Page 9

P eter Kendrick re-read his notes for the third time that morning. There was something oddly familiar about the woman who had been pulled from the river two days prior, though he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

Frustrated, he downed the rest of his coffee and lit a cheroot. The warmth from the smoke he dragged into his lungs had a wondrously soothing effect. He exhaled it and watched the ghostly tendrils rise toward the ceiling where they dispersed. Absorbed by the plaster.

“That’s a disgusting habit.”

The feminine voice was so unexpected, it startled Peter, who’d been leaning back in his chair. He scrambled into an upright position, his head whipping round in search of the woman who’d spoken.

She stood immediately inside the doorway, observing him in a way that was not exactly critical per se, but which made his skin itch nonetheless.

Peter frowned. How the hell had she gotten into his office without him knowing?

As far as he remembered, he’d shut the door when he’d returned after fetching his coffee.

Then again, maybe he was mistaken. He had been distracted by his current case.

A matter he wished to return to. Except he now had an unexpected visitor, it would seem. A rather intriguing one, in fact, considering her appearance.

Whatever bonnet she’d worn upon her arrival here had since been removed, allowing him to appreciate the luster of her auburn hair, which was pulled into a tight knot at the nape of her neck.

Her eyes were large, possibly blue or green.

It was hard to tell from this distance. Especially since they were partially concealed by a pair of spectacles.

The nose that supported said spectacles was elegantly formed.

Petite, one might say. Just like the lady herself since she didn’t appear to be more than five feet tall.

Curiously, Peter decided her mouth might be her best feature.

Not because she was smiling nor because her lips were the sort that might lead a man’s thoughts astray.

Neither of which was the case. It was rather because of the imperfection he found there – an overbite that for some inexplicable reason told him this woman had substance.

Even if she did disapprove of his smoking.

She was young too. Younger than he, at any rate. Perhaps in her late twenties? In his estimation their difference in age spanned at least fifteen years, possibly more.

Peter sucked in a breath and stood. He attempted a smile despite her stoic expression. “How can I be of assistance?”

She stepped forward, hands clasped in front of the practical dress she’d elected to wear.

The grey garment clearly wasn’t meant to showcase her figure, though the ridiculously high neckline could not conceal her slim build.

Looking at her, he suspected her waist to be just the right size for his hands to encase.

Disturbed by his line of thinking and the heat now sweeping the length of his body, he straightened his spine and schooled his features, affecting every aspect of the position he held. Chief constable. A man in control. Unperturbed by crimes and striking women.

“My father told me to offer my help.” She stared at him, her eyes – which he now believed to be green – meeting his without blinking. “However, I’m not sure I’ll be able to tolerate the air in here. Honestly, you need to give up those cheroots.”

Confused, Peter gave his head a quick shake. He was tempted to tell her that this was his domain and what he chose to do here was none of her business, only for the first part of what she’d told him to settle deep in his mind.

My father told me to offer my help.

He raised his chin a smidgen. Just enough to allow himself some sense of being the one in control. Even though she clearly had the advantage. An observation that made him feel as though he were floundering. “Who are you?”

She stuck out her hand, revealing ink-stained fingers. “Miss Gabriella Hastings.”

Peter shook the hand she offered, while trying to come to terms with what her name implied. “You’re the chief magistrate’s daughter?”

“The youngest one.”

He released her hand and tried to match her neutral expression. It was time for him to be professional. “You said you’re here to help?”

She pursed her lips, then marched to the window and opened it before turning to him and saying, “I’m good at seeing connections.

Patterns others have a tendency to miss.

Papa says you’ve been working on a potential murder for a couple of days now without making headway.

Perhaps if I take a look at the file I can—”

“Figure it out in an instant?” Though he knew it was silly, Peter took offense to such a suggestion.

Maybe it was her age or perhaps the blunt manner with which she spoke. She was too authoritative and too bloody confident for anyone in his line of work. Plus, she was female. She shouldn’t be getting involved in criminal cases or investigating corpses. For God’s sake, what was her father thinking?

