Chapter 4

C hapter 4

I twisted in my chair. Coming in the front doors were two men, one tall with broad lines, the other shorter but built heavy like a blacksmith.

A smile burst onto my lips. “Little?” I repeated loftily as I stood. “I am nearly five and a half feet, Mr. Drake. And perfectly able to fetch a ladder should I need anything on a high shelf.”

As they stopped beside us, Drake laughed that contagious burst that always lifted my spirits. “A ladder, indeed.”

Drake had been Jack’s friend while in the army, and the two had come over to Bow Street together a few years ago. It had been months since I’d seen him, and I’d missed the great bear of a man. I beamed at him, then turned to his taller companion. “Mr. Rawlings. So good to see you again.”

Rawlings nodded in greeting. He’d always been the darker, grumpier foil to Drake’s cheerfulness, but if I looked closely, I thought I saw a hint of gladness to see me in his eyes. “Miss Travers.”

Jack and Drake had met Rawlings at Bow Street, the two more sociable men forcing the reticent officer to accept their heavy-handed overtures of friendship. I’d once fancied the dark and handsome Rawlings as a girl, taken in by his slight Scottish brogue, but it had lasted only as long as it had taken me to realize that brooding, silent gentlemen were not the thing for me, even if the romance novels favored them.

A chair scraped behind us, and I turned to find Mr. Denning standing, staring at me. “Travers?” he repeated. “As in Jack Travers?”

I’d forgotten my little ruse. All the euphoria I’d felt at seeing Jack’s old friends withered away.

“The very one,” Drake said brightly.

“He’s my brother,” I supplied, attempting to keep my voice steady. It had been over two years since Jack had been dismissed from Bow Street, but it appeared the stories would persist far longer than that. Every Bow Street officer knew what had happened to him. Jack had been investigating the murder of a Society lady and, based on the evidence he’d had, had accused the woman’s betrothed. Falsely accused, as it turned out. When the true murderer came to light, Jack had been dismissed by the magistrates.

“Your brother is Jack Travers,” Mr. Denning repeated in disbelief. I could not help but try to read the thoughts behind his eyes. Opinions about Jack varied greatly among the men of Bow Street.

“Aye,” Rawlings said in that deep, rolling accent of his as he removed his worn leather gloves. “And her mother is Trinity Travers.”

I shot him a sharp look. He merely shrugged, as if to say, Better to have it over and done with .

“The actress?” Mr. Denning drew back his chin.

“Yes, Verity is the epitome of well-connected,” Drake said, plopping down on a nearby chair.

“Unless one counts you lot,” I said.

“Oh, we count double.” Drake flashed a grin. “How long has it been since we last saw you? Blast, if it hasn’t been months. Since Jack went and chained himself to a wife.”

He was right. In the past, Drake and Rawlings and many of the other officers had been frequent visitors to our home for dinners and parties. With Jack gone, those evenings had fallen by the wayside, Mama busy at the theatre and me with my own ambitions.

“A lovely wife,” I admonished him. “Something you might consider for yourself before you end up a lonely curmudgeon.”

“He’s already a lonely curmudgeon,” Rawlings said, face buried in his newspaper.

“Oh, pull a punch every now and again, Rawlings.” Drake sounded unruffled.

I shook my head with a laugh as I took my seat, but I found myself glancing again at Mr. Denning. Would he be angry that I’d hidden my name and family from him?

He eyed me with something new in his expression—but not what I’d expected. Sometimes I saw fascination or calculated interest when a person learned who my mother was. Sometimes I saw judgment when they knew my connection to Jack.

But Mr. Denning’s eyes held none of those. No, it was wariness that filled his expression.

Drake nodded at Mr. Denning with a grin. “I see you’ve met Sir Chivalry.”

“Sir Chivalry?” I echoed.

“Oh yes,” Drake went on. “You see, the ladies are quite keen on Denning here, and—”

“It’s only an unearned nickname,” Mr. Denning interrupted. Was that a touch of pink on his cheeks?

“What brings you to Bow Street?” Rawlings asked me, ignoring Drake’s nonsense.

