No, his mother was nothing like the bedraggled streetwalker crying softly in the back of the cell. But they were both people with lives, with hopes, with children. If his mother would have ever found herself at the mercy of the constabulary…
Simon hoped they, too, would have had enough heart to let her go.
Chapter 10
Now that Simon knew the secret knock for the Cloven Hoof, gaining entrance to the establishment was no problem. For an officer who neither drank nor gambled, however, maintaining the cover of an average gaming hell customer required far more ingenuity.
After taking the measure of the primary salon, Simon noted that not every patron at the gaming tables actively wagered. Many simply enjoyed a glass of port or a dram of gin whilst they watched their fellow confederates turn their pockets inside out.
He was in luck. Observation was his greatest skill.
Simon procured a finger of gin at the bar, then assumed a position near enough to the tables to be reasonably assumed a spectator, yet close enough to the shadowed walls to remain out of notice.
He hadn’t chosen gin because he intended to drink while on duty, but because the barmaid served little enough in the glass to have to worry about actually imbibing it. A glass of wine or a pint of ale that always brimmed to the top would be far more intriguing than just another cull nursing a glass of gin.
Today, his target was not sequestered in the rear of the club, but seated up front with a well-dressed gentleman. Simon knew that companion to be the same duke who frequently hosted masquerade parties for select members of the Beau Monde.
This was interesting, not because the masquerade parties were relevant in any way, but because the duke was now the second titled gentleman Simon had witnessed frequent the establishment.
The duke was in no way hurting for money, which led credence to the idea that the Cloven Hoof was in fact a legal gentlemen’s club. Only pitiful wretches with their pockets for let were reduced to begging for credit at seedy gaming hells.
A new patron entered the pub. Simon stepped backward in dismay. What was that he had been thinking about the irresponsible sort of ne’er-do-well that would frequent an illegal gaming hell?
His half-brother, the infamously penniless Lord Hawkridge, had just walked through the door. Again. For the love of God.
Simon let out a sigh of frustration. Of course the marquess was a regular. A club like this—fine enough for the semi-fashionable, clandestine enough to rub shoulders with the rest—was the perfect environment for a marquess with a failing estate.
From time to time, Simon couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to all the money.
Despite his philandering father’s harsh personality, he had always kept his mistress well. Because of that, Simon had never been certain if he and his mother were cared for or simply…managed. Like horses in a rented stable. When his father didn’t come round for weeks or months on end, those careless gold sovereigns had quickly begun to turn Simon’s stomach. Neither his compliance nor his affection could be so easily bought.
From the day his mother had died, he had sworn never to accept another penny that had come from the marquess’s pocket. But in the back of his mind, he’d always wondered what the estate might look like today, if Simon had been managing the purse strings.
After all, Simon was the firstborn son. If he had only been conceived on the other side of the blanket, Simon would be the current marquess.
He watched from behind his glass of gin as Hawkridge joined the duke and Maxwell Gideon at the far table.
Perhaps he had been too hasty to presume that the presence of a duke signified anything at all about the legalities of the establishment. As far as Simon was concerned, being born Quality quite often meant the exact opposite.
He pulled out his pocket watch for what felt like the hundredth time that day, and thrilled to discover it was finally half seven. His dance card was very full, starting promptly at eight o’clock this evening.
Simon set his gin where it would eventually be noticed by a thirsty patron and strode out the door.
He wasn’t sure what exactly flipped his mood from somber to giddy on the short ride to the school. Possibly the wind in his hair. The joy of flying on the back of a steed. Or the knowledge that a few short minutes from now, his hands would not be wrapped around a cup of gin, but rather the far more intoxicating curves of a certain headmistress.
Their interactions could go no further than innocent dancing. An inspector’s first priority was the City, and to date it had swallowed every waking hour of Simon’s adult life. There was no room in his schedule for added responsibility. He had taken great pains not to make any personal connections.
And yet he was as excited to visit the St. Giles School for Girls as Prinney had been to unveil the Royal Pavilion.
His knock on the door was answered by neither Molly nor Miss Grenville, but rather a different pinafored butler with plaited hair and a snub nose.
“Good evening,” he said with a bow. “I am tonight’s dancing-master.”
She grinned back at him as she hung his hat and overcoat on their hooks. “Can I have the first dance, Mr. Spaulding?”
“I believe your headmistress already claimed that honor,” he said sadly. “But if you are very swift after the demonstration, you might be the second on the list.”
“I’ll try,” she promised in a whisper, then led him to the rear chamber.
As before, all of the other schoolchildren were present in the salon. This time, however, they were on their feet, with scrubbed faces and pristine pinafores and not a complaint in sight.
Upon the dais stood Miss Grenville—in an evening gown rather than trousers. Simon could not suppress a pang of disappointment. Miss Grenville would be magnificent in form-fitting buckskin.
At her side was a young lady that could almost be her twin, were it not for the shape of her cheekbones and the lack of curl in her hair.
“Mr. Spaulding,” Miss Grenville called, her eyes lighting as her gaze met his. “Come. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
He bowed to both ladies. “Your sister, I expect.”
