hissing them out as far as her corset would allow. The rhythm soothed her and she forced a calm expression when Mr. Thrumble finally turned her way.
He laughed, a quick, mirthless chuckle. “Mrs. Guthrie, you have refused every offer of marriage that has been put to you in nearly ten years. One can only conclude you are either not overly fond of matrimony or your husband was a brute.”
He seemed unaware of her distress. Kate breathed a deep sigh of relief. No one knew what she’d experienced at Andrew’s hands, and she didn’t wish to sift those memories here, now, with Mr. Thrumble. Attempting to match the lightness of his tone, she offered him a grin before responding.
“I have great respect for the institution of marriage. You mention my father. My parents had the happiest of unions.”
“Then he was unkind, your husband. And I’m sorry for it, Katherine. You need never fear such treatment at my hands.” His cheeks pinked when he spoke her given name. He’d used it only once before and had secured her permission before doing so.
Was there another man in England as concerned with propriety as Solomon Thrumble? If such a man existed, Kate had certainly never met him. Detective Quinn would never—
Mr. Thrumble kneeled in front of her and stifled Kate’s thoughts about what Detective Quinn would or would not do.
Solomon reached for her hand. Then he bowed his head and cleared his throat.
A gust of wind whined through a crack in the windowpane and Kate heard the ticking of the mantle clock as loud and close as if she had cupped her ear to its glass face. Each moment Mr. Thrumble remained there, kneeling like a penitent before her, Kate thought only of escape. Of going upstairs and splashing cold water on her face. Of going back to Whitechapel and helping Detective Sergeant Quinn find Rose.
Mr. Thrumble lifted his head and Kate waited. Fatigue, frustration, even a trace of anger—she read them all in his expression. Yet she also recognized determination in the steely coolness of his gaze and the set of his jaw.
“Mrs. Guthrie. Katherine, if I may call you so. I have waited so long. Won’t you—”
Kate thought she heard a knock at the front door but guessed Sally or Will would hear it too. But the knock grew louder and the insistent noise stopped Mr. Thrumble midsentence. Kate turned her head toward the sitting room door and heard her name spoken in the entryway. Spoken in a voice that made her pulse flutter and a ripple of relief tickle the hair at the nape of her neck.
She stood, but Solomon remained kneeling and stared up at her. He opened his mouth to speak, and Kate took a breath to explain. But before either of them could say another word the sitting room door slid open and the tall, dark figure of Detective Quinn filled the frame.
He gazed at her face a moment before turning his attention to the man kneeling before her.
“Is it about Rose?” The fact he’d come in person made Kate fear the worst.
****
All the way to Pimlico Ben called himself a fool for seeking Kate at her home. She had an appointment, and whatever went on in her private life had nothing to do with him. One kiss afforded him no rights where Kate Guthrie was concerned, even if it had left him with an ache, an absence he suspected only she could fill.
In his uncertainty, he’d even turned away from her doorstep where the cabman dropped him and walked the few streets up to Belgravia, toward the elegant townhouse of his sister, Annabel. She might be his younger sibling, but her sense and insight were faultless. In his dither over Kate Guthrie, he yearned for a woman’s perspective. But even as he walked briskly to battle the chill in the air, he knew that speaking to Bel would lead to their mother’s involvement—and then his father. No, that he could not stomach.
He turned round and headed back toward Moreton Terrace, muttering to himself like a madman, arguing the merits and dangers of knocking on Kate Guthrie’s
He laughed, a quick, mirthless chuckle. “Mrs. Guthrie, you have refused every offer of marriage that has been put to you in nearly ten years. One can only conclude you are either not overly fond of matrimony or your husband was a brute.”
He seemed unaware of her distress. Kate breathed a deep sigh of relief. No one knew what she’d experienced at Andrew’s hands, and she didn’t wish to sift those memories here, now, with Mr. Thrumble. Attempting to match the lightness of his tone, she offered him a grin before responding.
“I have great respect for the institution of marriage. You mention my father. My parents had the happiest of unions.”
“Then he was unkind, your husband. And I’m sorry for it, Katherine. You need never fear such treatment at my hands.” His cheeks pinked when he spoke her given name. He’d used it only once before and had secured her permission before doing so.
Was there another man in England as concerned with propriety as Solomon Thrumble? If such a man existed, Kate had certainly never met him. Detective Quinn would never—
Mr. Thrumble kneeled in front of her and stifled Kate’s thoughts about what Detective Quinn would or would not do.
Solomon reached for her hand. Then he bowed his head and cleared his throat.
A gust of wind whined through a crack in the windowpane and Kate heard the ticking of the mantle clock as loud and close as if she had cupped her ear to its glass face. Each moment Mr. Thrumble remained there, kneeling like a penitent before her, Kate thought only of escape. Of going upstairs and splashing cold water on her face. Of going back to Whitechapel and helping Detective Sergeant Quinn find Rose.
Mr. Thrumble lifted his head and Kate waited. Fatigue, frustration, even a trace of anger—she read them all in his expression. Yet she also recognized determination in the steely coolness of his gaze and the set of his jaw.
“Mrs. Guthrie. Katherine, if I may call you so. I have waited so long. Won’t you—”
Kate thought she heard a knock at the front door but guessed Sally or Will would hear it too. But the knock grew louder and the insistent noise stopped Mr. Thrumble midsentence. Kate turned her head toward the sitting room door and heard her name spoken in the entryway. Spoken in a voice that made her pulse flutter and a ripple of relief tickle the hair at the nape of her neck.
She stood, but Solomon remained kneeling and stared up at her. He opened his mouth to speak, and Kate took a breath to explain. But before either of them could say another word the sitting room door slid open and the tall, dark figure of Detective Quinn filled the frame.
He gazed at her face a moment before turning his attention to the man kneeling before her.
“Is it about Rose?” The fact he’d come in person made Kate fear the worst.
****
All the way to Pimlico Ben called himself a fool for seeking Kate at her home. She had an appointment, and whatever went on in her private life had nothing to do with him. One kiss afforded him no rights where Kate Guthrie was concerned, even if it had left him with an ache, an absence he suspected only she could fill.
In his uncertainty, he’d even turned away from her doorstep where the cabman dropped him and walked the few streets up to Belgravia, toward the elegant townhouse of his sister, Annabel. She might be his younger sibling, but her sense and insight were faultless. In his dither over Kate Guthrie, he yearned for a woman’s perspective. But even as he walked briskly to battle the chill in the air, he knew that speaking to Bel would lead to their mother’s involvement—and then his father. No, that he could not stomach.
He turned round and headed back toward Moreton Terrace, muttering to himself like a madman, arguing the merits and dangers of knocking on Kate Guthrie’s
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