“I imagine you will be safe, Lysette, as long as you distance yourself from any meetings of true substance,” Emmeline said.
“I would hardly expect a bluestocking activist to understand that the truest threat will be to the family’s most valuable asset.” Lysette’s blue eyes narrowed a fraction.
Oliver felt as though he were at a polo match. He ticked his glance back to Emmeline, whose lips twitched up on one side but otherwise remained impassive.
“Enough.” Lady O’Shea made her way over to the two women and stood between them.
Sir Ronald followed her but stood awkwardly to the side. “Cease your bickering, girls,” he said, and from the blank expressions pointed at him in response, it was clear he was attempting to present an authoritative image for the sake of their visitors.
Lady O’Shea cleared her throat. “Chief-Inspector, my initial request for Emmeline still remains, though I was remiss in considering the potential danger to the rest of the family.”
“You see, of course,” Lysette interrupted, looking at Oliver, “how an otherwise loving parent might appear to show favoritism by entrusting the safety of one daughter to the protection of the Yard’s finest talent and leaving the others vulnerable.”
Emmeline swept a hand toward Oliver without taking her eyes from Lysette. “They’re all yours, dearest. I do not require round-the-clock nannies.” She looked at her mother. “I appreciate your concern, Mama, but I have had the day to consider the matter, and I am convinced this morning’s rush to judgment and mad flight to the Yard were an overreaction.”
Lady O’Shea’s eyes widened, and her mouth dropped open. “Emmeline, do you not remember that letter?” She moved to her daughter and grasped her arm. “I do. I remember every word.” Her lips tightened, and she lowered her voice. Her profile was to him, but Oliver saw the sheen of tears gathering, and from Emmeline’s uncomfortable expression, he assumed it was a rarity. “I will enlist the help of Daniel Pickett, then, and Isla.”
Emmeline’s eyes closed briefly, and she whispered, “Mama, please, let us discuss this later.” She glanced around the room at the faces watching the drama continue. Constables Brinley and Tyler hovered behind Conley, quiet but riveted.
Conley cleared his throat. “Sir Ronald, with your permission, I should like to instruct my two constables to speak with your staff concerning one line in the message Miss Emmeline received, the one intimating that the sender is aware of your home’s interior.”
Sir Ronald frowned. “That is rubbish, surely.”
“Nevertheless, several people work here at the house throughout the course of a day and are frequently in and out?”
O’Shea nodded. “Yes, but surely—”
“Papa,” Lysette interrupted, “I believe the Chief-Inspector’s suggestion is sound. Families of our stature do bear the burden of multiple servants. Why, on any given day, there are several I’m sure I don’t know.”
“True enough, Lyssie. Very well, Chief-Inspector, your men may question the staff.”
“Barnesworth.” Lady O’Shea motioned to the butler, who stood at the doorway. “Show the constables to the kitchen and introduce them to Mrs. Stanway. She will direct them further.”
Brinley and Tyler awaited a nod from Conley, then followed the butler from the room.
Lysette looked at Emmeline. “The sender may be one of your associates. They are unseemly, and he could be one of hundreds. It really is beyond the pale of you, Emmeline, to carry on to the point that you endanger us all.”
Emmeline looked at her sister flatly. “To my knowledge, any threats sent to this house have been addressed to me, Lysette, so you needn’t worry about your own safety.”
Lysette’s eyes widened. “Emmeline, someone is aware of the layout of this house! How can you possibly be so selfish?” She turned to Conley and Oliver. “Surely you understand my perspective.” Her pretty blue eyes clouded, and Oliver felt a flash of irritation. He did not appreciate emotional manipulation.
He had seen enough. He looked at Conley with a nod and spoke for them. “Sir Ronald, Lady O’Shea, I would ask your permission for a word alone with your daughter.” He pointedly looked at Emmeline. “This one.”
Lady O’Shea swallowed and blinked at him. She finally nodded and released her death grip on Emmeline’s arm.
“Detective-Inspector Reed.” Lysette moved closer. “I hope you’ll not dismiss my earlier comments. My safety must also be considered. And Madeline’s.”
Oliver nodded amiably. “Of course, of course.” He clapped his hand on Conley’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you in the capable hands of my superior to discuss it while I have a word with your sister.”
Conley turned his head toward Oliver, and Oliver gave his shoulder a squeeze before releasing it with a friendly slap.
“Mr. Reed,” Emmeline said, picking up his cue, “perhaps you’ll join me in the library. We’ll leave the Chief-Inspector here to discuss the matter with the others. My itinerary in Scotland will be different from theirs, and we will seldom cross paths.” Without waiting to see if he followed her, she left the room.
Oliver, his back to the others, winked at Conley before following Emmeline across the hall into a richly appointed library with warm tones, leather-bound books, and furniture. Globes and maps covered the tables and walls, and sconces lit each corner. A fire blazed warmly in the hearth, and it was blissfully, peacefully quiet.