“How did you guess?” asked the younger Miss Grenville with a wicked smile. “Are you some sort of sleuth?”
“The worst sort,” he assured her. “Even without the family resemblance, the violin in your hand quite gave it away.”
“Mr. Spaulding,” Miss Grenville interrupted. “This is my sister, Miss Bryony Grenville.”
“What are you going to play for us tonight?” he asked.
“Obviously a waltz,” she replied without hesitation. “I have to see with my own eyes whether the two of you truly—”
“No waltzes,” Miss Grenville interrupted, enunciating each word as though the subject had been broached a dozen times before. “Play a country-dance.”
“Boring,” Miss Bryony muttered as she lifted her instrument to her chin.
The music that poured forth from her violin was anything but boring.
Simon was struck so speechless at first that he forgot that he was supposed to be dancing. When he recalled what he was about, he swung Miss Grenville down from the dais and onto the dance floor, where they crisscrossed in lively box patterns in time to the music.
As soon as he glimpsed one of the older girls moving her feet with the rhythm, he pulled both her and the underbutler into the pattern so they could make a proper square.
Once the girls had the figures memorized, they split to form new groups of four until everyone in the salon was moving in and out of each other’s paths in accordance with the melody.
Some of the older students teased each other with exaggeratedly grand movements. Some of the younger students fairly ran in place just trying to keep up with the others. But every single face in the whirling crowd was alive with excitement and laughter as their feet moved and the music soared.
Miss Grenville’s eyes caught his from across the salon, and Simon realized he too was grinni
ng like a madman. One of his dance partners was barely taller than his waist and another was too busy pulling comical faces to mind where her feet landed, but Simon hadn’t had an evening more full of fun since…
Well. He could not recall the last occasion in which he had had fun.
Now that Miss Grenville was in his life, he rather suspected it would not be the last. He blinked, disconcerted at the realization that he rather enjoyed this woman turning his routine topsy-turvy. With her, he didn’t have to think like an investigator. He could let their encounters play out as they would, and simply enjoy being a man.
Without breaking her gaze from his, she exchanged dance partner after dance partner until they were once again sharing the same figure.
“I thought we weren’t to be seen together after we demonstrated the proper figures,” he teased.
“I am Headmistress,” she reminded him, eyes twinkling. “I make the rules.”
Without warning, the music abruptly changed from a country-dance to a minuet.
Miss Grenville tossed a darkling look over her shoulder at her sister. The students moved back to give their headmistress and dancing-master more room.
“Oh, dear,” he said with as much faux sorrow as he could muster. “It’s a two-person dance. I don’t suppose you’ve room on your card?”
She smiled up at him. “Yours is the only name that matters.”
As they whirled in perfect unison about the room, he felt like the luckiest man in all the world. His mother had been right.
One should never let an opportunity to dance slip away.
Chapter 11
“Yes,” Bryony said the moment Mr. Spaulding was gone and the children were abed. “Absolutely. I like him.”
“I didn’t ask,” Dahlia muttered, as she poured two cups of tea.
There were no cakes or scones to go with the tea, but she couldn’t have eaten anyway. Her stomach was too full of butterflies.
“He’s dark and handsome and gruff,” Bryony continued with a little shiver. “My three favorite qualities in a man.”
“You can’t have him,” Dahlia snapped, before she realized that was precisely the reaction her sister had hoped to provoke.
Bryony clapped her hands in triumph. “I knew it. What are you waiting for?”
“Everything,” Dahlia blurted. “Bryony, I’m not sleeping. I’m barely eating. I spend every moment of every day here at the school, looking after the girls, the accounts, the upkeep. I have no time for a beau. Nor can I afford the distraction. Not now. Not when the future of the school is so uncertain.”
Especially not when the man in question was a Bow Street Runner and Dahlia was a thief.
Fortunately, he had no reason to suspect her. That was the beauty of being who and what she was. Her peers among le bon ton would never suspect one of their own. Particularly not a debutante with titled parents. And working-class men like Mr. Spaulding would never suspect a simple headmistress would be granted access to fancy places in the first place. It was the perfect ruse.
Dahlia just wished she didn’t have to resort to such measures in the first place.
“I understand your passion. Honestly, I do.” Bryony stirred her tea. “But while it’s noble to have a passion in life, you can’t let it be your life. No matter how worthy the cause. You are just as important as your students are.”
“We’re all equally important,” Dahlia agreed. “But my future isn’t in jeopardy. If the school fails, I can simply move back home. My days might not all be filled with book clubs and high teas, but personal needs would be more than met. My students don’t have that luxury. And before you preach at me that working myself to death won’t help them either, I am working on a solution.”
Bryony lifted her brows. “What kind of solution?”
“Financial and administrative.” Dahlia rubbed at a stain in the tablecloth. “For one, Faith Digby has taken a half-partnership interest that I hope will become permanent.”
