Chapter 3

Chapter Three

T he performance is over, and I’ve realized I’m not getting my book signed. I’d tracked down a first edition of Our Mutual Friend , my favorite Dickens novel, and tucked it into my bag. The readings I’ve attended always culminate in a signing. But, again, the author events I’ve attended aren’t two hours of a performance so energetic that I’m exhausted from just watching.

Isla and McCreadie are gone. McCreadie had scoped out a suitable spot to enjoy a polite tipple after the show, and we’d encouraged them to escape as quickly as possible and snag a table. Any chance Gray and I get to give McCreadie and Isla time together is a chance we take.

Gray and I have lingered, with me clutching my book and looking around hopefully, as if there’s a hidden “author signing” for those in the know.

“You brought a book?” Gray says.

My cheeks heat. “I was hoping to get it signed, but I’m guessing that’s not a thing.”

“I have seen signed books. I even purchased several for Isla. But they came that way at the shop.”

I try not to look disappointed. “Got it. And after that performance, I can’t imagine he’d want to sign hundreds of books.”

“Perhaps...” Gray looks about and puts a hand to my back. “Let us go this way. There’s a corridor into the back rooms where Mr. Dickens would be.”

I dig in my heels against his steering. “I’m not waylaying him while he’s resting after his performance.”

“No, but if we are down there, and he happens to walk out, and he happens to notice a young woman clutching one of his books and looking very hopeful...”

I should refuse. Especially since, if I do catch Dickens’s eye, it won’t be because of the book. I look like a cross between a milkmaid and a young Marilyn Monroe, all bold curves and blond curls. I’ve finally begun to accept that this is me now. My body, not that of a cold-blooded thief named Catriona Mitchell. But I still hate using this body to my advantage. Well, unless I’m solving a case. Then all bets are off.

Even as I inwardly balk, though, my knees unlock, and I let Gray steer me. I tell myself I’m giving Isla more time with McCreadie. Am I also giving myself more time with Gray? Of course not. I see him every day. We spend hours working together. Okay, yes, holding cadavers and taking notes isn’t the same as a social outing, but still...

Our relationship is a professional one with a personal angle, that angle being friendship. If part of me has started hoping for more, well, that’s on me. Gray has given no sign that he feels the same. Which is fine. That’d be far too complicated.

Gray leads me through a door and then down a few stairs and along a hall. It feels as if we’re about to enter the bowels of the Assembly Rooms, but instead, we come out into a small reception area with at least twenty people milling about chatting and enjoying glasses of wine. Gray straightens, pulling on his upper-crust airs.

He steers me through with that gentle hand, his fingertips barely touching my back. As we pass a table, he deftly plucks two glasses from it. He hands me one, and we settle into a corner, where he positions himself with his back to the other guests and his front blocking me, to keep them from looking at us too closely.

“Let us eavesdrop a bit,” he murmurs. “See whether there is any indication that these fine people expect the illustrious author to join us.”

I nod, sip at my drink, and try not to make a face. I thought it was wine. It’s not.

“Port,” Gray says. “Poor Mallory.”

Port is not to my taste. It’s another thing, like sugarplums, that I only read about in Regency and Victorian novels, where it sounded delightful. Dinner ends, and you all retire with glasses of port. Yes, I know it still exists in my time, but I’d never tried it, so I didn’t realize it’s just overly sweet wine.

Gray opens his mouth to say something else, when a voice says, “Duncan?”

The familiarity of the address has me looking up sharply. First names are for family and close acquaintances. I’m still working on calling him “Duncan,” as if I’ve absorbed the culture. So hearing someone call him that in public is the first thing that gets my attention. The second is the way his head jerks up. Distress flickers over his face.

“Dr. Duncan Gray.” The woman’s voice grows closer now, though I still can’t see her with Gray blocking my view. Then he slowly turns.