Emmeline took a deep breath and blew it out softly. She seemed to appreciate the peace, too, but she wasn’t still. She paced silently across the hearth, hands on her hips, for a long time without looking at him. She was dressed in a dark skirt and emerald-green corset that defined a trim torso. Long white sleeves came to a lacy point on the back of her hands, her fingers splayed across her waist.
Oliver studied her carefully, taking advantage of the unguarded moment. What he knew of Emmeline O’Shea stemmed from things he’d gleaned observing her in social settings, usually while she was marching for her cause, which was protecting and advocating for the rights of the shape-shifting population. She was a tireless champion for those unjustly persecuted—especially predatory shifters—and he didn’t fault her for that in the least. As a matter of point, he agreed with her. Where they differed was in approach. Tactics.
She disturbed the peace. She broke in, broke out, picketed, marched, yelled, chained herself to buildings, littered leaflets, and disrupted official meetings and gatherings. She was underfoot, in the way, either leading the charge or lending support.
His job was to maintain order. She disrupted it. She could whip a crowd into a well-meaning frenzy faster than anyone else, and he did not know how she did it.
The majority of his exchanges with her involved screaming, slapping, dragging, pulling, or shoving—actions mostly taken against him. Those pretty hands resting on her pretty hips usually came at him shaped like claws. This pensive woman who currently paced in the quiet room was not someone he’d met.
“I read your editorial piece in The Times last week.” He approached slowly, hands in pockets the way he would when trying to disarm a skittish felon.
She stopped moving and looked at him, eyes wary.
He almost smiled. “It was very good.”
She remained in one spot, still staring.
He took pity on her and returned them to familiar footing. “Will wonders never cease?” he murmured. “I have rendered Emmeline O’Shea speechless.”
She scowled at him. “Thank you for the compliment of my editorial. I wasn’t aware you approved of such ideas.”
“I wholeheartedly support equality and decency for one and all. We differ on how best to achieve it.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it and shook her head. “That is a discussion for another day. Detective, let us be honest with one another. You do not want this assignment, nor do I want you, or anyone, assigned t
o me. I have weapons—legal, as you are aware—and can defend myself if necessary. My mother overreacted, and I regret that this whole affair has become such an . . . affair.”
He reached her side, and she did not retreat, which he grudgingly respected. He stood several inches taller than she, so she was forced to look up at him. She regarded him evenly, probably assuming he would jump at the chance to be absolved of the responsibility to see to her safety.
“You forget that I have read the letter,” he said.
She swallowed, parted her lips as if to speak, but then stepped aside and sank into one of two chairs flanking the hearth. The firelight reflected on her face as she stared into the flames, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of her lip. “You were correct, of course, in your observation months ago in the police carriage. I am amassing an entire stable of enemies.”
Oliver sat opposite and leaned toward her, bracing his elbows on his knees. “I’ve no doubt you can defend yourself. You and I have engaged in more tussles than I care to remember, and I’ve suffered my share of bruises; even then, I imagine you were using restraint. If not, it is a lie I’ll choose to believe.”
She laughed quietly, reluctantly, and closed her eyes.
“But, Emmeline—may I call you Emmeline?—I daresay I’ve touched you with more familiarity than any other man in your life—”
Finally, a decent laugh, and even a blush. He ought to have known that little short of shocking her would disarm her.
“My friends call me Emme.”
“You prefer I call you Emmeline, then, very well.”
She rolled her eyes at him, but a corner of her mouth lifted.
“Regrettably, I have seen ugly things over the course of my career. The malice in the letter you received is . . . extreme.”
She exhaled, and her knee bounced restlessly. She looked deflated, and for all that she usually drove him mad with frustration, he did not like seeing her that way. “It is sobering to realize someone hates me so very much.”
“Someone hates your cause very much, hates the shifter community, and likely realizes your voice has grown powerful. I doubt you would have received such a threat otherwise.”
“But why, after all this time? I have been so involved, devoted, for years.” She looked at him in bafflement, green eyes wide and fringed with dark lashes that matched the midnight blackness of her hair.
“Perhaps they read your editorial as well, Spokeswoman O’Shea. Your voice is a powerful one, and you are about to address the world. Chief-Inspector Conley has asked that I fill the role of bodyguard for you.”
Emme tried not to stare at the man sitting across from her. Detective-Inspector Reed was to be her bodyguard? He was treating her nicely, which meant he’d already begun the role. And that could mean only one thing: the threatening letter was truly as awful as she’d feared, though she’d tried to convince herself otherwise.
If only Reed would simply return to his usual, horrible self, her life could resume its normal rhythm and flow. Certain things should be predictable, constant. She should be able to count on the reliability of the detective’s rotten timing and interference in every meaningful event she planned.
Emme was nothing if not honest. “You’re treating me kindly, and I find it quite off-putting.”
He raised a brow. “Do you doubt my sincerity?”
Emme sighed. “No, I believe you are sincere. If you would behave toward me as you customarily do, then I could dismiss the severity of that blasted letter and be on my merry way.”
He was quiet, and she glanced at him. His lips twitched in a smile. “How do I customarily behave toward you?”
“With complete and utter contempt.”
Something quickly crossed his features but was gone before she could identify it. “I have certainly never felt contempt for you. My apologies.”
