by Erica Ridley
After finishing the last of his paperwork, he locked the main door and remounted his horse. He could have hired a hack. He could even afford a carriage.
He preferred to ride a horse.
Ever since he’d joined the force, Simon’s habit was to take a different path to and from work each day. If he had taken the direct route home, he would not have been present to interrupt tonight’s attempted assault.
He had no doubt that the ruffian would still have run away from the intrepid young lady who had corked him with a broom.
Simon smiled at the image. He couldn’t imagine what anybody would be doing with a broom in the midst of a moonlit rookery—he doubted the St. Giles streets were often swept even in the daytime—but the young woman who had wielded her impromptu weapon had been courageous indeed.
Since he had promised to return, he would stop by quickly. If everyone at the school appeared to be asleep, he would continue on without awakening them.
Everyone at the school was not asleep.
The headmistress from the alley answered the door on the first knock.
“Good evening,” Simon said, his pulse quickening. Just when he’d thought he had concluded the last of the day’s mysteries, here was another. Standing right before him.
The slender fingers holding the candle were encased in gloves of extraordinarily fine silk, which would normally be so much of an anomaly that one could be forgiven for thinking the wearer wasn’t from a rookery at all.
These particular gloves, however, were stained at the tips and frayed at the edges. Making them more, rather than less, of a mystery. They were not the sort of gloves one purchased for manual labor, and yet clearly they had been used for just that task. Anyone who could not afford silk gloves would never allow the sole pair in their possession to be treated so badly.
The gown the headmistress was clothed in was exactly that—a gown—rather than the sort of dress one might expect the inhabitants of a rookery to possess.
Like the gloves, the gown fit beautifully and was treated shabbily. Hems were noticeably torn and stained with ash, as if frequently caught against protruding nails or brushed up against buckets of coal or scullery hearths.
The young lady’s thick hair was swept up off her neck. Most of the dark locks were hidden not in a simple mobcap, but rather beneath a lovely bonnet—that appeared to have been worn to the Battle of Waterloo, so full of stains and holes was the fabric.
Fascinating headmistress.
Perhaps she had once been a lady’s maid, and had subsequently fallen on hard times. A previous position in a wealthy home would explain the gloves and the gown and the bonnet. Losing that position would explain the rest.
Mostly.
Her porcelain skin was smooth and untouched by the bronzing rays of the sun. Her cheekbones were defined enough to give her face a quite attractive shape, but not so stark as to imply bouts of hunger or malnutrition, as was so often found in poverty-stricken areas. Her dark brown eyes were long-lashed and so luminous in the candlelight that he almost didn’t notice the purple smudges beneath them, indicating it had been a long time since last she got a restful night’s sleep.
As he watched, the edges of her perfect lips quirked and her eyes seemed to sparkle. “Well? Have you figured me out yet?”
“Not yet,” he admitted. “But I think I’d like to.”
Her smile widened. “My name is Miss Grenville. I am the headmistress of this school. I owe you my deepest gratitude for attempting to catch tonight’s villain.”
“Attempting to?” he asked drolly.
“No one could blame you for losing him in the maze of alleys,” she assured him. “To be honest, I didn’t expect you to return at all.”
“Then it is you who have not yet figured me out,” he informed her, “for I did catch him. He will not return for some time. Nor will your current watchman, I’m afraid.”
“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow wryly. “Did St. Giles ever have a watchman?”
He bit back a sigh. Her cynicism was well-founded.
“You will tomorrow,” he promised. “I shall see to it myself.”
“How is it you have so much power?” The appraising look she gave him was skeptical at best. “Are you someone I should recognize?”
“It pains me to admit that in this neighborhood, you are unlikely to have seen many of us at all. Allow me to present myself.” He tipped his hat. “I am Mr. Spaulding. I work as an inspector at Bow Street. And I am at your service.”
“At my service?” she asked in a teasing tone. “Does this mean I will see you again, Mr. Spaulding?”
“I am at everyone’s service,” he clarified. “I work for the City of London, and my first duty is to its constituents. All of them.”
She arched a brow. “Does that mean yes, I will see you again, or no, you can now cross us off your list?”
An impertinent question…deserving of an honest reply.
This time, Simon took an extra moment to consider his answer. Miss Grenville was clever enough not to accept platitudes, and to see through Simon’s heartfelt declaration to a superficial layer he hadn’t even known he possessed.
No, he had not planned on seeing Miss Grenville again. If she happened to be in the street when he happened to ride by once or twice a month when his purposefully random route to or from work happened to include this neighborhood, then yes. They would cross paths.
Otherwise, no. Simon did not give preferential treatment. Nor did he allow distractions of any time to clutter up the orderliness of his life. He worked. And then he slept. And then he returned to work the next evening. Nights were when he was most alive.
When any of the myriad Quality ladies who called upon Bow Street had asked if they could see him again with the same arch look in their eyes, Simon’s stock answer was that they knew where to find the magistrate’s court, which was staffed with any number of officers more than qualified to investigate crimes.
But Miss Grenville was different.
