Chapter 2

C hapter 2

I flew through the air, vision twisting as the cobblestones rushed to meet me. I tried to roll to lessen the brunt of the impact, but there wasn’t time. My shoulder and hip crashed into the stones, the shock reverberating through my entire body.

For a paralyzing moment, I lay there, unable to fill my lungs with air. Then pain shrieked through me—stinging, biting pain. I gasped, inhaling a desperate gulp, my head dazed and muddled.

“Blast it,” groaned a male voice beside me.

I barely comprehended it, still stunned. What had happened? Had I been run over by a coach? I’d been right behind the thief—

The thief! I forced my eyes open, the oil lamps swirling through the evening fog, my vision blurry. Horse hooves, carriage wheels, the dirty street ...

I did not see the shadow of a fleeing thief.

“Drat.” I struggled to sit up, wincing at the pain in my side and shoulder. If I could just get to my feet, perhaps I could—

“Miss?” It was the same voice as before, but now it was low and urgent and directed at me. “Miss, are you all right?”

A man crouched beside me on the street, his features dark, silhouetted against the lamp behind him.

“I am sorry,” he said, his words scattering through my head. “I didn’t see you. I swear you came from nowhere.”

Realization struck then. I’d run into him. Or he’d run into me. It hardly mattered—the thief was long gone by now, vanished into the crooked lanes of London’s rookeries.

“Are ye planning to move,” a harsh voice called out, “or do ye intend to block the street till mornin’?”

I looked dazedly at the hackney stopped behind me. The driver scowled, spitting some foul liquid over the edge of the coach. A gentleman, clearly.

I tried to push myself to my feet but winced as splintering pain seemed to radiate from every inch of my body.

“Here, allow me.” The man beside me stood and offered his hand. I hesitated, but it appeared I could not stand on my own at the moment, and I preferred not to remain splayed in the filth that coated the street. I took his hand, large and solid, and he pulled me to my feet. Dizziness claimed me, and I swayed, staggering to the side. The same strong hands caught me, keeping me from spilling once more to the ground.

“Steady on,” the man cautioned, his deep voice near my ear.

I tried to gain my bearings as he guided me off the street. The driver harrumphed and whipped the reins against his horses, the coach jolting past us.

“Are you hurt?” The man held me about my waist with one hand, the other at my elbow, no doubt worried I would collapse.

I was hurt, but how badly? I’d abandoned my shawl in the chase, and the short sleeves of my silk evening gown had done little to protect my arms. Angry red scrapes marred my skin. I could feel the ache in my hip and shoulder, and I knew I would be sore and bruised for days yet. But ...

Nothing broken.

“I’m fi—” I looked up at my rescuer, and my voice cut out.

His face was no longer hidden in black silhouette, and what a face it was. I made out deep-set eyes—dark but somehow bright at the same time. His features deftly cut the shadows and moonlight, a strong brow balanced with a narrow, angular jaw. Waves of brownish hair swept across his forehead, considerably unkempt, though that was likely due to our collision rather than a laissez-faire approach to styling. He was young, perhaps only a few years my senior, with a good six inches on me, if not more. His shoulders and waist were lean, but I was quite assured of his sturdiness, considering the way he’d sent me flying when we’d crashed.

A sudden heat climbed my neck. I pulled away from him, tugging my skirts straight. “I’m fine.”

He inspected my arms, brow furrowed. He didn’t believe me. But then he glanced toward the alley where the thief had disappeared.

“Blast,” he muttered. “I had him.”

My gaze sharpened on him. “Had who?”

He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “A thief. There was a robbery just now outside the Theatre Royal. I was giving chase and—”

“ You were chasing him?” Who was this man? Had he heard the commotion and attempted a citizen’s arrest?

“Yes, but he got away during our spill.” He turned back to me. “I am terribly sorry, but I must return to the theatre. Do you have anyone to ...” He paused as he glanced around me, realizing for the first time that I was alone.

But my own eyes were fixed on where his jacket parted and a familiar gilded stave peeked out at me. I knew that stave. Jack had carried one just like it.

“You’re from Bow Street,” I said rather stupidly.

“Yes.” He took half a step away. “And I really must—”

“You’re not Nettleton.” I was still utterly baffled, my thoughts scattered. Had Elizabeth not found the man?

He said nothing for one long moment, then turned to face me fully again. “No,” he said slowly, “but the young lady who came screaming into the theatre did not seem to care who went after the man, and I’m a mite faster than Nettleton.”

