Reckless Wager: A Whitechapel Wagers Novel by Christy Carlyle Page B
Authors: Christy Carlyle
Ads: Link
coming to deliver news of Rose. Won’t you join us for luncheon?”
Kate’s voice wavered as she spoke, and Ben wondered if she was simply being polite or pleading with him not to leave her with Mr. Thrumble. No, that was wishful thinking. If nothing else, he suspected she was curious for more details about Rose.
“Mrs. Guthrie.” Mr. Thumble hissed her name, as if only Kate might hear his admonition. But Ben didn’t need to hear the disapproval in the man’s voice to feel unwelcome at Moreton Terrace. Kate Guthrie’s future was set. He had no place in her life, and never would.
Ben tipped his head toward her. “No, Mrs. Guthrie. Thank you. I knew you’d be anxious to hear about Rose, and now my task here is done. Good day.”
He couldn’t wait on her reply, couldn’t glance at her another moment without blurting words best left unspoken.
Striding from the Selsby-Guthrie townhouse gracelessly, he took the steps two at a time and walked in no particular direction before stopping on the pavement and inhaling deeply, grateful for the cool blast of air that robbed the warmth from his body. He began walking again, legs heating with the thoughtless movement of one foot in front of the other. He quickened his pace, impelled to get away from the trouble and temptation of Kate Guthrie. He’d done his duty toward her. She’d first come to him about Rose, and hadn’t he found the young woman and taken her statement? The whole matter was behind him now. Goodbye, Mrs. Guthrie. And good riddance to the ridiculous urges she provoked.
Work. His work is where he needed to place his focus. Heaven knew what he’d sacrificed—his family, his fiancé—to become a detective. Regaining his position, that would be his first goal—and then bringing the Ripper to justice.
Ben realized he’d trod in a circle, going down one street, only to turn a corner and return to a lane not far from Moreton Terrace. He turned again, this time toward Eaton Place, toward the townhouse of his sister and, nearby, his parents. But treading toward his parents’ home scratched at old wounds he wasn’t certain could be healed. Father would never understand, never accept the profession Ben had chosen. Still, Ben couldn’t deny the urge to see his mother and sister again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Benjamin! My goodness, I thought it was you. I told Charles it was, but he didn’t believe me.”
Even with the luxurious fur collar of her cloak obscuring much of her face, Ben could never mistake the woman who approached him with a thin gray and white dog prancing ahead of her. Annabel, his youngest sister, had married the Earl of Davenport in the summer of ’86, and he’d seen her only twice since the wedding. Despite the excitement in her voice, she moved at a steady, dignified pace.
“You look well.”
Did he? He doubted her words, but Annabel was always effusive in her praise.
“As do you, my lady.” It seemed to take forever for her to reach his side. “You even walk like a countess these days.”
She might walk like an aristocrat, but Ben thought her answering smirk was more Annabel Quinn than Lady Davenport.
“And how would you know? Do you encounter many countesses in Whitechapel?”
“No, but I did attend your wedding.”
“And you spent all your time studying countesses?” She shook her head at him as she reached his side. “Why do I bother asking? Of course you observed everyone and everything. Always the detective.”
Her words made him wince.
“You are still a detective, aren’t you? If you’re not, you should tell Father immediately. He’ll be ecstatic.”
She was right, of course. Bel was usually right. Nothing would please their father more than Ben failing at his chosen profession. The only question was which was greater—their father’s hatred for the Metropolitan Police, or his disappointment in Ben for choosing the Met over a law degree and following in his father’s esteemed
Kate’s voice wavered as she spoke, and Ben wondered if she was simply being polite or pleading with him not to leave her with Mr. Thrumble. No, that was wishful thinking. If nothing else, he suspected she was curious for more details about Rose.
“Mrs. Guthrie.” Mr. Thumble hissed her name, as if only Kate might hear his admonition. But Ben didn’t need to hear the disapproval in the man’s voice to feel unwelcome at Moreton Terrace. Kate Guthrie’s future was set. He had no place in her life, and never would.
Ben tipped his head toward her. “No, Mrs. Guthrie. Thank you. I knew you’d be anxious to hear about Rose, and now my task here is done. Good day.”
He couldn’t wait on her reply, couldn’t glance at her another moment without blurting words best left unspoken.
Striding from the Selsby-Guthrie townhouse gracelessly, he took the steps two at a time and walked in no particular direction before stopping on the pavement and inhaling deeply, grateful for the cool blast of air that robbed the warmth from his body. He began walking again, legs heating with the thoughtless movement of one foot in front of the other. He quickened his pace, impelled to get away from the trouble and temptation of Kate Guthrie. He’d done his duty toward her. She’d first come to him about Rose, and hadn’t he found the young woman and taken her statement? The whole matter was behind him now. Goodbye, Mrs. Guthrie. And good riddance to the ridiculous urges she provoked.
Work. His work is where he needed to place his focus. Heaven knew what he’d sacrificed—his family, his fiancé—to become a detective. Regaining his position, that would be his first goal—and then bringing the Ripper to justice.
Ben realized he’d trod in a circle, going down one street, only to turn a corner and return to a lane not far from Moreton Terrace. He turned again, this time toward Eaton Place, toward the townhouse of his sister and, nearby, his parents. But treading toward his parents’ home scratched at old wounds he wasn’t certain could be healed. Father would never understand, never accept the profession Ben had chosen. Still, Ben couldn’t deny the urge to see his mother and sister again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Benjamin! My goodness, I thought it was you. I told Charles it was, but he didn’t believe me.”
Even with the luxurious fur collar of her cloak obscuring much of her face, Ben could never mistake the woman who approached him with a thin gray and white dog prancing ahead of her. Annabel, his youngest sister, had married the Earl of Davenport in the summer of ’86, and he’d seen her only twice since the wedding. Despite the excitement in her voice, she moved at a steady, dignified pace.
“You look well.”
Did he? He doubted her words, but Annabel was always effusive in her praise.
“As do you, my lady.” It seemed to take forever for her to reach his side. “You even walk like a countess these days.”
She might walk like an aristocrat, but Ben thought her answering smirk was more Annabel Quinn than Lady Davenport.
“And how would you know? Do you encounter many countesses in Whitechapel?”
“No, but I did attend your wedding.”
“And you spent all your time studying countesses?” She shook her head at him as she reached his side. “Why do I bother asking? Of course you observed everyone and everything. Always the detective.”
Her words made him wince.
“You are still a detective, aren’t you? If you’re not, you should tell Father immediately. He’ll be ecstatic.”
She was right, of course. Bel was usually right. Nothing would please their father more than Ben failing at his chosen profession. The only question was which was greater—their father’s hatred for the Metropolitan Police, or his disappointment in Ben for choosing the Met over a law degree and following in his father’s esteemed
Similar Books