The woman is older than us—maybe in her late thirties. She’s gorgeous, with raven-black hair, perfectly cut features, and bright blue eyes. Her brilliant green dress makes me feel as if I’m still wearing my drab day gown.

It might seem as if it’d be wonderful to wake up a decade younger, but it’s awkward in many ways, and this is one of them—where I feel the gaze of someone older sweep past and dismiss me as a mere girl.

“This is not where I expected to find you, Duncan,” the woman says as her fingertips tap his jacket sleeve. “You have developed a taste for literary culture?”

“I read,” he says, a little tersely. “But I am here with my sister Isla, who is a great admirer of Mr. Dickens’s work. As is Miss Mitchell here.”

The woman’s gaze flicks over me again, and she gives Gray a look I can’t quite read. Should I slip away and let them talk? Or is that the last thing Gray wants? I can’t tell.

I give him the choice by murmuring, “I’m going to set down this port, Dr. Gray. It is not quite to my taste.”

He doesn’t argue, and I make my way toward the nearest table. I can still hear them behind me.

“I heard you hired a young woman for an assistant,” the woman says. “A former maid. I take it that is her.”

“Yes.”

The woman sighs. “Oh, Duncan. I ignored the titters and insinuations, and I commended you for being so open minded. I know you had a terrible time finding assistants, and I was glad you had located one. But... Really, Duncan? I expected better of you.”

“Miss Mitchell is my assistant.”

He grinds out the words, and I set down my drink.

“My apologies, ma’am,” I say when I reach them. “I realized I did not introduce myself. I am Mallory Mitchell, Dr. Gray’s assistant.”

Her gaze flicks to Gray, waiting for him to introduce her, as is proper. Instead, he stands there, with a look that wonders whether he can skip this part.

Just introduce us, Gray, and we can make our excuses ? —

“This is Lady Patricia Inglis,” Gray says, and if I still had the port glass, I might have dropped it.

I school my features fast and give the slightest curtsy, hoping nothing in my face reveals my dismay.

There’s a reason Lady Inglis uses Gray’s first name and acts as if she knows him well. She does. In the biblical sense even.

When I first arrived in this time period, I found a letter in Catriona’s dresser. A letter from Lady Inglis to Gray, one that Catriona had apparently intercepted before he received it. She’d likely been looking for blackmail material, maybe suspecting it was from a lover. What she got was even better. Not a sweet love note from a paramour but a full-on intimate missive, in which Lady Inglis had tried to tempt Gray back to her bed by reminding him how much fun he’d had there. Super awkward, and as soon as I figured out what it was, I’d stopped reading.

Even more awkward? The fact that just last month I confessed to him about the letter. I’d felt honor-bound to tell him Catriona stole it, but it was a very uncomfortable conversation. He’d told me to destroy it, which I had.

So this beautiful and elegant woman is Lady Inglis? Of course she is, because that’s what I’ve pictured as the sort of woman Gray would be with. Mature, possibly even older, but gorgeous and refined, educated and charming. Okay, I haven’t seen the charming part yet, but I’m sure she is, when she’s not wondering what the hell her former lover is doing messing around with a girl barely out of her teens.

“Did you enjoy the performance, ma’am?” I ask.

“I did.” Her gaze goes to the book I’m still clutching. “Is that one of Mr. Dickens’s works?”

“ Our Mutual Friend ,” I say. “My favorite. I have never been to this sort of event, and I was hoping for a signature, but obviously, that is not done.” I give a rueful smile. “Dr. Gray? If you like, I could go join Mrs. Ballantyne and Mr. McCreadie.”

“Certainly not,” he says. “It is dark outside. I must accompany you.” He turns to Lady Inglis. “But Miss Mitchell is correct that my sister is waiting for us.” He tips his top hat. “Good evening to you, Lady Inglis.”

As we turn away, she says, “I could ask Mr. Dickens to sign that book for you, Miss Mitchell. He knows my parents from years back.”

