wordplay or irritated that you would so roundly insult me and my entire gender.”

  “You’ll forgive the assumption, but a man of modest means and little exposure to polite society must rely on conjecture and limited observation.”

  She scoffed. “Detective-Inspector Reed, you see the entire world at a glance, and nothing escapes your notice. You do not rely on conjecture or limited observation to form an opinion.”

  He was quiet for a moment, and she wondered what he was thinking, as his face gave nothing away.

  A shout near some shops caught his attention, and her heart thumped despite her resolve to pretend she hadn’t a death threat looming over her head. He took it in as he did everything else—with a few seconds of analysis, a barely discernable twitch of tension in his muscles, and then relaxation as the shout proved to be nothing more than a friendly argument. He turned his head and studied her with that same analytical expression.

  “Emmeline, I owe you an apology.”

  Her heart stuttered. Usually, hearing her name in its entirety meant nothing good, but on his lips, it was somehow . . . well, it was something. She cleared her throat. “And why would that be, Oliver?” She tested his given name, thinking she would sound playful. Instead, she sounded rather breathless, and it made her scowl.

  “I am perhaps proving you wrong, to some extent. You suggest I do not form opinions based on limited observation, and yet I have formed erroneous opinions about you based on observations obtained mostly in—well, contentious circumstances.” He paused. “I had assumed you to be a person of extreme self-preoccupation.”

  His comment stung, and she stared at him for a moment before looking away and biting the inside of her lip. She opened her mouth, but the words caught. She cleared her throat and swallowed. “My entire preoccupation, my entire world these last few years has focused on righting the wrongs to the shifter community. It has given me a sense of purpose, I suppose, but no small amount of trial as well.” Her lips tightened. She didn’t know why she felt the need to explain herself to him. His opinion of her meant nothing, and furthermore, he’d been one of those trials that had made her life difficult.

  “Emmeline.”

  She didn’t trust herself to look at him. Her eyes felt suspiciously hot.

  He placed his fingertips on her shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. “Emme.”

  She huffed a small sigh and looked at him, narrowing her eyes and forcing back the mere thought of self-conscious tears. Why on earth would she allow his opinion of her to carry such weight?

  “I have never doubted your devotion to the cause, never once considered you selfish. In my mind, your life and your activism have been one, and it was my erroneous assumption that your perception allowed analysis of only those things. I ought to have realized you’d figured me out as well. I’ve never doubted your intelligence, merely the scope of your observation.” He paused. “If I have wounded your sensibilities, I apologize.”

  “Wounded my sensibilities,” she muttered and looked away again. “Detective, if my sensibilities weren’t wounded the first time you carried me over your shoulder out of the PSRC meeting gallery, they certainly aren’t now.”

  “Ah yes. That was the second time I’d had occasion to make your acquaintance. I don’t think I ever formally apologized for knocking the breath out of your lungs so abruptly.”

  Emme cast him a side glance, her bruised feelings easing. “You’ve performed that maneuver more than once. It would be good of you to apologize now.”

  He inclined his head. “You have my apology. It would also be good of you to say, ‘Detective-Inspector Reed, I apologize for the yelling and repeated beating of the cowbell that disrupted the meeting and necessitated your presence in the first place.’”

  She sighed. “Ah, but that would be an insincere apology.”

  He smiled before turning his attention back to the street. “As would mine.”

  Finally, her lips twitched into a reluctant smile. His glib admission had garnered him more respect from her than anything else he could have said.

  They continued in comfortable silence for a time, and her thoughts turned to the amount of time she had at her disposal before leaving town. She pulled her notebook from her reticule and flipped through pages of notes, lists, and a multitude of tasks that ordinarily wouldn’t have overwhelmed her. She wasn’t ordinarily concerned for life and limb, however, and was finding it bothersome.

  “The visit with Carlo this afternoon will not be long,” she told him as she added a note to one of the lists.

  “Carlo?”

  “Oh,” she shook her head, distracted. “Signore Giancarlo. ‘Carlo’ is his address of preference casually.”

  “I’ve never met the man, only heard he is of a noble Italian family and galvanized the shifter relations community into a strong, international voice.”

  She smiled. “That he has. I was intimidated at our first meeting, but he is charming and humble, disarming.”

  Oliver’s attention vacillated between their conversation and the street around them. “He must be personable to establish such familiarity with colleagues so quickly. Not common in elder generations.”

  Emme looked up in surprise. “Oh, he is not elderly; perhaps that accounts for it. Plus, he is Italian, you know, and very warm.”

  Oliver looked at her, brows raised in equal surprise. “I had assumed . . . That is, I supposed one who had made such accomplishments on an international stage would be of a . . . mature nature.”

  “One might assume as much, but as a matter of fact, he and I are the youngest of the entire organization. Most of our members and representatives have known several years of experience in the field.”