This man must be Nettleton’s partner for the night. But now it was even odder that I did not recognize him. I knew all the officers, didn’t I? Although, admittedly, it had been ages since I’d last been to Bow Street.

He took in my appearance fully for the first time, my silk evening gown and intricate hairstyle. “Did you just come from the theatre? Perhaps you saw the thief.”

“Yes, I saw him,” I said, unaccountably irritated. “I was following him when you ran into me.”

The last word had barely left my mouth when I realized what a mistake I’d made. He stared at me, and I wished—not for the first time—that I had learned any amount of social restraint in my time at Mrs. Simmons Preparatory School for Girls.

“You were following him?” The pure disbelief in his voice was like a sliver beneath my skin.

I knew I shouldn’t, but my tongue went on without my permission. “He certainly didn’t make it very difficult,” I said tartly. “An elephant would have made less noise.”

His eyebrows arched higher. I’d made it worse.

“Should we walk back together?” I suggested quickly, hoping he might forget what I’d said. “Lady Harwood will be beside herself by now.”

But a silver gleam caught my eye, and I froze. My tiny pistol lay on the street not two feet from where I stood. I sent the man a sideways glance. Had he seen it? Proper young ladies did not carry pistols, no matter how delicate or feminine this particular weapon might be.

He did not seem to be looking, turning back the way he’d come, perhaps wondering which way was the faster route. Leaving the pistol was not an option—Jack had spent a small fortune on it. And that had been before he’d married rich.

I moved quickly, bending and scooping up the pistol in one motion. I tugged my reticule open and slipped it inside. Done.

But as I raised my head again, I saw him again watching me, his eyes fixed firmly on my reticule.

“I dropped something,” I said quickly. Had he seen?

His gaze lifted to meet mine, and he opened his mouth, possibly to question my sanity. Until a chill wind rustled my skirts, and I shivered. Without a word, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it around my shoulders. It held his warmth and the faintest smell of lemons.

I stood stock still, surprised, but he only gestured toward the alley. “Come on, then.”

I fell in beside him, hurrying my steps to match his longer stride. The energy that had overcome me during the chase began to dissipate, and the fear and worry returned.

“Sir Reginald was attacked during the robbery,” I said. “Did you see him? Is he all right?”

“Who?” he asked absently. “I came straight from the theatre.”

“My friend’s father,” I explained. “The thief struck Sir Reginald to keep him from following.”

He sent me a sidelong glance. “And so you decided to follow instead?” What was that tone he’d used? Curiosity? Reproach? I fought the urge to look at him, saying nothing. “Might I ask,” he said, keeping a careful distance between us as we walked, “what you intended to do if you’d caught the man?”

I cleared my throat. “I did not intend to catch him.”

“What, then, was your intention?”

“I planned to follow him until I discovered his hiding place, then fetch help.”

He coughed, perhaps to hide a laugh or a snort. I shot him a glance. He quickly masked his expression, looking perfectly serious.

I quickened my steps. The less time I spent alone with this man, the better.

He did not break stride as he matched my new pace. “You are sure you are not hurt?”

“Of course I’m hurt,” I said, a bit more hotly than I’d intended. “But I’m far from incapacitated.”

“Clearly,” he said under his breath. I opened my mouth, but he pressed on before I could respond. “How do you know Nettleton?”

“He was acquainted with my brother,” I said. “I would not say I know him much at all.” He was persistent, I would give him that. But the last thing I wished to discuss was my history with Bow Street—or Jack’s. I parried. “How did you know where the thief would run?”

He shrugged. “I assumed he would escape toward Seven Dials. I took another route, hoping to cut him off.”

Until he’d cut me off instead. I held my tongue.

No doubt he would have continued to question me, but we reached the end of the alley and found a crowd gathered. Elizabeth gave a small cry upon spotting us and raced to me.

“Verity,” she gasped, clutching my elbows. “What in heaven’s name were you thinking, dashing off like that? Mother is inconsolable. She thinks you dead, or worse.”

“Worse than dead?” I said dryly. “What a notion.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “You cannot be making jests at a time like this.”

I winced. That had been terrible of me. It was a clear failing of mine, allowing humor into the most inappropriate of moments. “I am sorry. How is your father?”

“He is all right,” she said, her voice strained but her relief clear. “A bit dazed but speaking.”

I peered around her to make my own judgment. Sir Reginald sat in the center of the small crowd, holding the bloodstained handkerchief to his head, his eyes closed and his face pale. He didn’t look well , by any means, but neither did he look to be in any danger. I let out a small sigh. No matter that Sir Reginald was a bit overbearing, he’d tried to protect the three of us tonight. I was unexpectedly moved.