I don’t hesitate. I know this for what it is—grabbing back Gray’s attention with an underhanded ploy. By the way Gray tenses, he also knows what it is. And yet...

The reason it’s truly underhanded? She’s not offering something he wants. She’s offering something his companion wants, and she must know Gray well enough to realize he can’t walk away from that.

“I’m fine,” I murmur under my breath. “I don’t need?—”

“I am sorry to interfere with your evening out,” Lady Inglis says. “But I have been wanting to talk to you, Duncan.”

His cheek twitches, but before he can comment, she hurries on with, “A business matter. I was trying to determine how best to bring it to your attention. I suspected a—” She clears her throat softly. “—a letter would not do. Nor a message asking to meet with you. Yet I did not wish to show up at your house.”

“If you need something, Lady Inglis,” he says coolly, “then I would appreciate you saying so and not tacking on an offer to help Miss Mitchell.”

“I can help her, though. I can get that signature. As for what I need... I wish to hire you as a detective.”

A beat pause before Gray straightens. “Then you have come to the wrong person. I am a scientist. Any matter of detection would go to the police. I could ask Hugh to speak to you.”

Gray is being disingenuous here. He may not be a police detective, but he has come to call himself, only half-jokingly, a consulting detective. Yes, that’s my fault, and I owe Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for making the offhand reference that Gray liked enough to adopt.

Unlike Sherlock Holmes, though, Gray does not hire out his services. He only works for the police, specifically with McCreadie, and he takes no compensation. I could—and do—grumble at that, but I also know how little Victorian police officers make, and the department needs the money more than Gray does.

“I know you do more than work in your laboratory these days, Duncan,” Lady Inglis says.

“Does your case involve a dead body?”

“Heavens, no.”

“Then I cannot help you. Farewell, Lady?—”

“Duncan, please.” She reaches for his arm and then stops herself. “I understand you are suspicious of my motives, which is why I could not determine the best way to bring this to you. I made...”

Her gaze darts my way, and she clears her throat. “My previous attempts at communication were rebuffed, and I accepted that you did not wish to see me again. It is not as if I have hounded you, Duncan. I made two attempts, and then I stopped. Please do not insult me by presuming that is what I am doing. I think you know me better than that.”

“I do, and I did not mean to insinuate anything. I am stating a fact. I am not a detective for hire. I am a scientist who occasionally works with the police in matters regarding murder.”

“Blackmail,” she blurts. Then she quickly glances around and lowers her voice. “I am being blackmailed, Duncan, and it is not a matter I can take to the police. Nor is it one I would take to a stranger. I am a respectable widow, and what I am being threatened with...” She plucks nervously at her cameo choker. “It is very personal.”

Gray’s voice lowers, touched with the first hint of compassion. “I understand, Patricia, but this really is not my area of expertise.”

“Could you at least hear me out?” Her gaze moves to me. “Both of you. I understand Miss Mitchell is your assistant, and she would therefore be involved in any detection you might do.”

I grant her a point for that. She’s making it clear that this isn’t about getting Gray’s attention. Which means she really is being blackmailed.

Gray’s gaze cuts to me.

“Our schedule is not overly occupied, sir,” I murmur.

“We will hear you out,” Gray says to Lady Inglis. “I presume we cannot do that here?”

She shakes her head. “It is very private, as I said. I would invite you both to lunch with me tomorrow if that is amenable.”

“It is,” Gray says. “Now, as for that signature...”

“It’s fine,” I say quickly.

“I can do better than a signature,” Lady Inglis says with a soft smile.

She leads us into a side hall. Partway down it, she stops and knocks.

A man opens the door, but from our angle, I can only hear the voice.

“Patsy!” he says. “I had hoped I might see you while I am in town. I am having dinner with your parents tomorrow.”

“And I shall be there,” she says. “May we step in? I have a young woman who is most eager to meet you.”

Dickens waves us forward, Gray nudges me, and I find myself standing in front of Charles Dickens.