For one, despite being geographically closer to his office than the fine houses in Mayfair, it was far easier for the Beau Monde to dispatch one of their many coaches with one of their many footmen to drop a note off with the secretary.
For two, unlike the high society wives who thought it would be amusing to have a flirtation with a Runner, Miss Grenville had not asked if she would see him again because she believed there was a chance she might. Miss Grenville had asked if she would see him again because she assumed she would not.
She wanted him to admit the truth.
He would simply create another.
“Yes,” he said firmly. “It is quite possible you will see me again, because I plan to take this route home every morning this week. Once I am certain the new watchman is performing his duty, I will resume my regular rotation. But for this week at least, if you happen to be out-of-doors when I pass by… I shall be certain to tip my hat.”
“You should knock.” Miss Grenville glanced over her shoulder. “I sent Molly to bed early tonight for obvious reasons, but I am certain she, too, would like an opportunity to thank you. Especially when I tell her you’ve caught the blackguard who attacked her.”
“Nothing special,” he said, shifting his weight to deflect the compliment. “I was just doing my duty.”
“It was very special,” she corrected with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “No one in Molly’s life had ever once stood up to protect her. Today would have been no different. Except tonight, she had me…and you.”
He opened his mouth, but couldn’t quite wrestle the words from his heart to his tongue.
“Good night, Mr. Spaulding.” With a wink, Miss Grenville blew out her candle and shut the door.
Simon remounted his horse in somewhat of a daze. He hadn’t promised to call upon the school tomorrow, but after that speech about no one ever having protected Molly before, how could he not?
Just one week, he told himself. He’d call tomorrow and ride by the next
day without stopping. Once the new watchman was in position, Simon’s protection would no longer be needed.
He need never have uncomfortable conversations with Miss Grenville again.
Chapter 3
Simon had meant to stop by the school on his way to work the following afternoon. After all, it was less than a mile from his office, which made it practically right on his path.
Yet, somehow he found himself tying his horse to a post in the middle of the day, hours before he was expected in the office.
Since he had already promised Miss Grenville that he would visit, doing so as soon as possible was merely an expedient way to cross tasks off the list of today’s responsibilities.
Not to mention the very logical reasoning that if the point was to speak to Molly, not Miss Grenville, then the only practical course of action was to arrive before the students were abed.
After all, Simon had no wish to have to call upon the school a third time, did he?
None of which explained why his no-nonsense stride from the street to the front door felt less like a Bow Street inspector interviewing yet another innocent victim, and more like a flustered gentleman paying an unexpected call upon a lady.
Balderdash.
Simon did not pay calls upon ladies. Or anyone at all. He had no time for idle fraternization.
Not because he disliked people—quite the opposite. He dedicated his life to rescuing them. Bringing them justice. Keeping them safe. Watching over them from a quiet, impartial distance.
Yet some circumstances called for a more personable approach. That was it. He was just an officer, paying a one-hundred-percent work-related call. No hidden motive beyond speaking with the victims.
One of which had brained her attacker senseless with nothing more than a humble broom.
Simon adjusted his cravat. Whether Miss Grenville was a spitfire remained to be seen.
The door swung open. Just as the night before, no butler or housekeeper attended callers, but rather the headmistress herself.
Simon bowed. “Good afternoon, Miss Grenville. I trust the rest of your evening passed much more peacefully?”
“I’ll send for Molly at once,” she said without curtseying. Her eyes twinkled. “I thank you for both your service and your punctuality. She has been looking forward to your visit all day.”
Before he could so much as blink, Miss Grenville motioned to a young girl in a frayed pinafore, who immediately raced up a somewhat lopsided staircase and disappeared into the next floor.
Miss Grenville turned back to him with a brisk nod. “There. She will be down any moment. We won’t keep you long.”
“She needn’t rush,” he found himself saying. “I’ve nothing but casework awaiting me.”
Miss Grenville gave him a long, considering look.
Simon straightened. He had the distinct impression this young lady was taking his measure in the same careful, detailed way he had taught the other men on the force.
Something like: Hat, medium quality. Not rich, not poor. Hair, a bit too long—too much time between visits to the barber. Jaw, clean-shaven. Suit, waistcoat, cravat, well-tailored and pristine. He was an inspector, not a beadle or a street watchman. And he had returned, just as he’d promised.
“Forgive me.” Miss Grenville dropped a curtsey elegant enough to rival a duchess. “We have just finished lessons, and I’m afraid my mind was with administrative responsibilities, and not on my manners.”
Simon could scarcely fault her for a trait his colleagues would claim he himself had perfected, so he merely tipped his hat. “There is nothing to forgive. A strong focus on one’s duty is a worthy quality indeed.”
“Is it? ’Twould be better if I could do less focusing, more achieving, but, well… Someday, things will turn around. I would invite you to tea, but we don’t often take it.” She pushed the door open wider. “But you can still come in. As long as you aren’t expecting crumpets.”
“I despise crumpets,” he assured her. “Ghastly things. Make me sneeze worse than cats.”