“What brings anyone to Bow Street?” I said. “I’m reporting a crime.”

“Truly?” Drake leaned forward. “What crime?”

Mr. Denning spoke for me. “Miss Travers and her companions were leaving the Theatre Royal yesterday evening when they were robbed. The thief escaped.”

Drake’s carefree expression vanished in an instant, and Rawlings’s eyes sharpened as he set down his newspaper.

“Any leads?” Drake asked, his voice serious.

It shouldn’t have surprised me how easily they switched from pleasant conversation to serious questioning. I’d known them for years, after all. But while Drake could be a bit outrageous, and Rawlings was still something of a stormy enigma, they were both talented investigators and dedicated officers. Duty came before all else.

“We don’t—” I said at the same moment Mr. Denning said, “No, it—”

We both stopped.

He waved for me to continue, and I nodded. “We don’t have anything substantial. I was just giving Mr. Denning my description of the criminal in the hopes it might help.”

“What of the stolen items?” Rawlings asked. “Perhaps they’ll be fenced and we can track them back to the thief.”

“I’d considered that,” Mr. Denning said. “But Nettleton doesn’t seem particularly intent on following this case through.”

Drake made a noise of disapproval. “Nettleton never wants to follow a case through. He prefers his suspects to surrender of their own free will. Less work, you see.”

Mr. Denning shook his head. “I hate to agree with Nettleton, believe me, but this case does seem a needle in a haystack. At best, we would apprehend a street thief, of which there is no shortage in London. At worst, we waste time that could be applied to more serious cases.”

I sighed. “I’m afraid Sir Reginald believes differently. His pride was quite wounded.”

As though summoned by my words, Sir Reginald stepped out of the interview room behind us, followed by Mr. Etchells.

“Denning,” the magistrate said, moving toward us. “There you are.”

Mr. Denning straightened, more than a little apprehensive. “Yes, sir?”

“After speaking with Sir Reginald,” Mr. Etchells said, “I am convinced of the need to track down this thief. Considering his attack on the baronet, the criminal seems bent on violence, and we cannot allow it.”

Sir Reginald nodded in agreement, looking far more satisfied than when we’d left him.

“He also insisted,” Mr. Etchells went on, “that you be the one to take the case.”

Mr. Denning’s jaw dropped. “Me, sir?”

“Yes,” Sir Reginald cut in. “You’ve proven yourself willing and able, unlike some .” He cast a disparaging glance behind him and seemed disappointed not to see Nettleton.

Mr. Denning shook his head. “But I am already handling the Winters robbery.”

My ears perked up. I’d read about that theft in the Hue and Cry . A valuable Greek vase had been stolen from a home in Mayfair, with no sign of a break-in.

Drake stepped forward. “Mr. Etchells, I would be happy to take this case on.”

Yes, that would be ideal. Drake was an excellent investigator. Sir Reginald could hardly complain.

“Not only am I already acquainted with Miss Travers here,” Drake said, gesturing to me, “but I—”

“Travers?” Mr. Etchells seemed to notice me for the first time.

My stomach sank. He wore the same bewildered expression that Mr. Denning had sported just a few minutes earlier. Mr. Etchells might be new to Bow Street, but of course he knew the name. Everyone knew it.

Mr. Etchells shot Rawlings a look, and Rawlings nodded, confirming the magistrate’s suspicions. I was Jack Travers’s relation. Mr. Etchells considered that as he glanced between Drake and me. “No,” he finally said. “Denning will take it.”

I blew out a breath. His reasons were obvious. I was a Travers, which equated to trouble . Drake was clearly connected to me, and to Jack, which could compromise the case.

Mr. Denning was not ready to give in. “Sir,” he said, stepping forward, “what of Nettleton? He knows the details of the case as well as I do, and—”

Sir Reginald made a noise, but Mr. Etchells spoke first. “No,” he said firmly. “Nettleton has other duties. Denning, you are to give your full focus to this case, and Drake will take over the Winters investigation.”

Mr. Denning looked about to protest yet again, but then he pressed his lips together and offered a curt nod. “Yes, sir.”

