Page 68 of Murder in Matrimony
“You are no misfit, Simon.” She smiled. “You are one person who suits me completely.”
He touched her chin. “And you me.”
The next thirty seconds passed in a stolen kiss that proclaimed everything they hadn’t. Love, passion, respect. All was conveyed by the warmth of his lips and the pressure of his hand on her back. He was her freedom and security, and if anyone had told her she could have both, she wouldn’t have believed them until this very moment. She had never known this feeling. Not with Edgar, not with anyone. She was drunk on it, desiring another taste of him as a drinker did another taste of spirits. Knowing that her family and Aunt Tabitha sat only a staircase away, however, forced her to pull back. Now was not the time for admissions, but someday, and perhaps someday soon, it would be.
“Until tonight.” Simon’s voice was husky, and he held her for a moment longer, his hand snaking around her waist.
She whispered, “Until then.”
He inhaled the scent of her before releasing her. Then she raced up the stairs, counting the steps so as not to fall down, back into his arms.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Dear Lady Agony,
So many of your reports on London’s businesses require discretion. Yet I cannot imagine a quiet quarter-hour in this city. You must conduct many of your inquiries at night. Do you?
Devotedly,
Night Owl or No
Dear Night Owl or No,
Your question is an astute one. That does not mean I’ll be answering it, however. I would rather leave readers unaware of my location at all times, even nighttime.
Yours in Secret,
Lady Agony
The night was cloaked in fog, which was excellent for break-ins but not so good for walking. However, Amelia had only to make it to Hyde Park, where Simon’s carriage awaited her arrival. Standing in his great coat, his broad shoulders formed to the cut of the cloth, he watched for her, and when he saw her round the corner, walked toward her. He wasn’t wearing a hat, and his black hair was sleek and shiny from the mist. His eyes were light, the color of green glass, and like a lamp, they led her to him.
“With the fog, I wanted to come to your house, but I didn’t dare change the plan. I thought we might miss each other in a comedy of errors.”
“I’m glad you didn’t. The walk isn’t far.” She settled into the seat across from him. She was wearing the same trousers she wore the very first night she met him, and she caught him grinning, perhaps with the remembrance.
“I talked to Hamsted, and he is looking forward to our little adventure.” He checked the driver’s direction and sat back. “I fear he might become one of Lady Agony’s ardent devotees. He mentioned writing an article on the poverty in the East End.”
“That was my idea,” explained Amelia. “When we visited Mrs. Hines, I had a notion of doing something. Not just donating money but contributing in some real way.”
“You do contribute by bringing forward injustices in your column.”
“When they suit, which is rare.” Amelia sighed. “People have so many of their own problems to contend with. I am always dealing with them. It is hard to step outside one’s daily concerns and commit to others’ wellbeing.”
He tilted his head, and a black lock of hair fell across his brow. “This murder—it has changed you.”
Amelia took a breath, about to protest, when she realized he was right. “Ithaschanged me. I feel different. I want to make a difference.”
“How?”
“I wish I knew.” She looked out the window, watching the large houses and fine shops disappear behind them. The streets narrowed, and the carriage felt large and ridiculous, and she looked forward to leaving it behind. When they approached St. Saviour’s Dock, they did, meeting Oliver and Kitty near the River Neckinger, a name derived from the “devil’s neckcloth.” Thames pirates had been executed near the inlet until the eighteenth century. Although executions were no longer performed here, the river was deadly and rank with refuse. A slimy green film covered the putrid water, and the smell of dead fish rose up in phosphorous fumes.
Kitty kept her mouth and nose covered until they drew close to Mill Street. “A great area to stash the carriages but terrible for walking.” Her words were muffled by her hand.
“Still, you look fetching doing so in that cloak,” Oliver whispered.
Kitty, who wore a black cloak and hood over a nondescript outfit, chuckled.
Amelia ignored the exchange. This might be the one time where more hands meant more work, not less. The idea was to break up and search the two-story factory for, first and foremost, the mixing book. Once they were assured Mr. Baker was using Mrs. Rothschild’s recipe, they would look for references to Rose or her unfortunate accident. They knew she worked in the bake room. They would start there and expand the search if time warranted.