“You presume to know my mind, Chief Constable Kendrick.” She snorted with a hint of annoyance. Just enough to show that he’d yet to earn her respect. “I hope you don’t make the same mistake when interviewing suspects.”

“I—”

“What I was about to say before you interrupted me was that I might find a different perspective. Pick up on something you missed.” She crossed her arms. “Fresh eyes on a subject can often prove useful. Though I really must insist you don’t smoke while I’m in here. The air is awful.”

Peter stared at the horrid woman. She might be attractive to look at, but when she opened that critical mouth of hers and spoke… Lord help him, he was tempted to shove her out the door and tell her good riddance.

However, in light of her position and his, he managed a grimace instead. “As much as I’d like to accommodate you, I fear I cannot. This is my office. A space in which my rules apply. If I wish to smoke in here, I’ll do so. To my heart’s content.”

And just to prove that he meant it, he snatched his silver cheroot case from off the top of his desk and flipped the lid.

She glared at him in return. Hell, he could practically hear her teeth gnashing as he selected a perfectly rolled length of tobacco and lit it.

He took a deep breath, paused to savor the flavor, then expelled the smoke. Directly toward her.

A gasp of seeming outrage was her first response, after which she waved one hand as though that might clear the air and proceeded to cough. Peter merely smirked. “Thank you for the offer, but given our incompatibility, I don’t believe this will work.”

She muttered a curse the likes of which he’d never believed would spill from any woman’s lips and strode for the door. It slammed shut behind her with jarring force.

Peter blinked. He could not recall the last time he’d engaged in a row with someone.

Even with Sir Nigel, Mr. Hastings’s predecessor, to whom he’d voiced his displeasure over various proceedings, he’d remained somewhat cordial.

But with Miss Gabriella Hastings? In the space of five minutes that opinionated woman had managed to rile him to the point where he’d finally lost his head.

Devil take it, he’d tormented her. On. Purpose.

Dropping his gaze he considered the cheroot he still held between his fingers. This kind of behavior was not to be borne. He was better than this. But the notion of working with her? Would any man have the patience to do so?

Whatever the cost, he had to get out of this horrible situation.

Intent on doing so right away, he snuffed out his cheroot and went to find his superior.

One knock was all it took for him to be admitted to Mr. Hastings’s office.

He entered and was promptly met by the very woman he wished to avoid.

Of course she’d be here. He wasn’t sure why he’d expected her not to run straight to her father and complain about Peter Kendrick, the rudest man she’d ever encountered.

“Kendrick,” Mr. Hastings said, an unexpected smile on his face as he waved Peter closer. “I believe you’ve met my daughter?”

“Indeed.” Peter cleared his throat. “It’s been a…pleasure.”

Miss Hastings produced an incredulous chuckle, so low Peter doubted her father heard. Peter kept his gaze firmly on him, refusing to offer her any hint of attention. The last thing he wanted was for her to believe she’d gotten under his skin.

“Glad to hear it,” Mr. Hastings said. “Gabriella has echoed the sentiment. In fact, she was just informing me that she’s very excited to help you figure out how that woman you’re looking into wound up in the Thames.”

Peter’s head whipped to the left where Miss Hastings stood, a sweet smile curving her lips. The very image of agreeability.

He narrowed his gaze upon her as if to say, “I know what you’re really like,” before turning to face her father once more. “Yes, we discussed it. However, I’m not sure this case is suitable for her.”

“Oh?” Mr. Hastings raised both eyebrows.

“Studying corpses in order to discern the cause of death is no easy thing.” Peter wasn’t sure why he had to explain this. “It demands a strong constitution.”

“I haven’t been sick since I was a child,” Miss Hastings said.

“It also,” Peter said, sending her a disgruntled look, “requires the ability to remain emotionally detached. I know Runners who have been traumatized by some of the things they’ve witnessed.”

“A valid point I have considered, which is why Gabriella will not be dealing with anything other than hard facts. As long as she merely reviews the information you gather and doesn’t go near the morgue, I believe she ought to be fine.

” When Peter opened his mouth to argue, Mr. Hastings added, “She’s strong, Mr. Kendrick.

More importantly, she’s clever. I suggest you cease worrying and use that to your advantage. ”