Chapter 10

C hapter 10

I wanted nothing more than to leave, to be alone with my thoughts as I tried to make sense of what Elizabeth had said. How could I pretend nothing was amiss? Talk and laugh and admire the painting as though every part of my life weren’t in baffling disarray?

My knees felt weak. I put one hand on the wall behind me to steady myself. First Wily’s betrayal, then Mr. Allett’s absence, now this with Elizabeth. Yesterday, I’d felt in control, ready for anything. Now it had all spun out of my grasp like a ribbon pulled along by a devilish wind.

Some force drew my gaze upward. Mr. Denning stood across the room, and while the rest of the guests were still exclaiming over the painting, he watched me. His expression, so difficult to read in our other interactions, now seemed ... worried?

I turned away. The last thing I wanted from him was pity.

My eyes settled on Mama, laughing with a group of friends. She would not like to leave. But if I told her I had a headache, she might let me leave while she stayed. I would fetch my stashed portfolio, then make my excuses to the Harwoods.

I slipped into the entry hall and moved to the sideboard, where I’d hidden my sketches earlier. I pulled the drawer open and picked up the thick leather portfolio but then could not seem to move. I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of the collection in my hands. My throat filled with a painful lump. Why did nothing ever turn out as it should? I worked hard, tried my best—and for good causes too. Why should success be so difficult?

Do not cry , I ordered myself. But one tear dropped hot to my cheek, and I angrily swiped it away.

“Miss Travers?”

I jolted. “Oh!” My portfolio went flying from my hands, skidding across the marble floor and scattering several of my drawings about.

Mr. Denning stared at me as one of my drawings settled at his feet. Half of his face was shadowed, the other alight from the flame of a nearby sconce. He looked even more startled than I felt, his mouth parted and posture frozen.

“I—I am sorry,” he said, stumbling a bit over his words. “I did not mean to—” He shook his head and seemed to collect himself. He dropped to one knee to gather the pages nearest him. “I wanted to see that you were all right. You looked rather ...”

An irrational surge of annoyance swept through me. “Rather what?” I snapped, snatching up the drawing of Mama to my left.

Mr. Denning paused, not looking up at me. “Shaken. Upset. I am sorry, it is not any of my business.”

I immediately regretted my sharp response. He was only being kind. I took a deep breath. “No, I am sorry,” I said softly. “I have had a very trying day and did not intend to have an audience for the end of it.”

He picked up another sketch and stood. If he wondered why I’d brought a variety of drawings to a dinner party, he did not mention it. “Was I part of what made your day trying?”

I scooped up a drawing of Jack. “Perhaps a little, but not in the way you might imagine.”

He straightened the papers in his hands. “A very careful answer that reveals nothing important. You are quite adept at that.”

I straightened. “Pardon?”

“We have had several conversations, Miss Travers,” he said, “but at the end of each one, I only feel like I have more questions and less understanding. You hold yourself apart while managing to appear completely involved.”

I clutched the drawings in my hands, my heart pounding. “I ...”

I could not think of what to say. I’d spent the better part of a decade crafting the versions of myself to show to others—to Society, to my friends, to my family, to my network of contacts. Yet he’d summed me up in a sentence, brisk and to the point.

I’d never felt more seen. Nor more vulnerable.

I needed to leave.

“I’ll take those,” I said hurriedly, holding out my shaking hand for the pages he held. “Thank you.”

His lips pressed into a line as if he were holding himself back from saying more. He went to hand me the stack—until his gaze dropped to the sketch on the top.

And he stopped, staring.

“Is this ... ?” He squinted. “Is this me?”

I knew before I even looked. Sure enough, my unfinished sketch of Mr. Denning peered up at me, his graphite eyes seeming to laugh. Oh, why had I decided to bring that sketch?

“No,” I said quickly, stepping forward to take it from him. “Of course it isn’t. I—”

He pulled the sketch back, looking closer. I could not stand it. It was incomplete, imperfect, and revealed far too much. I’d meant that drawing for Mr. Allett’s eyes, not for this man who tugged on my emotions and nerves like a determined fisherman.

“Mr. Denning, please.” My words were a choked begging.

His gaze shot up to mine, taking in my distraught face. Without another word, he bent to pick up the leather portfolio from the floor between us, tucked his stack inside, and handed it to me.

“Good evening, Miss Travers.” His voice was softer than it had ever been before. Then he disappeared back inside the drawing room without another word.

One would think I might struggle to sleep after such a day, but thankfully, my body knew I needed a reprieve. After Mama and I returned home—she had insisted on accompanying me, for which I felt terrible—I fell into bed and slept until clouded daylight woke me. I allowed myself to lie in bed, the memories and realities of the last few days slowly drifting through my head.

Elizabeth. Her strange behavior. Her insistence that I stop investigating. Why would she not tell me the truth? I did not want to be hurt by this, but we’d been friends for years. I trusted her. Did she not trust me?

I took a long, deep breath. No, my heart said. That was not it. She had not looked at me with wariness or doubt. But what, then?

For a wild moment, I entertained the idea that Lord Blakely might have something to do with the whole affair. If Elizabeth had some horrid secret, would he not have much to lose as her betrothed? But that was ridiculous. He was a gentleman in every sense of the word. Besides, he clearly adored Elizabeth.

My thoughts turned to Mr. Denning, as they’d been fighting to all along. Our tête-à-tête at the dinner table, the shadow in his eyes when he’d handed me the drawing of himself.

His words.

You hold yourself apart while managing to appear completely involved.

I hadn’t imagined that a man like him could be so perceptive of human nature. But perhaps that came with working at Bow Street. When one spent every day neck-deep in criminals, evidence, and testimonies, I supposed it shaped the way one viewed the world.

But Mr. Denning hadn’t any idea why I did it—why I protected myself. If he did, I guessed he would look at me very differently than he had last night.

I heard Pritchett bustling about in the corridor. I needed to move, to dress, to do something. But what? Elizabeth had asked me to stop investigating. If I were a good friend, I would do as she wished.

And yet I did not think it was as simple as that. She was hiding something from me, something that made her act irrationally. And it had to do with this case.

Besides that, my irritation at Wily was growing. He’d fed me a stream of bald-faced lies when we’d met in the park. He and Tobias Higgs were up to no good wherever they were, likely cackling that they’d tricked me—thinking they’d gotten the upper hand.

I was trapped in indecision. Part of me desperately wanted to give up, move on. This was the life I’d broken from three months ago, for good reason. Yet another part of me—my intuition, perhaps—insisted that I had to see this through. I stood on the edge of a ravine, with surety and safety behind me, danger and the unknown before me.

It was my memory of Elizabeth’s face that pushed me from the cliff. The broken darkness in her eyes, the tonelessness of her voice.

Determination lit like a fuse beneath me, and I knew I would keep pushing, keep searching for the letter. Even though I was also fully aware of how easily a simple case could turn unpredictable, dangerous even, I had to see it through. Elizabeth needed me, Higgs deserved a trial and swift sentence, and Wily ... well, I was not certain what he deserved, but I would face that problem when I came to it.

I threw off my covers and went to my wardrobe. I had no time to waste. Not when the barest makings of a plan had already begun forming in my mind.