away from the ugly words anymore. Her murder. Rape and murder. I suppose I should be thankful that Rosing only tried to rape me when someone—someone in Richmond—murdered Maisy Carter. And she couldn’t do anything about it, and I can’t do anything about it. But you, you’re a man of influence and power. And you see things the way they really are, not just the way you wish them to be. You see and you understand. You see things I can’t see, and can’t understand. And with your power and authority, you can find out who did this. And you can make them pay.” Her voice sounded tight and breathy—on the verge of tears—and in her distress she reached out to grasp his hand. “Please, Your Grace. Would you please do this for me?”
She did not need to beg. She did not need to even ask—he had already said yes. But for her he would do anything. And everything. She had no idea—she had never experienced anything of life beyond the confining, rarefied circle of the ton —of what he was capable.
But she was asking as if it were the greatest favor in the world. And she was holding his hand—this exquisite, fragile flower of a girl he had been afraid to presume to touch.
And it was enchanting to be asked. It was beyond enchanting—it was bewitching. His chest was bursting with something more than mere pride. It was rude, impolite joy.
It was a dangerous joy to feel that she was counting upon him.
“Lady Claire, your wish is my command. But you are wrong. You can do something about it. You can help me. You can stay, and help me.” And then he said a word he had rarely used. “Please, Lady Claire. Please help me.”
She did not answer as he had expected—right away. Her glance skipped away from him and took a short trip around the room—from her torn gown and muddy, ruined shoes, to Miss Carter’s corpse, to his hands—before she looked back to him. “Why?”
Because he wanted her. Because he did not want his time with her to come to an early end. Because he wanted her compromised so completely in the eyes of society that she would accept the inevitable and marry him. Because he needed more time to convince her to do it willingly. “Because I need you,” he lied.
And he turned her hand within his own, and raised it to press a kiss to the center of her palm. Her skin was soft and supple beneath his lips, and still delicately scented with orange blossom and lily and rose, and still far, far too fine for the grubby likes of him.
But she did not tell him so. She did not disdain him.
Instead, it was as if a light had been kindled inside her. For the first time that evening, she looked incandescent, transformed back into the luminous girl he had worshiped. Her wide blue eyes softened, and she looked, if not exactly happy with her bruised, scratched face, then happier than she had been thus far that night. “Yes,” she said finally. “I’d like that. I should very much like to help you.”
“Thank you.” He gave her hand—her sweet, fine, bone-china hand—a gentle squeeze of thanks before she drew it away, and folded it up with her other.
She spoke so low, he almost didn’t hear her say, “Thank you for needing me.” But then she physically shook off any further hint of melancholy with a brisk little toss of her blond head and asked, “Where do we start?”
Tanner had to pull his attention back to the task at hand. “With Mr. Pervis, and with this fob.”
Tanner held the gold piece up to examine more closely in the light of the lamp. The piece had all the appearance of being a Roman coin—it was impressed with the image of a man riding a horse, standing on top of a triumphal arch, and some Latinate words—but Tanner was certainly no scholar.
His thief’s instinct told him only that the coin itself was valuable, and the ornate gold setting of the fob was expensive and well made. Experience told him it would fetch a pretty penny with a fence he knew up on Jewin Street.
But he was no longer
She did not need to beg. She did not need to even ask—he had already said yes. But for her he would do anything. And everything. She had no idea—she had never experienced anything of life beyond the confining, rarefied circle of the ton —of what he was capable.
But she was asking as if it were the greatest favor in the world. And she was holding his hand—this exquisite, fragile flower of a girl he had been afraid to presume to touch.
And it was enchanting to be asked. It was beyond enchanting—it was bewitching. His chest was bursting with something more than mere pride. It was rude, impolite joy.
It was a dangerous joy to feel that she was counting upon him.
“Lady Claire, your wish is my command. But you are wrong. You can do something about it. You can help me. You can stay, and help me.” And then he said a word he had rarely used. “Please, Lady Claire. Please help me.”
She did not answer as he had expected—right away. Her glance skipped away from him and took a short trip around the room—from her torn gown and muddy, ruined shoes, to Miss Carter’s corpse, to his hands—before she looked back to him. “Why?”
Because he wanted her. Because he did not want his time with her to come to an early end. Because he wanted her compromised so completely in the eyes of society that she would accept the inevitable and marry him. Because he needed more time to convince her to do it willingly. “Because I need you,” he lied.
And he turned her hand within his own, and raised it to press a kiss to the center of her palm. Her skin was soft and supple beneath his lips, and still delicately scented with orange blossom and lily and rose, and still far, far too fine for the grubby likes of him.
But she did not tell him so. She did not disdain him.
Instead, it was as if a light had been kindled inside her. For the first time that evening, she looked incandescent, transformed back into the luminous girl he had worshiped. Her wide blue eyes softened, and she looked, if not exactly happy with her bruised, scratched face, then happier than she had been thus far that night. “Yes,” she said finally. “I’d like that. I should very much like to help you.”
“Thank you.” He gave her hand—her sweet, fine, bone-china hand—a gentle squeeze of thanks before she drew it away, and folded it up with her other.
She spoke so low, he almost didn’t hear her say, “Thank you for needing me.” But then she physically shook off any further hint of melancholy with a brisk little toss of her blond head and asked, “Where do we start?”
Tanner had to pull his attention back to the task at hand. “With Mr. Pervis, and with this fob.”
Tanner held the gold piece up to examine more closely in the light of the lamp. The piece had all the appearance of being a Roman coin—it was impressed with the image of a man riding a horse, standing on top of a triumphal arch, and some Latinate words—but Tanner was certainly no scholar.
His thief’s instinct told him only that the coin itself was valuable, and the ornate gold setting of the fob was expensive and well made. Experience told him it would fetch a pretty penny with a fence he knew up on Jewin Street.
But he was no longer
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