  Oliver studied her, his expression inscrutable. “It is certainly to your credit that you’ve accomplished so much at a young age.”

  Emme shook her head and waved her hand. “I do not fool myself entirely. As the face of the organization, it has not escaped my attention that my literal face may have played a significant role in securing the position more than my merit. I do hope I’m proving myself as more than just a pleasant image, however. I’ve been told by the representative from Austria-Hungary that I compensate for my lack of experience with enthusiasm.” She smiled and turned again to her notes.

  Oliver was silent for a moment and then said, “Not only have I misjudged you, I was completely wrong.”

  Emme frowned. “How so?” She added a note to the margin of her packing list to insist her mother track down the larger trunk as the necessity of it was her fault.

  “You’re not self-absorbed. I do believe you’re entirely self-ignorant.”

  She jerked her head up and squinted at him. “I do not even know what that means.”

  “The attention you brought to the Extermination Act culminated in its dismissal. Do you not suppose that such an accomplishment would warrant a person a fairly significant role in any r
elated organization?”

  “I was one of many voices, and I would never delude myself into believing otherwise.”

  He shifted in his seat, brows drawn together as he looked at her. “Yours is the loudest, by far, Miss Emmeline, and you may trust my authority on the matter.”

  She rolled her eyes and folded her hands over her notebook, giving him her full regard. “Detective, I have a pleasant, young face and a healthy inheritance. I am an idealist but also a realist. Due to absolutely no effort of my own, I am a woman of privilege, and it would be irresponsible of me to ever forget it. As lovely as it would be to think I have achieved some measure of status due to my merits, I must be honest.”

  “Why would you not allow it to be both?”

  “Privilege and merit?”

  “Certainly.”

  She tipped her head, pensive. “Perhaps the privilege allows for quicker development of merit.” She paused, concerned she presented a false sense of humility. “I—”

  She fumbled for the words, unsure she could define her emotions even to herself. Always, the emotions. “I have seen children lose mothers or fathers to either the Committee’s unholy zealotry or need to hide from the Committee’s unholy zealotry.” She paused again, frowning. “I do not understand why some people are dropped at fortune’s doorstep and others must fight daily, continually, for the opportunity to simply live. To be treated with fairness and decency. Or to be left alone, if desired.”

  Her throat closed, and she cleared it. “To be teased or insulted for another’s entertainment is unpleasant enough. To be persecuted—hunted? That is unthinkable, and if others with the means and the time can speak on behalf of those marginalized . . . Well, then, they should do it.”

  Silence filled the carriage, and she looked out the window, uncomfortable. “I do not mean to sound didactic. You will think I am preaching, no doubt. A bored young woman of means who champions a cause that has nothing to do with her.”

  She heard his quiet inhale and exhale. “I am thinking I have no doubt as to the reasons for your appointment as the spokeswoman for the International SRO.”

  She turned to look at him, unsure if she ought to brace for sarcasm or perhaps some sort of censure. She’d always expected it from him, even as she never understood how he maintained a brotherly friendship with a predatory shifter while simultaneously working to thwart her efforts.

  “I’ve never heard Emmeline O’Shea speak to the crowd before the riot. I’ve not taken the opportunity, and I should have.”

  The tension in her shoulders eased, but only slightly. “Would you have supported my work rather than stymied it?”

  His lips twitched. “No.”

  She frowned and thumped her hands on her notebook. “Whyever not? Lord Blackwell is your best friend.”

  “As long as your work includes a decent into social mayhem, my work necessitates a return to order.” A ghost of a smile played on his lips, but his focus was direct, and she felt pinned to her seat. “You should not assume you are alone in your attempts to affect change. Many of us approach the same issue but from different vantage points. Different methods. One doesn’t necessarily negate the other, and probably all are necessary in their own way.”

  She scrutinized him, wishing he would speak with less nuance and more detail. “Dare I hope you’ve committed legally questionable acts in the name of the greater good?”

  “Even if I had, I would not admit such to you.”

  She frowned. “That does not stand to reason. If ever there was a person who would appreciate such activity, it is I.”

  “Be that as it may, I do not feel the need for a confidante.”

  “Pity,” she grumbled, more to herself than him.

  He gave her a sidelong glance, clearly amused. “The horror of my personal matters falling into your hands is quite enough to keep me awake at night.”

  She huffed and turned back to her notebook. “As if sharing secrets with me would put them at risk of exposure. Quite the opposite, you should know.”

  She sniffed, piqued. She wasn’t sure why—she’d never cared to know Detective-Inspector Reed’s secrets before. He was an intriguing puzzle, and the more time she spent with him, the more evident that became. She would never have guessed that he attempted in any way to affect societal change. In her mind, he’d been stuffy, unyielding, and entirely unsympathetic to any entity other than his precious law.