The Harwoods’ coach waited on the street, and Lady Harwood stood beside her husband, wringing her hands as she spoke to Nettleton, who jotted notes down in a small book. Even from here, he looked bored with the whole affair.

Elizabeth turned to my companion. “Were you able to catch the blackguard, sir?”

“Ah,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back. “I’m afraid not. There was something of a mishap.”

Instead of disappointment, an inexplicable flash of panic crossed Elizabeth’s face. Was she worried the man might return? But her expression shifted in the next instant, and she managed a tight smile. “I thank you for pursuing him all the same, Mr. ... ?”

She glanced at me for the answer. My cheeks heated. We had tumbled to the street together and shared an entire conversation, yet I hadn’t thought to ask his name.

My mouth parted—to say what?—but he noted my distress and spoke first.

“Denning,” he supplied, along with a short bow. “Nathaniel Denning.”

“Miss Elizabeth Harwood.” Elizabeth curtsied. “I would say it is a pleasure, sir, but perhaps you might forgive me for excluding that nicety this evening.”

He gave a rather charming half smile. “I would, indeed.”

“Denning!”

Nettleton stepped away from Lady Harwood and waved toward us, his face set in what I imagined was a perpetual scowl. I thought Mr. Denning might show some sign of irritation at the less-than-polite summoning, but he only dipped his head at the two of us. “Pardon me, ladies,” he said and went to join his partner.

I took Elizabeth’s elbow as we trailed after him. “Your father is truly all right?”

She nodded, though her hands trembled. “The doctor will confirm it, of course, but it seems to look much worse than it is.”

“That is typical of head wounds,” I said, trying to reassure her. “I am certain he’ll be perfectly fine.”

Lady Harwood saw us coming and moved to meet us. “Verity Travers,” she scolded. “What were you thinking, running after him? The man could have killed you!”

I hadn’t been thinking when I’d dashed after the thief. Not about how stupid it was or how dangerous or how it might affect my reputation. Another failing of mine—blind single-mindedness. Rare were the times when all my flaws joined together to defeat me, but tonight was clearly one of them.

“I wasn’t running after him,” I lied outright, trying my best to deflect. “I was looking for help. I thought I saw a carriage coming down the alley.”

She did not seem entirely mollified by my answer, but then Sir Reginald made a noise of pain behind us, and both she and Elizabeth turned to help him, faces painted in concern.

I stayed back. Sir Reginald did not need another pair of hands to fuss over him. I spotted my abandoned shawl a few paces away from where the two officers stood, their heads bent together. I moved to pick it up, conveniently within earshot.

“—assume from your lack of a handcuffed thief that he escaped your pursuit?” That was Nettleton, snide and sarcastic.

Mr. Denning did not respond immediately, his hands on his hips. Would he blame me?

“He got away.” Mr. Denning spoke evenly, without trying to explain himself.

Nettleton frowned but only consulted his notebook. “I haven’t gotten anything useful from the ladies. They are both at their wits’ end.”

“You can hardly blame them,” Mr. Denning said with a touch of annoyance now, if I wasn’t mistaken. “They’ve had a trying night.”

Nettleton ignored him. “I’ve the barest description of the thief but not enough to go on.”

I could not help myself. “What description do you have?”

They turned, and Nettleton noticed me for the first time. I’d thought he might recognize me—Jack had introduced us before—but apparently, I hadn’t made much of an impression.

“Who’s this?” he grunted at Mr. Denning, his eyes taking in the man’s jacket slung over my shoulders.

Mr. Denning hesitated, and I realized he didn’t know my name. But I wasn’t about to spout it out with Nettleton standing there. I was perfectly aware of what he thought of my brother. Knowing who I was could sour both of them toward the Harwoods and solving this crime.

“I am a friend of Miss Harwood,” I said quickly. “The description?”

Nettleton’s eyes narrowed at my prodding, but he glanced down at his notebook again.

“Average height, large hat, dark eyes,” he read off.

I blinked. “That’s it?”

He gave a hmpf . “Lady Harwood was not in a particularly descriptive state of mind.”

“No, no, dear, you must sit!” Lady Harwood commanded, drawing our attention. Sir Reginald paid her no mind and balanced himself against the brick wall as he found his feet.

“I am well enough,” he said irritably, shaking off her helping hands. “I must speak to the Runners.” He started forward to join us, his steps teetering.

Mr. Denning met him halfway, inconspicuously taking his elbow to steady him.