I felt for the man. To be taken off such an important case and assigned to our paltry street robbery was akin to riding an purebred Arabian, then trading it in for a donkey. Ours was not the sort of case that propelled a man’s career forward. It was the sort of case that drowned a man in useless interviews, false leads, and wasted hours.

But the magistrate’s hands were tied. Sir Reginald was wealthy, powerful, and well-connected. This was simply how the game was played.

Mr. Etchells looked sympathetic. “Sir Reginald has offered a reward,” he said as reparation.

“Yes,” Sir Reginald said. “Fifty pounds for the capture of the thief.”

Fifty pounds? Fifty pounds ?

Mr. Denning blinked, and I swore I could see the immediate calculations in his mind. A Bow Street officer was paid a weekly salary, but it was not nearly enough to live on. They often took on private work to supplement their income. But fifty pounds? It was almost absurd. Heavens, for fifty pounds, even I would—

No. No, I wouldn’t.

“A generous offer.” Mr. Denning sent a glance at me, though he looked away in the next instant.

“See that you make every effort,” Sir Reginald instructed. “I am determined that this man be punished to the full extent of the law.”

“I will do all I can, sir,” Mr. Denning said, resigned to his fate.

Sir Reginald nodded and, seeming to think his business finished, started for the door.

“Sir Reginald.” Mr. Denning moved to intercept him. “I am sorry to take any more of your time, but I shall need to interview you all and record detailed descriptions of each stolen item.”

Sir Reginald sighed. “Yes, very well.”

He followed Mr. Denning back inside the interview room. Mr. Etchells disappeared almost as quickly, no doubt to begin his morning hearings.

I turned to Drake and Rawlings with a grimace. “I see Jack’s reputation hasn’t changed much.”

“Hogwash, is what it is,” Drake muttered. “Jack didn’t do anything the rest of us haven’t done before. As if any investigation is perfect.”

Rawlings shook his head. “Etchells doesn’t mean anything by it, lass. He has no ill will toward Jack or you. He is only being careful.”

My hands tightened into fists. No doubt the account was whispered as a warning to new officers eager to prove themselves. Never mind that it could have been anyone. Never mind that the magistrates in power then had never liked Jack. Never mind that the man he’d accused was smarmy, horrible, and rich—and had been the one to insist upon Jack’s dismissal.

Many officers, like Nettleton, believed it to be a just decision, that Jack had gotten what he’d deserved. Others—Drake and Rawlings included—held that the punishment far exceeded the mistake.

I couldn’t help but wonder to which camp Mr. Denning belonged. “And if it’s not Etchells I’m worried about?” I murmured.

Rawlings seemed to read my thoughts. “He’s a good man, Denning,” he said in a gruff voice. “He’ll not hold it against you.”

“Unlike Nettleton,” Drake said sourly.

“How long has Mr. Denning been at Bow Street?” I asked, curious. “I don’t remember him.”

“Only a few months,” Rawlings confirmed. “Just promoted from the patrols.”

“You needn’t worry,” Drake told me. “Sir Chivalry is sharp—and eager. He’ll do well enough.”

I shot him a querying look. “Why ‘Sir Chivalry’? You aren’t torturing the poor man, are you?”

Drake grinned. “He won’t be poor if he can manage to track down that thief of yours.” He propped his feet on the corner of a desk. “And you’ll have to ask him about the nickname. The story is extremely amusing.”

“I sincerely doubt I will have the opportunity,” I said dryly. “I do not plan on involving myself in the case more than necessary.”

Drake rubbed his hands together. “I recall you being a great help to Jack with his cases before he left. You could wrap this up quicker than Denning if you put your mind to it.”

My breath caught in my lungs, sharp and painful. I’d never been more grateful that I hadn’t told them about my aspirations, wanting to prove myself a success before declaring my dreams. They didn’t know about my failure.

“No,” I said quickly. “I am certain he will do well enough.”

“But you’ll come to us if anything is amiss,” Rawlings said, more an order than a question.

I nodded. “Of course.”

