burial?”
That seemed to surprise him. “Leave it with the clerk, sir. I think she’d appreciate that.”
The door closed behind the young man, and the officer, who’d eavesdropped the best he could, stroked his beard. Sir Stephen, he’d said. No good reason for a fresh-faced gent to visit the Thames police in the dead of night. Came to see the girl, the latest victim in what the papers were calling the River Murders. He’d asked too many questions, in the officer’s opinion. Seemed he wanted to know more than just the girl’s identity.
Sir Stephen had asked the surgeon about the other victims as well. Why? His initial curiosity had been for the most recent girl—not all the others. So why had he lied?
One person in particular paid the officer good money to keep an eye on things on Wapping Street. Secret, weekly reports of the investigations and activities in the office, which the officer wrote without fail and delivered to the requested address. It was the main reason he preferred working the desk at night. With the constant stream of surveyors, watermen, and constables in and out of the office during the day, it was nigh impossible to piss without someone watching over your shoulder.
At night, however, the officer could do as he pleased. The surgeon might work late if a fresh body awaited, but he stayed on the lower floor. So there was no one to stop the officer as he picked up his pen and found a fresh sheet of parchment.
Quint stood just inside the terrace doors and watched as Canis gamboled away into the dark gardens, the puppy’s big ears flopping wildly. Two days since Canis had joined his household and Quint had to admit the invasion hadn’t been as bad as he feared. The animal hardly ever left his side and Quint found it . . . strangely comforting.
Not that he would admit it.
Taylor had the right of it; the staff had instantly taken to the animal, eager to participate in frequent walks and feedings. But Canis always returned to Quint’s side. The beast had attached himself to Quint, and there wasn’t a damned thing to be done about it.
How had she known?
Canis began barking happily. It was the same unrelenting sound when he wanted Quint to pay him attention. Someone was out in the gardens—and it did not take a genius to deduce who might be out there. This was beginning to be a habit with her.
“You may as well show yourself,” he called. “He’ll not let up until you do.” Tenacious did not even begin to describe the beast when he wanted something.
The yapping ceased and soon Sophie appeared, looking adorably sheepish, with Canis cradled in her arms. “I had not planned on disturbing you. I merely wanted to make sure you had not given him away.” She climbed the steps to the terrace, set Canis on the ground, and then drew closer. She wore a black cloak and bonnet, which he assumed were her skulking clothes.
“I ought to, but the staff have grown attached to the curst thing.”
“Just the staff?”
He did not care for the smug set to her lips. “I named him, did I not? What more do you want from me?”
“Does it feel better with your shoes off?”
He glanced down at his bare feet. Hard to say when it had started, this preference for the cold marble floor beneath his naked feet, but it helped him feel alive. A true gentleman would never be seen without shoes, yet Quint wasn’t about to put them back on. If she found it offensive, she was welcome to scuttle home. “It feels . . . bracing. As if the cold roots your legs to the floor. You should try it one day.”
She lifted her plain skirts to reveal brown half boots with black laces. Bending, she pulled the laces loose, then stood and started toeing off her shoes. Quint watched this with a mixture of fascination and horror. Was the woman truly going to remove her footwear? Propriety had never concerned him, but even he knew this was beyond the pale.
Two soft thuds and her stocking feet made an appearance. His
That seemed to surprise him. “Leave it with the clerk, sir. I think she’d appreciate that.”
The door closed behind the young man, and the officer, who’d eavesdropped the best he could, stroked his beard. Sir Stephen, he’d said. No good reason for a fresh-faced gent to visit the Thames police in the dead of night. Came to see the girl, the latest victim in what the papers were calling the River Murders. He’d asked too many questions, in the officer’s opinion. Seemed he wanted to know more than just the girl’s identity.
Sir Stephen had asked the surgeon about the other victims as well. Why? His initial curiosity had been for the most recent girl—not all the others. So why had he lied?
One person in particular paid the officer good money to keep an eye on things on Wapping Street. Secret, weekly reports of the investigations and activities in the office, which the officer wrote without fail and delivered to the requested address. It was the main reason he preferred working the desk at night. With the constant stream of surveyors, watermen, and constables in and out of the office during the day, it was nigh impossible to piss without someone watching over your shoulder.
At night, however, the officer could do as he pleased. The surgeon might work late if a fresh body awaited, but he stayed on the lower floor. So there was no one to stop the officer as he picked up his pen and found a fresh sheet of parchment.
Quint stood just inside the terrace doors and watched as Canis gamboled away into the dark gardens, the puppy’s big ears flopping wildly. Two days since Canis had joined his household and Quint had to admit the invasion hadn’t been as bad as he feared. The animal hardly ever left his side and Quint found it . . . strangely comforting.
Not that he would admit it.
Taylor had the right of it; the staff had instantly taken to the animal, eager to participate in frequent walks and feedings. But Canis always returned to Quint’s side. The beast had attached himself to Quint, and there wasn’t a damned thing to be done about it.
How had she known?
Canis began barking happily. It was the same unrelenting sound when he wanted Quint to pay him attention. Someone was out in the gardens—and it did not take a genius to deduce who might be out there. This was beginning to be a habit with her.
“You may as well show yourself,” he called. “He’ll not let up until you do.” Tenacious did not even begin to describe the beast when he wanted something.
The yapping ceased and soon Sophie appeared, looking adorably sheepish, with Canis cradled in her arms. “I had not planned on disturbing you. I merely wanted to make sure you had not given him away.” She climbed the steps to the terrace, set Canis on the ground, and then drew closer. She wore a black cloak and bonnet, which he assumed were her skulking clothes.
“I ought to, but the staff have grown attached to the curst thing.”
“Just the staff?”
He did not care for the smug set to her lips. “I named him, did I not? What more do you want from me?”
“Does it feel better with your shoes off?”
He glanced down at his bare feet. Hard to say when it had started, this preference for the cold marble floor beneath his naked feet, but it helped him feel alive. A true gentleman would never be seen without shoes, yet Quint wasn’t about to put them back on. If she found it offensive, she was welcome to scuttle home. “It feels . . . bracing. As if the cold roots your legs to the floor. You should try it one day.”
She lifted her plain skirts to reveal brown half boots with black laces. Bending, she pulled the laces loose, then stood and started toeing off her shoes. Quint watched this with a mixture of fascination and horror. Was the woman truly going to remove her footwear? Propriety had never concerned him, but even he knew this was beyond the pale.
Two soft thuds and her stocking feet made an appearance. His
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