  “I shall bear that in mind,” he said. There was humor in his voice, but when she glanced at him, he was as impassive and impossible to read as ever.

  It shouldn’t matter one way or the other whether she could read him. They were not friends, and they could be considered colleagues only in the loosest of terms. No, understanding the inner workings of Oliver Reed’s mind was so low on the list of her priorities as to be nonexistent. She would tolerate his company for the next two weeks, and when their time together ended, she might not know him any better than she did now, an idea she was entirely comfortable with. Fine, in fact. Better than fine. They were oil and water, the two of them, naturally repelling each other. She was grateful for the professionalism he possessed because it would keep her safe, but such was the extent of their connection.

  The carriage swayed and bumped lightly as they traveled to the Tea Room, and the length of Oliver’s leg brushed up against hers. She glanced down in irritation, her frown deepening when the detective made no move to shift away. What was it about the male species that they seemed to expect, as their due, the right to space? Acreage. Even the most proper of her male acquaintances, who sat with legs crossed and elbows in, seemed to occupy excess space around them with an extreme sense of entitlement.

  She kept an irritated huff from escaping her lips but couldn’t stop the eye roll as she flipped absently through her notebook. Her attention was scattered, her focus far-flung and unlikely to return until she was no longer in such close confines with the detective. She wondered absently if the heating mechanism inside the carriage had been activated.

  She subtly checked the instrument switch panel on the side of the vehicle, noting the heat indicator was in the neutral position. She scowled.

  “What is it?” Oliver asked, his voice a pleasantly low rumble that entered her ear and traveled insidiously through to her extremities.

  “Nothing,” she snapped. “It grows warm, and I do not care for it.”

  “Perhaps you carry a fan?”

  “Perhaps you carry a fan!” Even as the phrase left her lips, she drew her own brows together in befuddlement. As arguments went, her statement was ridiculous. Why would he carry a fan?

  His lips twitched. “I do not,” he said, appearing to deeply consider the topic, “but I suppose I could from this point forward as a service to you.”

  She took a measured breath. “Kind of you to offer, Detective, but that is unnecessary. I do indeed have a fan of my own—several, in fact. One for each ensemble.”

  “Shall I retrieve it for you? From your reticule?”

  Emme was certain heat in the form of steam was escaping her ears. What a ridiculously inane conversation. The notion that this man who was her nemesis—she mustn’t forget—was teasing her flitted on the edges of her thoughts, and she brushed it away angrily. They had no business discussing fans or any other sort of accessory.

  She opened her reticule with more force than necessary and shoved her hand in, her fingers closing around her fan. She pulled it out and flipped it open with a flair worthy of a French courtesan. She waved it in her face and glanced at him, only to see his familiar, assessing regard.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she ground out. “But perhaps matters might be improved upon if you were to move your person over on the bench. This carriage is ridiculously small.”

  He raised a brow in surprise. “Oh, you ought to have said so earlier. I was unaware you were fee
ling cramped. Here.” He put his hand on the seat between them and then moved to the bench opposite her. “There. Much more room.”

  She nodded stiffly, still fanning herself and relishing the light breeze. The problem now, however, was that he was positioned directly in her line of sight, and his long legs stretched forward until he was nearly into her personal space yet again. He’d braced his feet on either side of hers, and she was irritated that he didn’t turn to the side slightly and cross one leg atop the other. It would have been the polite thing to do. It was highly suspicious, because she knew he possessed impeccable manners.

  She drew in a deep breath, briefly closing her eyes and counting to ten. For the rest of the brief ride, she scribbled notes in the margins of her lists, which kept her brain and hand partially occupied, though she was altogether too aware of the man sitting across from her, apparently not suffering ill effects from having spent the entire morning and early afternoon together. Or if he was, he hid it well. Of course, why should he be the irritated one? She wasn’t encroaching upon his space, his schedule, his entire life.

  That wasn’t completely true, she conceded, knowing he’d set his own life aside for hers, but she was happier wallowing in her own sense of victimhood and frustration. Perhaps it was better. If she was too busy being irritated with him, she was less likely to allow in the unsettling fears that stemmed from the Bad Letter and had continued through the accident that morning. Far better to find something—or someone—to be irritated with than to be afraid.

  The days leading to the Summit were filled with planning meetings with the International SRO and Signore Giancarlo, last-minute shopping, one additional dress fitting, and dinner with Daniel and Isla. Oliver was her shadow for the entirety, and, to her surprise, Emme found herself growing accustomed to his company. She even began asking for his opinion on a variety of issues that arose during the day, at first because he was often the only one at hand when she was mulling something over, and later because she realized his judgment was sound and she was of a similar mind with him more often than not.