Reckless Wager: A Whitechapel Wagers Novel by Christy Carlyle Page A

door. But the moment he reached her doorstep—of just the sort of whitewashed fashionable townhouse he’d imagined—the hunger to see her again quieted his doubts. Her brother, William Selsby, as the man identified himself, appeared far from pleased to find Ben on their doorstep, but he’d politely admitted him nonetheless.
    As he entered the Selsby home, more comfortably furnished than fashion allowed, Ben smelled a trace of lavender over the enticing scent of roasted meat and baked apples. The scent comforted and lured him in equal measure. And there was no more doubt. Once he’d caught her scent, he couldn’t have turned back if Goliath appeared in his path.
    The raw pleasure of seeing Kate almost made him stumble. It had been less than an hour since they’d walked side by side, even held hands like paramours. Still the sight of her in fine clothes—a peach confection that highlighted the gold in her hair—in her comfortable home was sweet perfection, aside from the little man kneeling at her feet.
    The man began to move, grunting as he pushed himself upright. He positioned his short frame in front of Kate, as if to block Ben’s view of her. But his actions weren’t necessary to indicate what was already clear. This must be her fiancé. This was the man who had the right to touch her, kiss her lovely mouth, and, eventually, much more. Ben instantly, irrationally, loathed the man.
    Kate seemed to take no notice of the warning her fiancé signaled. She stepped around him and approached Ben.
    Lifting a hand, she grasped his arm, and Ben silently cursed the layers of shirt, coat, and overcoat that separated her bare hand from his skin.
    “Rose? Is she well? Have you found her?”
    The fire in the grate made her eyes glow, and the heat had reddened her lips and cheeks. The urge to lift his hand and touch her was overwhelming. He ached to trace the smooth curve of her cheek, sink his fingers into the pretty curls she’d arranged at the back of her neck, and touch his mouth to hers—just once more.
    “Rose is alive and we—”
    Before he could get the words out, Kate pressed close and embraced him. She fit in his embrace as if made for his arms, and he shook with the realization he could easily grow used to the press of her body against his.
    Her fiancé’s voice boomed against the walls of the sitting room. “Katherine! Control yourself. Sir, unhand her now.”
    Kate jumped at the sound of the man’s voice, pulled her body from Ben’s, and took a step away. She didn’t return to her fiancé’s side, but faced the man and paused before she spoke.
    “Mr. Thrumble, forgive my…exuberance. This is Detective Sergeant Quinn of the Metropolitan Police. He has come to tell me he’s found a young woman who’d gone missing. The woman I told you about earlier, the one I tended last night. I am so pleased to hear the news.”
    “I see. Well, whoever this Rose is, I am glad she’s well. Thank you, detective. Now if you will excuse us, we were just about to take luncheon.”
    Her fiancé’s clipped voice indicated he did not see at all. Was he unaware of Mrs. Guthrie’s activities in Whitechapel? He clearly knew few details of her encounter with Rose.
    Ignoring the man’s sharp glare, Ben focused on Kate, the way she nibbled her lower lip and clasped and then unclasped her hands. No use causing her distress. Was there any use being in her home at all? The man before him had staked his claim, and she seemed content to let him.
    “Forgive me, Mrs. Guthrie, for upsetting your luncheon plans.”
    Ben glanced at Mr. Thrumble. The man stared back expectantly, hands clenched at his sides, as if resisting the urge to throw Ben out bodily. “I hope you’ll excuse me too, sir.”
    “I am more than happy to excuse you. Good day to you.”
    The dismissal, so stiff, so formal, so self-assured reminded Ben of his father, and he struggled to repress a grin. How had he failed to master that priggish tone?
    “Thank you for