“Well, if you ever find yourself with a surplus, I am certain my girls will be happy to dispose of them for you.”
“Duly noted,” he promised, and stepped across the threshold.
The interior of the school in many ways resembled Miss Grenville’s wardrobe. One need only look past the worn edges and superficial damage to recognize the beauty beneath.
Although the gilt had long been stolen from the moldings, nothing could hide the original abbey’s magnificent structure, the stunning artistry, the welcoming openness.
Laughter filled the air, ringing joyfully through the rafters as dozens of booted feet tiptoed down the stairs in unison.
“I sent for Molly,” Miss Grenville scolded her charges, without bothering to hide her wide smile. “Not the rest of you meddling wretches.”
“We all want to see the Runner,” one of the girls said gleefully. “Molly says he rescued her!”
Although the officers at Bow Street preferred to be thought of as inspectors, not Runners, Simon saw no need to be priggish. Instead, he gave the entire staircase of pinafored girls a sweeping bow. “Merely doing my job, ladies. I am ever at your service.”
“Wonderful.” Eyes laughing, Miss Grenville turned her wagging finger toward Simon. “Now they’ll all swoon over constables the way other ladies used to swoon over soldiers.”
“Why isn’t your waistcoat red?” asked one of the older girls. “Ain’t that why Runners are called Robin Redbreasts?”
“That would be the Horse Patrol, miss,” Simon explained. He doubted scarlet-accented patrolmen were frequently spotted in this neighborhood. “I’m afraid inspectors do not wear a uniform.”
“Gold waistcoats is nicer than red anyway,” another girl said with a deep blush.
“Now, now,” Miss Grenville interrupted. “As handsome as he is, Mr. Spaulding isn’t here to flirt with you. Where’s Molly? She’s the reason for this visit.”
Simon was careful not to display his pleasure at the realization Miss Grenville thought him handsome. He affected a serious expression. As she rightfully pointed out, he was not here for flirtation. The sooner he returned to his desk, the better.
“I’m here,” a girl called out at the top of the stairs.
As she picked her way through the pack, Simon took in the whole picture.
The boarding school appeared to have a solid foundation, but little money. Molly was clearly not a special case amongst the students. Miss Grenville’s charges were indigent inhabitants of a rookery, not the offspring of wealthy families.
What a worthy cause. He could not help but admire Miss Grenville’s pluck and protective instincts.
The only other institutions that might welcome these children were workhouses and orphanages—both of which were notorious for being little improvement over life on the street. A sobering percentage of their dependents never reached adulthood.
When Molly reached the foot of the stairs, she clasped her hands together and bobbed an awkward curtsey, as if it were one of the first occasions of her experience in which social propriety might require such a thing.
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “If you hadn’t rescued us from that awful man, ma’am wouldna rescued me from my awful life.”
“She rescued me, too!” called one of the girls from the crowd upon the stairs.
“Rescued all of us!” shouted another.
“If you hadna come by when you did,” Molly continued quietly, “I know what that man was goin’ to do. He told me.”
Simon forced his anger below the surface. He knew precisely how that malefactor had intended to treat this young girl. If it were up to Simon, men like that would never be released from gaol.
Molly took a deep breath. “I understand men like him. But I didn’t know what you was going to do. I never met a Runner before.”
His heart thumped as he struggled for the right words to say.
“I didn’t ’spect you to co
me back—no constable ever comes back—but when ma’am says you stopped by, just as you promised… Last night, I didn’t believe her when she says good men do exist.” Molly stared up at him with shimmering eyes. “Today, I do.”
Simon swallowed the lump in his throat. “It is my hope that from this day forward, your life is full only of goodness.” He glanced up at the rest of the girls. “You deserve it. All of you.”
“Thank you.” Molly blushed and ran back into the crowd of girls.
“That’s enough distraction for one day.” Miss Grenville made shooing motions at the children. “Back to your studies. You’ve much to do before supper.”
“Goodbye, Runner!” one of the girls called over the handrail.
“I like your waistcoat, too!” yelled another, causing the rest to explode into cackles of laughter.
The entire group thundered up the stairs in a cloud of pinafores and giggles.
“They’ll curtsey next time,” Miss Grenville promised him. “We’re still working on ‘taking our leave.’”
“Are you?” he asked, more seriously than he intended. “Is this the sort of finishing school that focuses on the different types of curtseys and how best to flutter one’s painted fan?”
“Not in the least,” she responded cheerfully. “Most of these girls are unlikely to ever own a painted fan, much less curtsey to a queen. Our school is far more practical.”
“In what way?” he asked, intrigued. “What subjects do they learn?”
Miss Grenville gave him a coy smile. “Come back some time. Before three. You’ll catch them in their lessons.”
“I…wouldn’t want to interrupt,” he said. Not just lessons—his meticulously planned, carefully ordered life. He lived by a strict schedule for a reason.
Every moment he spent with people who didn’t need him took time away from those who did.
Miss Grenville was undeniably appealing. Her students were charming. But this would have to be goodbye.