Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

W e’re in the coach. Gray hasn’t said a word since he caught up with me, and now he’s staring silently out the window as we pull away.

I clear my throat. “I’m going to take the case. You are free to stay out of it, as I’m not really a hapless twenty-year-old in need of guidance.”

“No,” he says, looking back at me sharply. “I said if you did this, I would, too, and?—”

“And I’m sick of circling, so let’s skip this shit, okay?”

The profanity startles him out of an answer.

I continue, “Working with Lady Inglis makes you uncomfortable, and it’s not necessary. That’s my point, Duncan. You don’t need to do this. I can handle it on my own.”

His tone chills. “If you do not wish my assistance, say so.”

I slam back in my seat with a profanity that has him blinking.

“I give up,” I say. “You’re upset about this whole thing, and you’re taking it out on me. I’m doing backflips to accommodate you, and you’re determined to see insult in anything I say.” I meet his gaze. “You’re right, Duncan. I don’t want your assistance. Because you’re being an ass, and I did nothing to deserve it.”

“I—”

“You insisted on accepting Lady Inglis’s offer to introduce me to Mr. Dickens, knowing it could put you in her debt. I’m accepting that debt as the person who benefited from it. But I still wouldn’t feel obligated to take the case. I’m choosing to do so because no woman deserves what this person is doing to her. She’s an unattached woman engaging in consensual affairs and having some fun writing risqué letters to her partners. This person is threatening to brand her with a scarlet letter, and that’s wrong.”

When he says nothing, I add, “Scarlet letter means?—”

“Yes, I have read the book. I understand the reference. You are correct, of course. Lady Inglis’s affairs are no one’s business but her own, as are any letters she might write.”

He leans back in his seat. “You are also correct that I am uncomfortable with the situation and taking it out on you, which I am wont to do.”

“Yep.”

He gives me a sidelong glance.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say. “Am I supposed to say that you don’t do that? Or that you hardly ever do it?”

He doesn’t answer, but I know that I am supposed to say that. He is a Victorian male, head of the household in which I reside, and if he deigns to admit to a failing, I should fall over myself to reassure him it’s fine. Okay, maybe “fall over myself” is an exaggeration, but even someone as progressive as Gray has certain expectations. Or certain hopes, at least, because there is not a woman in his household who’d tell him he’s fine when he’s screwing up. Except maybe Mrs. Wallace.

Gray sighs, and it is such a deeply chagrined sigh that I have to fight against falling for it. I should be annoyed that he expects reassurances—or at least praise—when he admits to a failing, but he’s a man of his time, and I find it oddly charming. Of course, it’s charming because I know he genuinely tries to do better.

Growing up, I hated it when people told me I was lucky to have loving parents who supported me and my choices. How was it “lucky” to have parents who did what decent parents should do? Yet I do consider myself lucky to have landed in Gray’s household, where even before he knew I wasn’t Catriona, he’d been happy to take me on as his assistant. What mattered was that I was capable, regardless of my sex. That’s how it should be, of course, but how a thing should be is not the same as how it is.

I’d had a much greater chance of landing in a house where I’d be stuck cleaning chamber pots and fending off my boss’s wandering hands, because that’s what happened to girls like Catriona.

I am lucky that Gray is as forward-thinking as he is. I am fortunate that he accepts criticism from me. But I can still roll my eyes when he expects a cookie for admitting to a failing. These things are not incompatible.

“May I join your investigation, Miss Mitchell?” he says.

I straighten. “Oooh, I like the sounds of that. Polite and contrite. Say it again.”

He only sighs.

“Fine,” I say. “You may join it on the understanding that if you get pissy again, I can kick you out.”

“Even if I get ‘pissy’ over something you do?”

“Impossible. I am perfection personified.”

Now I get the eye roll. Deservedly.

“Also, you’re joining in a volunteer capacity,” I say. “All the money is mine.”

He sobers. “As it should be. However, if you are taking the case for the money, I can always increase?—”

“I said I’m taking the case on principle. I’m just letting her pay because she can afford it. My salary is more than sufficient. So we’ll drop that.” I rearrange my skirts as the December chill creeps up from the carriage floor. “On an equally serious note, though, the reason I didn’t take the job right away is that I do want to discuss it with you.”

“All right.”

“And if discussing it with you touches on any personal matters that make you uncomfortable, you need to acknowledge that I’m asking because of the case. I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable or pry into your personal life.”