With a small wave, I reentered the interview room. Mr. Denning glanced up, his eyes following me as I seated myself beside Elizabeth. He finally looked away, asking Lady Harwood a question, and I was grateful. I didn’t like guessing what went on behind those eyes now that he knew who I was. Elizabeth offered me a wan smile, waiting her turn to be questioned.

I, however, had a task of my own to complete.

As Lady Harwood detailed the size and number of the rubies on her necklace, I slipped a piece of paper from the table and settled back in my chair. I retrieved the stub of a pencil in my reticule, and I began sketching. I had an excellent memory, but more than that, I had a special knack for remembering faces . For as long as I could remember, I’d been able to recall with perfect clarity any face I’d seen, no matter how briefly. My sketchbooks were packed full of my family, friends, acquaintances, people I’d passed on the street.

I was lost in my drawing for nearly a quarter of an hour while Mr. Denning conducted his interviews with the others. When I finished, I quickly scribbled a few sentences on the back of my sketch. After Elizabeth finished recounting her stolen belongings, Mr. Denning turned to me.

“Miss Travers?” he asked politely. “Have you anything to add to the list of stolen items?”

“Just a pair of earrings,” I said. “I’ve written a description for you.” I placed my paper on the table so that my sketch was down, my writing facing up. Better to let Mr. Denning find the drawing after we left. I’d already brought enough unwanted attention to myself today.

Mr. Denning furrowed his brow, but there was no chance for argument. Sir Reginald was already standing, assisting Lady Harwood to her feet. I followed as Mr. Denning escorted them to the front entrance.

“I should like to be informed of any progress you make,” Sir Reginald said sternly to Mr. Denning. “Any development, no matter how small, I want to know of it.”

“Of course,” Mr. Denning said, though he couldn’t be excited at the prospect of traipsing to Mayfair with every new bit of information. But for fifty pounds, I imagined Mr. Denning would be more than willing to swallow his protests.

Lady Harwood and Elizabeth trailed Sir Reginald outside. I paused beside Mr. Denning in the antechamber, tying my bonnet ribbons in a neat bow under my chin. He watched me, arms crossed.

“I have learned my lesson, Miss Travers,” he said, putting a slight emphasis on my name. “The next time I collide with a young lady on the street, I will immediately insist upon learning her name.”

He did not seem angry, at least. “I am sorry to have deceived you,” I said. “It is only that I have learned to be cautious. Names have power, and mine has more than most.”

The rough edge of his expression began to soften, though his crossed arms remained tight against his chest, and his eyes still held that new guardedness.

“I do not feel deceived,” he said. “Though perhaps a little foolish.”

“Not because of Drake, I hope.”

He gave a short laugh. “No, I can handle the likes of him. It is pretty young women with famous names I cannot keep up with.”

“Pretty?” I put one hand on my waist. “Sir Chivalry, indeed.” I hadn’t pegged him as a flirt, but a man had to earn the nickname somehow.

His brow dropped. “I am not particularly fond of that appellation, Miss Travers.”

“A shame,” I said. “It’s quite catching.”

He shook his head, though his lips seemed to fight a smile.

I took a step past him. “You needn’t bother searching for my earrings. Focus on the Harwoods’ goods.”

“You don’t want your earrings back?”

I shrugged one shoulder. “I am not terribly attached to them.”

“Still,” he said. “There is no information too small. One never knows what will provide a lead.”

“True enough,” I agreed. “My brother Jack often said—” I stopped. I still did not know what this man thought of Jack, and I wasn’t at all ready to open that line of discussion. “That is, I certainly agree.”

We stood in an awkward, drawn-out silence until I gathered myself together and moved toward the front door. “Best of luck, Mr. Denning. I daresay you will need it.”

“I shall take your luck, Miss Travers,” he said after me. “And I will find your stolen earrings, whether you care for them or not.”

There was such a surety to his deep voice, such a masculine confidence, that I almost believed him. My stomach took a tumble.

I immediately brushed it off. Ridiculous to get worked up over a man I hardly knew. Even if he did have a sharp wit—and an even sharper jaw. But it wouldn’t do to form an attachment.

I knew better.