Page 47

G abriella kept waiting for Kendrick to say something, either to her or to Jackson, during their ride back to Bow Street. Instead he kept silent, which made her all the more curious. She had questions. Lots of them. And by the time they entered his office, she was practically bursting.

“You never returned,” she started.

He spun to face her. “What?”

“Why didn’t you come and fetch me when you realized there wasn’t any danger?

” When all he did was stare at her she said, “Mr. Croft went to join you. It sounded like an exchange followed, after which there was a lengthy pause of what I estimate to have been five minutes at least. There was no indication of an altercation.”

“Forgive me, I—”

“Do you have any idea what it was like for me to stand in that tunnel alone with the pistol you gave me, not knowing what was happening?”

“You were frightened.” A statement of fact more than a question.

“Of course I was bloody frightened,” she snapped, finally losing the war she’d been waging against her nerves since Kendrick had left her side. As much as she hated feeling weak and vulnerable – of letting it show – there was no stopping it. Her hands were already shaking.

Kendrick stepped toward her with purpose and for a second she thought he might pull her into his arms. Her pulse quickened in preparation, only to slow once more when he stopped mid-stride, paused, and turned to the side table instead.

“I don’t usually encourage drinking during the day,” he said as he reached for a crystal decanter, “but it looks like you could use a glass of brandy.”

She clamped her mouth shut, teeth clenched so hard she feared they might turn to powder. How could someone be so insufferable while trying to be nice?

“Will you tell me why being underground scares you?” he asked when he handed her the glass he’d prepared.

She hesitated until she saw the empathy in his eyes, encouraging her to explain. “I was visiting Tildale with my parents when the mine collapsed.”

She sipped the brandy and sure enough, the heat helped settle her nerves.

“If I recall correctly, that was more than two decades ago. You can’t have been very old.”

She closed her eyes briefly to block out the memory of screaming mothers and howling fathers. “I was five. Suffice it to say it left quite the impact.”

“You lost someone close to you in that tragedy?”

“A cousin. His body was never recovered.”

“I’m sorry.” Once again Kendrick moved toward her only to shift direction and head for his desk. He gestured toward a chair. “Won’t you sit?”

“You’ve not yet answered my question.” When he tilted his head as though trying to think back on what her question had been she said, “Why did you leave me there?”

Brow creasing, he dropped his gaze, looking like a child who’d been caught doing something wrong. He swallowed, then finally said, “Mr. Croft’s arrival distracted me and…”

“You forgot.” She stared at him, at his slightly hunched posture, the regret seeping from every pore of his being, and found herself oddly reassured by his admission. When he nodded, she actually smiled. “At least you’re honest.”

He must have heard the humor in her voice for his gaze snapped to hers, a questioning look there. “You’re not furious with me for doing so?”

“Of course I am.” She’d not let him get off that easy. “However, I’m glad to know you didn’t abandon me intentionally.”

“There was a lot going on but it’s still inexcusable. Especially since I knew you weren’t comfortable being down there.”

“You did suggest I remain behind with Jackson, but I refused to listen.” He simply held her gaze without saying a word.

She downed the rest of her drink, returned the glass to the side table, and went to sit in the chair he’d gestured toward.

“What happened to Mr. Croft? I noticed he didn’t return with you. ”

“He left with the group of men I found in that chamber.” Kendrick sat and explained what had occurred. “I’m still not sure I made the right decision in letting them leave. Had I wished to I’m confident my Runners and I could have forced the masks from those men’s faces and made them talk.”

“I’m not so sure,” Gabriella said while pondering all he’d told her. “Mr. Croft made a valid point. If those men wished to speak with him and only him, denying them that and revealing their identities would surely have encouraged them to say nothing at all.”

“I just hope Croft tells me what they say.”

“You think he’ll choose not to?” When Kendrick gave her an I-wouldn’t-–put-it past-him sort of look, she reminded him. “Part of Croft’s clemency bargain was for him to cooperate with you when asked to do so, was it not?”