He shifts, and I inwardly sigh. This is exactly what I’m afraid of. That every time the case brushes up against his past with Lady Inglis, there’s going to be resistance and friction.

“This first question is actually not about the case directly, but I have to bring it up.” I clear my throat. “I know Lady Inglis sent you a letter after you ended things. Did she send others before that?”

“No. We did not... That is to say...” He plucks at his collar. “If this is a habit of hers, she must have decided I was not the properly receptive audience for it.”

“Or, more likely, she only does it with this one longtime friend. The reason I’m asking is to be sure you’re not at risk yourself.”

“I am not. Any other correspondence I received was not of that nature, and I destroyed it shortly after receipt. I realize that may seem cold, not keeping such letters for sentimental reasons, but I do it out of an abundance of caution. As you said at lunch, I would not be faulted for such entanglements, but the women would be. Destroying their letters seems wise.”

“Agreed,” I say. “And I was going to say that if she did send you any more intimate ones, you should destroy them.”

He glances over. “The one she did send, you burned, yes?”

“I did.” I adjust the muff keeping my hands warm. “You said you think you know the man involved. The one whose letters were stolen.”

I expect his tone to chill—or at least his gaze to—but he only nods. “I am certain I know him. They have been longtime friends, as Lady Inglis said, and I knew they’d been lovers. Because you will likely not ask, yes, he is the one I discovered she’d been seeing while we were together.”

“Is that going to be a problem?” I hear myself and rephrase. “I’m sure that’ll make the interview uncomfortable. I can conduct that part.”

“Hmm?” He looks genuinely surprised. “No, it isn’t... That is to say, it’s not like that. I have no issue with Lord— With the person involved. The mistake was honestly mine. I knew they had been involved, and I did not necessarily think the affair had ended, but he was living abroad while I was seeing Lady Inglis. When he returned, I heard that she had gone to see him. I did not want to presume anything, so I asked and...”

He gives a rueful smile. “I discovered that their relationship was ongoing. That was it. I did not walk in on them together. Even her visit to his house was purely platonic, a luncheon with others. But she made it clear that he was still intimately part of her life, and I took it poorly and left. No dramatic encounter. Merely a misunderstanding.”

“Still upsetting.”

He looks out the window a moment before turning to me. “And still a misunderstanding for which no one else is to blame. If I do blame him for anything, it is only this unfortunate incident with the letter. Even then, I doubt that he was careless with them. It is understandable to keep them, and he seems to have locked them away.”

“How well do you know him?”

“Not terribly well,” Gray says. “I did meet Lady Inglis through him, though. We attend the same club, and he has an interest in medical science and asked me to accompany him to the surgical theater. We did that a few times, and I met Lady Inglis at a party he hosted before he went to Europe on an extended trip. I have seen him since, at the club, and we have been cordial.”

“Cordial but cool?”

The corners of Gray’s mouth twitch upward. “I am always cool, Mallory. It is my natural demeanor. If you are asking whether I was cooler because of the misunderstanding, I do not think so. I am not even certain he knew I was seeing Lady Inglis in his absence.”

I tap my fingers inside my muff as I think. “Whoever stole the letters had access to this man’s home.”

“Yes.”

“What kind of home does he keep? He’s a lord, which might mean he has multiple residences.”

“As I understand it, he has only one. A town house perhaps a mile from ours, where he lives with his younger brother. As for Lord...” He trails off.

“Joe,” I say. “Until Lady Inglis releases his name, let’s go with Lord Joe.”

Another twitch of the lips. “All right. Lord Joe is a widower himself. Only a few years older than Lady Inglis. He lost his wife a year before Lady Inglis lost her husband.”

“And the younger brother?”

Gray’s expression at that has me leaning forward.

“You do not like the brother?”

“I do not know him well, but he does attend our club, and he is a sanctimonious— I find him unpleasant. Lord Joe is very convivial, but he clearly inherited all the charm in the family.”

“Lord Joe is convivial. Can I assume that means he entertains regularly? Has a steady stream of guests who could have stolen the letters?”

“He has a great many friends. He does not entertain in the usual way, having no lady of the house to organize such events, but he would have guests. Yes, I fear, the list of suspects might not be as small as we hope.”

“But it’s still a constrained number. Whoever stole the letters had access to the house.”

“Yes.”