She nodded stiffly, knowing the polite thing would be to also apologize for any discomfort she may have caused. “I . . . apologize for bruising you—your person—in any past . . . altercations.”
“Accepted.”
Silence stretched between them, and Emme stilled her bouncing knee with effort. If there was one trait she appreciated about the detective, it was that he was skilled at holding his emotions in check. All indications as to his frame of mind she gleaned from the emotions he allowed to cross his face. On rare occasion, she’d seen his eyes blaze so hotly at her in frustration she would not have been surprised had flames shot from his eye sockets. There had been occasions when his frustration had spilled over and rushed at her, but for the most part, he kept himself pulled together. Professional.
As a child, she’d realized she felt people’s emotions as energy, occasionally seeing visual auras, and the sensations were overwhelming. When nobody seemed to understand what she was talking about, she’d figured out a solution on her own. She’d learned to turn the phenomenon off, rather like flipping a Tesla lamp switch or closing a door.
She’d practiced controlling it and usually managed to keep the emotional assaults at bay. On the odd occasion when faced with a person she found difficult to assess, someone like the detective, she cracked open the door slightly for a glimpse of intuition, but never more than a glimpse. The risk of the door swinging wide open and leaving her overwhelmed and panicked was significant enough that she avoided it as a rule.
Since her appointment as the International Shifter Rights Organization spokeswoman, the onslaught of intense emotion had begun seeping from under the closed door; the Bad Letter had only made it worse. She suspected the reason was connected to her stress levels, but there was much at stake, and she couldn’t afford the lapse.
She was tired and wanted to retreat to her bedroom, where she could remove her shoes and sprawl across her bed while scribbling lists in her journal. She was mostly prepared for her journey north but still had a few details to attend to, and she was extremely displeased that forces outside her control were dictating her actions. Because of the Bad Letter, Detective-Inspector Reed had landed directly, literally, in her path, and now the most exciting event of her life would be marred by his presence the entire time. At least, she consoled herself, she had the next few days to herself.
“I’m curious about the date selection for the week of the meetings,” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “The fact that the full moon hits toward the end—it is symbolic or happenstance?”
She nodded. “Many people have wondered. Initially, it was happenstance, but once the organizers realized it, they embraced it. Many lodging houses and hotels have added features to accommodate shifters for those needing it. The hope is that the cause’s point will be proven—that even in the midst of a huge festival during the full moon, shifters are not to be feared.” She paused. “While every eventuality has been addressed and readdressed, I confess unease at the thought of what others might do to exploit the timing.”
“Are you imagining anything specific?”
She frowned. “No, I suppose I have become jaded the past few years. I’ve met many who are not to be trusted.”
He nodded, pursing his lips. “In certain circles, caution is never wasted. I should think it unwise to be oblivious to potential trouble.”
“Security forces will be present everywhere, at all times, and we have the comfort of knowing safety is paramount.” She shook her head. “So many countries represented, all gathered in one place—sometimes it seems like a recipe for disaster.”
Silence hung heavy for a moment, then Detective-Inspector Reed shifted in his seat. “I will require a copy of your travel itinerary and schedule of activities during the Summit.”
She swallowed. She would be civil, and she would be grateful. Perhaps he would blend into whatever woodwork they found themselves near and she wouldn’t even be aware of his constant, looming, disapproving, judgmental presence. “Of course. I’ll have a packet of information ready for
you tomorrow.”
“Excellent.” He withdrew a small notebook and pen from his pocket. “And your schedule for tomorrow?”
She blinked. “I shall have the information delivered to you at the Yard, or to any address you prefer, Detective-Inspector. You needn’t bother retrieving it here.”
He smiled, pen poised. “I require your schedule for security purposes. I’ve cleared my calendaring to accommodate yours.”
“You’ve . . . but . . . already?” She made an effort not to raise her voice. “We do not leave for a few days. I fear you have inconvenienced yourself unnecessarily.” She smiled, feeling patient and amiable. “Do not bother yourself one moment before you must.”
His smile remained, and she imagined he was also feeling quite patient and amiable. “I fear I am already several moments behind. You received the letter this morning.”
“Sir.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “Am I to understand you believe your duties extend to home care?”
“As it happens, Chief-Inspector Conley has arranged for round-the-clock surveillance of uniformed officers on the property, though I alone will accompany you whenever you leave the house.” He paused and tapped his pen against the notebook. “Where will you be tomorrow, and when?”
“Mr. Reed, I do not require your presence at my mother’s boutique for dress alterations.”
“Time?”
She let out a frustrated sigh. “I cannot have you following me around all day.”
“Why is that, Miss O’Shea? Do your plans include illegal activity?” He leaned forward again, notebook and pen hanging between his knees. She’d seen those intense brown eyes before in close quarters—usually while he was pulling her from illegally rigged scaffolding as she yelled into a megaphone. They were alone, now, in the quiet of her library, discussing his efforts to keep her safe. She was much more comfortable confronting him in a crowd.
Brass Carriages and Glass Hearts Page 4