“Thank you,” the baronet muttered, clearly not wanting his wife and daughter to know how affected he was. He straightened and looked at the two officers. “He’s gotten away, has he?”

Nettleton sent Mr. Denning a pointed look.

Mr. Denning sighed. “Yes,” he said, not beating around the bush. “I had him in my sights, but I lost him during an unexpected ... collision.”

Sir Reginald squinted like he was trying to see through his pain. “Well, what is our next step? How do we catch the miscreant?”

Nettleton and Mr. Denning exchanged a glance. Their thoughts were clear. In cases like this, the chances of finding the culprit, let alone convicting him, were little to none.

“It is late, sir,” Nettleton said, clearly wishing to go home. “You’ve suffered a brutal blow, and a doctor needs to take a look at that wound. You might come by Bow Street in the morning.”

Sir Reginald frowned, realizing they were putting him off.

“Sir Reginald,” I said. “Lady Harwood and Elizabeth are tired. We shan’t drag them to the magistrate’s court at this hour. There is little we can do until morning.”

He considered that, then exhaled. “Very well.” He addressed the officers again. “We shall be at Bow Street at nine o’clock. I expect you both to meet me with a plan of action.”

“As you say,” Nettleton said, irritation hiding beneath a false smile.

Lady Harwood took Sir Reginald’s arm despite his insistence that he was perfectly able, and Elizabeth hovered anxiously behind her parents as they moved toward the coach, as though her delicate frame would be any help if the man did decide to fall.

I did not immediately follow. Although I’d hopefully waylaid Lady Harwood’s suspicions about my pursuit of the thief, she wasn’t the only one I worried about. As soon as Nettleton’s back was turned, I slipped the jacket from my shoulders. “Mr. Denning.”

He started, likely forgetting I was there. His eyes focused on me. “Yes?”

I carefully straightened the arms of the jacket and held it out to him. “Thank you for this.”

“Of course.” He took it, laying it over one arm.

“Mr. Denning.” I toyed with the fringe on my shawl. “Could you—that is, if it isn’t too much trouble—would you please not tell anyone that I pursued the thief?” He faced me fully, curiosity hiding in the angles of his face. His distractingly handsome face. I tried to focus as I continued. “I truly never meant to catch the man. It was instinct alone that made me follow him. The Harwoods wouldn’t like it, I am sure. And I daresay Society in general would not look kindly on me either.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Are you asking a principal officer of Bow Street to lie, miss?”

I was taken aback. “No, not lie. Only, if you find no reason to mention it ...”

It was then I realized he was teasing me. At least, I thought he was. The corner of his mouth twitched, and his eyes seemed to hold an amused glint.

Interesting.

He crossed his arms over his jacket. “And what of the pistol I saw you slip into your reticule? I imagine you wouldn’t like anyone to know about that either.”

My heart stuttered. He had seen it.

“Do you often carry a weapon to the theatre?” he asked. “Perhaps to ward off overeager suitors?”

He thought me foolish. Which I was , to be sure. But his opinion of me did not matter. I needed only his word that he wouldn’t tell anyone.

“Please, sir. I would consider it a favor.” I raised my chin. “And I do not owe those lightly.”

Mr. Denning inspected me. “Very well. And what name should I assign to this secret?”

I could tell him my name now; Nettleton was not listening. And yet I hesitated. So rarely did I have this chance, this tempting anonymity. The Travers name was both famous and infamous. Was it so terrible of me not to want this man to immediately assume things about me because of my family?

“Verity!”

Elizabeth chose that very inopportune moment to call from the coach.

Mr. Denning raised one eyebrow. “Verity? An interesting name for someone determined to hide the truth.”

Well, at least he did not know my surname. That was the one that mattered.

“I am sorry,” I said, my voice a bit clipped. “I must go.”

I began to move around him, but he took the smallest sideways step to stop me. “You’ll come to Bow Street in the morning with the Harwoods?” he asked. “We will need your account of the theft.”

“Of course.” Elizabeth would want me there. And though they did not know it yet, Bow Street would need my help if they wanted a halfway decent description of the thief.

He nodded. “You know the address?”

Now I did smile, quite mischievously. “As it happens, I do. Good night, Mr. Denning.”

I stepped into the coach with the help of the driver, then we started off, Lady Harwood fussing over Sir Reginald. I allowed myself the scantest look back.

Mr. Denning stood in the center of the street, hands in his pockets, his returned jacket draped over one arm as he watched us depart. Our eyes met, and he nodded. A farewell.

We turned a corner, and he vanished from my sight.