“But that’s wonderful!” Bryony exclaimed. “Faith is perfect. She’s thoughtful and clever, and her family has more gold than Midas. All those cotton mills in Yorkshire—”
“It’s not Faith’s cotton,” Dahlia reminded her sister with a sigh. If only it were that easy. “But perhaps her father can be convinced to donate. In any case, Faith’s assistance will be invaluable.”
Bryony grinned. “Particularly if she can manage your schedule to accommodate more time for Mr. Spaulding.”
Dahlia rolled her eyes to show her complete dismissal of the topic and lifted her tea to her lips.
The unfortunate truth was that she was far from disinterested in the idea of spending more time with Mr. Spaulding. She had meant every word about not having the time for courtship, nor even the luxury of being able to devote her private thoughts to what could have been, had circumstances been different.
And yet her brain was ungovernable. If it decided to evoke memories of his smile instead of sums for the accounts, or to conjure the feel of his strong hand guiding the small of her back instead of letting her sleep—what was a headmistress to do?
Especially one as desperate as Dahlia.
“There will be no romance with Mr. Spaulding,” she informed her sister firmly.
Bryony sighed. “Because he isn’t ‘one of our set.’”
Yes, but not for the reasons Bryony supposed.
Mr. Spaulding was a Bow Street Runner. Moral, ethical, honest. He believed in clear distinctions of right and wrong. He believed in law, in punishment, in justice. In letting the system dictate everyone’s future.
Dahlia, on the other hand, would pilfer the Prince Regent’s peaches and roasted meats right from the Carlton House royal buffet tables, if it were the only way to keep her students from starving.
She didn’t need a flirtation with an officer of the court. She needed the support of people like her, who would do anything in their power—laws be damned—to save the lives of others.
If Mr. Spaulding learned of the risks she’d taken to keep bread in her students’ bellies, he would stop more than his flirtations.
It wouldn’t matter that the stolen baubles made their way back to their rightful owners, or that she only went to such lengths when the pantry was empty and the overdue rents couldn’t be another day late. His oath to the court would require he treat her no differently than every other thief whose necks were stretched in the gallows.
As a nonpareil of moral uprightness and the sort of good, caring man the world deserved far more of, Mr. Spaulding was a perfect model for destitute young girls who had seen little reason to have faith in men.
But as for Dahlia… She could not dare indulge feelings that would risk far more than her heart.
Chapter 12
The following morning, Simon breakfasted alone in his tidy flat on Seymour Street. In fact, in the long decade he had lived at this residence, he had only ever dined alone.
His nocturnal schedule prevented him from attending social events. The one time he’d invited his housekeeper to join him for supper, she had politely informed him that she knew her place, and it was not beside her employer at the table.
So he dined with case notes, rather than company.
Previously, it had never bothered him. His aloneness wasn’t loneliness. It was a strategic tactic to ensure no distractions would interrupt his focus. Being personally responsible for the most challenging cases meant work was never far from his thoughts.
Some investigations not only hinged on having the presence of mind to notice unobtrusive details, but also long hours of surveillance or paperwork or any number of other time-consuming tasks.
Indeed, Simon himself barely spent any time in this apartment, save the minimum required for sleep, sustenance, and bathing.
But this morning was different. His dreams were different. He had awoken not with thoughts of edicts to sweep the streets of unsavories or the crimes of the maddening Thief of Mayfair, but rather the laughing eyes of a certain St. Giles hea
dmistress.
What might Miss Grenville think of Simon’s living quarters?
His apartment was far grander than any home her students would have ever seen, yet not situated close enough to Hyde Park Corner to be considered fashionable. Its clean, ordered interior was Spartan at best. No paintings or fluted moldings adorned the walls. While there was no butler or livery on staff, his housekeeper also served as a quite competent chef, and his footman doubled as a valet.
He was neither rich enough to be considered gentry nor poor enough to want for any comfort, making his home unremarkable in every way.
Quite the opposite of Miss Grenville.
Everything about her commanded attention. Her dark, expressive eyes, her enthusiastic gestures, her big heart. The battered abbey she had converted into a boarding school had cracks on every surface, worn edges on every corner, and yet even the most cavernous of rooms seemed filled to the rafters with life and laughter.
Trying not to think about her only worsened matters. Miss Grenville’s infectious high spirits clung to him like the scent of fresh biscuits, making him smile at odd moments even when she was nowhere about.
Another man would have formally courted her by now. Another man would win her hand and make her his bride.
That man would not be Simon. Marriage would not negate the need for long hours in his office, at the court, on the case. Any woman naive enough to be his wife would quickly find herself alone in an empty apartment, taking meal after meal without a conversation partner, because her husband was off interviewing witnesses or jailing criminals.
He respected all women far too much to offer less of a marriage than what they deserved.
Several other men on the force felt much the same way. Whenever they found themselves yearning for female company, they merely sated their masculine urges with one of the city’s countless prostitutes.
Even though he knew that tens of thousands of women—from penny whores to fashionable courtesans—relied on trading their favors for wages, Simon could not join their clientele. He had witnessed what being a kept woman did to his mother. He would not risk accidentally fathering a child. The streetwalker remedy of sponges soaked in vinegar was not always effective.
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