Page 71 of A Treacherous Trade
The smell of bacon had roused me a handful of hours later in the exact same position I’d tucked myself into on the chaise.
I told myself that thoughtful, observant Amelia had tucked the soft blanket around me upon noticing that I’d unwillingly surrendered my consciousness. That the scent of clove and vanilla only lingered because the blanket resided in the same house as inspector Croft and his pleasantly pungent tobacco.
Hewould have likely shaken me awake and stuffed me into a hackney. He wasn’t the sort to abide unwanted guests. And if his foul temper this morning was any indicator, heclearlywasn’t in any mood for me.
Not that I blamed him.
He’d barely said a word around the late breakfast Amelia provided, and avoided us altogether as she deftly altered a gown and applied cosmetics.
I’d never worn much beyond a dash of color on my cheeks or my lips. Looking in the mirror after she worked her magic, I’d gasped at the sight of me. Her poultice had worked its magic and, though the cut still remained, no sign of swelling endured the night.
Bruises had disappeared beneath a heavy layer of powder she’d moistened to create a sort of… Well, I wouldn’t know what to call it. Not a paste and not an oil. Something pigmented and perfectly matching my skin.
It even covered the freckles on my nose, and I found myself turning this way and that, appreciating a brief moment of the porcelain skin my vanity had always coveted.
She led me downstairs dressed like a gentlewoman down on her luck.
I immediately convinced myself I wasn’t affected by the sight of Inspector Croft scrubbing the dishes like they’d done him a disservice.
After a cursory glance, he’d grunted something that might have been approval as he rolled his sleeves down and cuffed them.
The next thing I knew, Amelia had bundled us against the late-January weather and pushed us out the door with words of encouragement like a mother might with two recalcitrant schoolchildren.
A total of fourteen words, three grunts, and a sigh had been spoken between Croft and me since then.
Not that I’d been counting.
We’d backtracked to my house in Chelsea so I could retrieve a fresh pair of spectacles and check on Aunt Nola before leaving for Fleet Street.
The hackney fare would be astronomical, and I silently thanked Night Horse for the extra income. However, it was Croft who paid the driver and sent him on his way.
We’d been waiting almost half an hour outside of C.B.H. Photography for the shop to empty of customers. It seemed the fates worked against us, as one or two people always wandered inside, interspersed with two families dressed in their Sunday best, no doubt sitting for portraits.
I didn’t realize how tightly I’d been clutching a spire of the black wrought-iron fence across the way until the cold seeped through my mittens.
“I don’t know what I expected.” My thoughts become tangible in a wispy puff of frigid afternoon air. “I suppose I thought to see a furtive, weaselly man with scores of young women traipsing through his shop. This all appears so… so normal.”
I expelled warm breaths into my mittens and held them against my nose, which threatened to go numb. A curse escaped me as I remembered Amelia’s warning about rubbing the powder off my skin.
“I suppose there’s no convincing you that this is a fool’s errand,” Croft huffed, pulling his hat lower over his shadowed eyes. “No hope that you’ll listen to reason and allow me to question him properly?”
I really did attempt to look apologetic as I looked up at him. “Did you not mention that if you shouldered your way in there and stumbled upon evidence, it might not be admissible.”
“I did. But the police have ways around—”
“But if I found evidence that he showed me of his own volition, not only could I bring it to the police, but I could also testify against the man.”
He grimaced. “So long as no one knew I’d accompanied you.”
“That’s a fact easily avoided,” I said brightly. “I think this might just work. Perhaps the London Metropolitan Police should regularly employ people like me to act as spies in clandestine investigations. Nowthere’sa thrilling prospect.”
“If by thrilling you mean terrifying, then yes,” he answered grimly, squinting over at the shop as if were he to try hard enough, he might see through the shades. “And facts—truths—should not so easily be avoided. There are laws and rules for a reason, often to protect the innocent from being entrapped by the police.”
“I understand what you’re saying, but you have to admit that not all innocent people are protected from the police.”
His jaw worked to the side, and still I imprudently continued.
“People like Mr. Hartigan are protected, but not people like Alys or Jane, or even—”
