Page 65 of The Counterfeit Scoundrel
Laughing, he rolled until she was beneath him. “Did you like that?”
She smiled, the force of it rivaling the most delicate and beautiful of blooms. “I did. But I need to leave soon.”
“I’ll take another journey before you go, shall I?”
Her answer was to spread herself for him. Ah, yes, she had most definitely ruined him for anyone else. And yet, he couldn’t seem to regret it.
Chapter 19
The following morning, much to her surprise after such a late night, Daisy was up with the sun, refreshed and energized. And a little sore in places she hadn’t known she could experience discomfort. Yet even the aches were welcome and good because of how they had come to be. She regretted none of her time with Bishop, even if it meant that in complete honesty she had to scratch through a line on their agreement. Even if it meant she felt more compelled to get to the truth of what had happened to Mr. Mallard, if the weight of what she’d taken on now felt as heavy as all those bells he lifted.
She had been unwise to take Bishop on as a client, should have done her sleuthing in secret, because she now feared she would disappoint him, wouldn’t find the proof needed to exonerate him. She’d never pitted her investigative skills against a murderer, had assumed it only required gathering the facts in order to be victorious. But if she was not successful, it was likely that the wrong man would be delivered to the gallows.
A man she cared about far more than was wise. A man she feared that if she allowed it, her heart would love.
But at least she had a starting point for the day. The dwelling Widow Mallard had snuck off to visit late last night, when her residence had been dark and quiet, servants no doubt abed. No one to know of her escapade save her coachman and footman. Although it wouldn’t have mattered if every staff member had known of her activities. No law prevented a widow from going out.
But it struck Daisy as odd. To venture forth at such an hour. Only a few days a widow. After discovering her husband with a bloody mess for a head.
Most women would have taken to their beds for days to recover from the shock of it. But Daisy thought Mrs. Mallard’s actions could not have been more surprising had she gone to the Fair and Spare and asked for a membership. Something was amiss. Even as Bishop had tossed out reasons—sensible reasons—for the woman’s attitude and excursion, Daisy couldn’t help but believe that something nefarious was afoot.
She prepared herself a light breakfast—egg, toast, and tea. The tea, of course, reminded her of Bishop’s dislike for it. Whatever was wrong with the man not to enjoy the calmness that came with a nice cup of the brew? That first sip always righted her world, no matter what troubles might have visited her the hours before or were waiting ahead. And with a chocolate biscuit or sweet, it was absolutely wonderful. Why did he loathe it so? On the other hand, she couldn’t tolerate scotch so perhaps they were even. Scotch in a glass anyway. She did love the flavor of it on his tongue.
She smiled at the memory of his returning her here last night. They couldn’t be in a confined space for long without eventually kissing. And oh, the kissesthey now shared. Nothing at all chaste and proper about them. She’d almost invited him to her bed.
With a chuckle, she descended the stairs to her office and took her place behind her desk. Dipping pen in inkwell, she began making a list of everything she’d learned so far about the recent death, striving to find a pattern or a clue that required a deeper exploration.
At one minute before the hour of ten, she saw the familiar carriage come to a stop in front of her building. Grabbing her reticule, she exited her office, locked the door, and placed her hand in the waiting footman’s so he could assist her up.
Before she’d even settled on the squabs, she knew Bishop was there—his bergamot and orange fragrance powerful, fresh, and crisp. Sitting across from her, he was dressed immaculately, not a wrinkle to be seen. Nor a whisker. He’d obviously taken a razor to his face recently. Beginning her day with the sight of him was better than starting it with tea. “I’d not expected you to be here. Are we delivering you somewhere?”
“If you intend to confront people on my behalf, you’re not going to be doing it alone.”
“If you’re not in favor of letting me do my job, then why even hire me?”
“You’re free to do your job. I’ll simply observe.”
She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, watched his gaze drop before quickly lifting back to her eyes. “I shouldn’t have accepted the use of your carriage. I’m fine on my own.”
“I’ve no doubt. Let the footman know where we’re going.”
She should get out now and hire a cab, but truthfully,she was a bit relieved he would be accompanying her. Last night, she’d seen little of the area she wanted to visit now but had the sense that it was one of the dodgier portions of London. She looked at the footman. “Where that coach we followed last night made its stop.”
“Yes, miss.” He shut the door, and the carriage rocked as he joined the coachman to relay the instructions.
The horses released neighs before the carriage was rumbling up the street.
“Don’t you have business to attend to?” she asked.
“I am attending to business, the business of murder. It’s hard to concentrate with suspicions hanging over my head.”
For as marvelous as he looked, shadows rested in half-moons beneath his eyes, and she rather feared he’d had a restless night after they’d parted ways. He hadn’t drawn the curtains on the windows—after all it was a respectable hour—even if being in a carriage alone with Blackguard Blackwood would have ruined a marriageable lady’s chances at a trip to the altar. Or at the very least caused a questioning of her wisdom.
“What is it you wish to accomplish with this foray into Whitechapel?” he asked.
“Is that where we were last night?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact”—he withdrew a slip of paper from inside his coat pocket and handed it to her—“my coachman has provided the address and the house number.”
