Where The Heart Leads by Stephanie Laurens Page B

hesitated, then went on, “And if truth be told, not all women would be keen to get involved with the police.”
    She studied him for a moment, then gave a soft sniff and looked away.
    He felt fairly certain the dismissive sniff had been directed at women who wouldn’t get involved, not at him.
    After further cogitation, he decided silence was the better part of valor. At least after their exchange, however brief, she was no longer clutching her bag quite so nervously.
    As directed, the hackney halted at the corner of Whitechapel Road and New Road. Stokes descended first. Griselda found herself being handed down with the same care he’d used to help her into the carriage. It wasn’t a courtesy to which she was accustomed, but she rather thought she could get used to it.
    Unlikely as that was to be; Stokes and she were here on business, nothing else.
    He ordered the driver to wait for them. Dragging a breath into lungs that seemed suddenly tight—she must have laced her walking gown too tightly—she lifted her chin and waved down the street. “This way.”
    During the drive she’d surreptitiously watched him, studying his dark-featured face for any sign of him turning up his nose as they’d penetrated deeper into the old neighborhoods. She wasn’t ashamed of her origins, but she knew well enough how the East End was viewed. But she’d detected no hint of contempt, no turning up of his arrogant, bladelike nose.
    Then, as now, he looked about him with a certain detached interest.He strode easily, effortlessly, by her side, scanning the ramshackle houses pressed tight together, holding one another up. He saw all there was to see, but evinced no sign of passing judgment.
    She felt just a little easier—less tense—as she led the way down Fieldgate Street, then took the second turning on the left, into familiar territory. She’d been born and raised in Myrdle Street. They drew level with her father’s house; she paused beside the single front step and met Stokes’s eyes. “I was born here. In this house.” Just so he’d know.
    He nodded. She looked, closely, but saw nothing in his face or his changeable gray eyes but curiosity.
    Feeling rather more confident as to how the next half hour would go, she raised a hand and tapped on the door—three sharp raps—then opened the door and went in.
    “Grizzy-girl! That you?” Her father’s voice was scratchy with age.
    “Yes, Da, it’s me. I’ve brought a visitor.” Setting down her bag in the tiny front room, she led the way into the room beyond.
    Her father was propped up in his bed-cum-chair, an old ginger cat curled up in his lap, purring under his hand. He looked up as she entered, eyes brightening as they met hers, then widening as they moved on to fix on the presence at her back.
    She was relieved to see that her father was wide awake, and also reasonably pain-free. “Did the doctor call this morning?”
    “Aye.” Her father’s reply was absentminded. “Left another bottle of tonic.”
    She saw the bottle on the scarred dresser.
    “Who’s this?” Narrow-eyed, her father was studying Stokes.
    Griselda sent Stokes a brief, warning look. “This is Mr. Stokes.” She drew a deep breath, then said, “Inspector Stokes—he’s an inspector from Scotland Yard.”
    “A rozzer?” Her father’s tone made it clear that wasn’t an occupation he held in high regard.
    “Yes, that’s right.” She pulled up a chair and sat, taking one of her father’s hands in hers. “But if you’ll let me explain why he’s here—”
    “Actually,” Stokes cut in. “It might be better, sir, if I explain why I’ve prevailed on your daughter to arrange this meeting.”
    She glanced at Stokes, but he was looking at her father.
    Who grumped, but nodded. “Aye—all right. What’s this about then?”
    Stokes told him, simply, directly, without any embellishment.
    At one point her father cut him off to wave him to a stool. “Sit down—you’re so damned tall you’re