“Not officially.” She gave him a pointed look and he blew out a breath. “He and I made an agreement. We shook on it.”

“Then that’s that. If Croft fails to honor your agreement, you need only remind him that he risks losing all he has gained in recent weeks.”

“That’s not exactly true. The only binding deal he struck was with Lord Liverpool.”

“Maybe so, but the chief magistrate is not without influence. If I speak with him, I’m sure I can have him review Croft’s case, maybe open a new investigation. At the very least, we can suggest that his life will become more difficult unless he provides you with the information you seek.”

The edge of Kendrick’s mouth lifted. He almost appeared to be slightly amused. “I’m not sure if I should be glad or terrified to have you on my team.”

“Be glad.” She stood with a sudden need for some added distance between them. And yet, before she left the room, she could not help but confess, “I certainly am.”

* * *

Peter sat in dumbfounded silence and stared at the doorway through which Miss Hastings had just departed. Had he heard her right? She was glad to be on his team? And what did that mean?

Probably nothing and yet a great deal. To him at least. Twice he’d been tempted to pull her into his arms, to soothe away her lingering fear, the anger and incomprehension she’d launched at him.

She’d been right to question his reason for not informing her all was well sooner. He’d failed her on that score and while the temptation to make an excuse had been there, he’d decided to tell her the truth. Even if it meant she’d think him incompetent.

Croft tended to find him so. His wife too. And given Peter’s lack of success in solving crimes this past year, he couldn’t blame them. But having Miss Hastings view him in such a way had made him feel both stupid and useless even though he knew he was neither.

Her response to his honesty, though, had changed his perspective and filled him with a sense of not only relief but… He tried to think of what exactly. Pride in himself, he supposed, for daring to be so transparent – for risking additional censure and possibly losing her respect.

What she’d told him cemented his certainty that he had acted correctly, though he was still glad he’d refrained from embracing her.

She was a colleague and he her superior.

It would have been highly inappropriate.

Too forward by far. Their working relationship moving forward would have become awkward.

And for what?

So he could satisfy some foolish urge for added contact? Discover what it would be like to hold her?

He snorted. For starters there was every chance she’d reject him. Worse, she could tell her father that he had conducted himself unprofessionally.

Or she might welcome his offer to give her comfort. But what then?

Were he ever to cross that line between them, he’d only want more.

And while she might protest his penchant for Indian tobacco, he feared she had much in common with his cheroots. Like them, he sensed she had the power to turn him into an addict, and as a man who valued his bachelorhood, he meant to prevent that from happening because…

Well, she was the chief magistrate’s daughter, not some trollop he could cast aside once he tired of her. If he so much as kissed Miss Hastings, marriage bells would sound in his nearest future. And if there was one thing he wasn’t, it was the marrying sort.

* * *

Adrian and his companions had decided to conduct their meeting in the room they’d stepped into when they left the tunnel. Its remote location decreased the chance of anyone seeing them together, while two wooden benches offered all of them seats.

Placed between Ashburry and Grieves, Adrian scanned the faces of Thrudledge, Iverton, and Beltham who sat opposite.

All were respected physicians or surgeons.

Serious men. Not in a million years would he have imagined them running around secret tunnels, dressed in cloaks and mysterious masks like they were the last bastion of some secret Templar order.

Lacking patience, he aimed to get straight to the point by asking, “What the hell are you lot playing at?”

“Too many members of our profession insist upon the continued used of outdated methods,” Ashburry explained.

“Some of which have been proven to harm the patient rather than aid them,” Beltham added. The rest of the doctors murmured their agreement.

“It also hinders necessary advancements within the field,” Thrudledge said. “For years we’ve been working toward the creation of a research facility where our hypotheses and findings might be explored.”

“Our hope was to make advancements,” Iverton said. “The fact that bloodletting still occurs, for instance, is outrageous in our opinion.”

“It’s not just that,” Grieves reflected. “We’ve all been practicing long enough to know we’ve barely skimmed the surface of what’s possible. But without being able to conduct proper research, record our findings, and adjust accordingly, our theories are useless.”