Page 21 of Murder in Matrimony
He grasped her other hand. “It was everything.” He squeezed them. “You are everything.”
It was the first sign of affection since his avowal in the park, and she blushed to know he still meant it. She had no reason to doubt it, but life had a habit of getting in the way of their relationship, and with Madge’s wedding and Mr. Cross’s murder, she worried there wouldn’t be time for them.
For this.
He brushed her cheek with his lips, lingering near her ear to breathe in her perfume. He murmured his appreciation, and his words were quiet and breathy.
She was smiling—and then she wasn’t. His lips were upon hers, warm, willing, and passionate. He cupped her face asgently as a summer breeze. Her shoulders relaxed, and she felt herself grow closer to him, his wide chest supporting her. A moan echoed, and she was not sure if it was hers or his. All she knew was that it felt like two puzzle pieces, coming together perfectly, made for this purpose, and she never wanted to be apart again.
Somewhere, it felt like a hundred miles away, a bell rang, the lightest chime floating through their kiss. She pulled back. “Simon, it’s the dinner bell.”
He pulled her close again. “Let it ring.”
NINE
Dear Lady Agony,
Women in crinolines can take no comfort in social outings: no dinner table, ballroom, or box can accommodate ourselves and our families. Walking next to another is almost impossible. And the garden? It must be forgone altogether lest we chop off the heads of our favorite flowers. This does not even touch on the personal damage the crinoline has wreaked. Those casualties are brought up in the paper as commonly as musicals or comedies. What is the solution?
Devotedly,
The Crinoline Conundrum
Dear The Crinoline Conundrum,
I see only one solution, and that is women must stop wearing the cursed undergarment. The hoops of the past century were scorned and ridiculed. So must be done of the crinoline—often and publicly. Just yesterday, I read of a nine-year-old girl whose crinoline caught fire when she stood too near the fireplace. She died before the fires could be extinguished. Was there universal outrage? Was it decried on the front-page news? No. It was quietly mentioned on page six. It is one thing if you, ladies, want to risk health for fashion, but in the name of Jove, do not put your child in this firetrap. I implore you. Stop this insanity at once.
Yours in Secret,
Lady Agony
The dinner party had been a success—or at least the kiss had been. Truly, Amelia couldn’t remember anything else, and if she found out the lamb had been overdone and the pudding burned, she would be completely staggered.What she recalled was Simon’s devotion. They were inseparable the rest of the evening, trading bits of conversation and stealing glances whenever they could. It was the respite she needed from weddings and murders, and she awoke the next day feeling refreshed, revitalized, and ready to tackle her problems anew.
It was market day at Petticoat Lane, a street in the East End where it was often said a woman could have her petticoat stolen at one end and sold back to her at the other. Despite the jest, Amelia infinitely preferred petticoats to crinolines. They required half the space—and risk.
Market day was always chaotic, and she had less of a chance of being detected in the crowd than any other day. So as soon as her daily rituals were completed and the family were involved in their own tasks, she stole away to pay a visit to Isaac Jakeman.
Isaac Jakeman owned a jewelry store near Petticoat Lane that operated as a front for his more lucrative endeavor: selling fenced jewels. He’d never mentioned the business himself, of course. She only discovered it when she and Madge went looking for the missing Amesbury diamond several weeks ago. The night had turned dangerous, and Mr. Jakeman had perhaps saved their lives. Since then, they had become acquaintances of sorts. Amelia appreciated having a connection to the East End, and he appreciated having a recommendation to her favorite modiste. Or his wife did, in any case.
Today, the East End street was notoriously chock-full. Known for its variety of leather goods, not to mention clothing and jewelry, the area was crowded with thrifty shoppers. Seedy fencers would replace them tonight, but for now, her driver carefully maneuvered around the clumps of people, looking for a place to stop.
As her carriage slowed, Amelia pulled the brim of her hat lower on her forehead. She’d paired it with a black walking dress she’d worn while in mourning and an oversized paletot that disguised its intricate beading. All her clothes were well made. They were the reason Isaac Jakeman didn’t want her frequenting his store. She didn’t fit in, and he didn’t want his clientele getting nervous. But over the last month, they’d grown closer as associates if not friends. She glanced out the windowas her carriage stopped near Wentworth Street.I like to think of us as friends. After all, they helped each other out, as friends did, when it was possible, or in Jakeman’s case, profitable. Amelia hoped he would be able to shed light on Mr. Cross’s murder or the Rothschild girl.
Jakeman might have information on one or both. He would certainly be aware of St. George-in-the-East, the riots in February, and Mr. Cross’s volunteer efforts since. He would know how the people of Wapping perceived the new priest.
“Be careful, my lady.” Bailey helped her descend the carriage steps. He was a large footman with broad shoulders, and he steadied her with one strong hand. More impressive than his size was his loyalty and respect. He never asked questions and did as he was told, which was true of most domestics. But Amelia was not most employers. She took clandestine walks, ill-advised carriage rides, and hair-raising detours. Nonetheless, he treated the situation as if it was another aboveboard day in Mayfair.
“Thank you, Bailey. I will.” She craned her neck, glancing past the corner, to see if Isaac Jakeman’s store was open. It was.
“And if you need anything—”
“You’ll be three steps behind me.” She gave him an appreciative smile.
He smiled back.
It was one of the compromises she’d made before she’d climbed into the carriage. If she wasn’t taking Lettie, her lady’s maid, or anyone else, he should really follow a few steps behind her—for appearance’s sake. After all, it was the only way he could carry her packages if she bought something at the market. They both knew she wasn’t going on a shopping excursion; however, Bailey was her ally and confidant. If he wanted to be a stone’s throw from her, so be it. She trusted him enough to let him.
Isaac Jakeman was speaking with a customer inside his store. She would have known his hooked nose anywhere, but especially here, where he was bent over a piece of black velvet cloth displaying several loose gemstones. As if feeling her presence,he looked up, his long eyebrows extending past his small brown eyes. He folded the velvet square. The customer, a young man with darting eyes, cast a glance over his shoulder. Seeing her, he buttoned his coat and walked out the door, passing her without a word.
