by Erica Ridley
“You’re not starting your shift,” pointed out one of the others. “You’ve worked ten nights in a row. This is supposed to be your day off. How come you never join us?”
“I don’t drink,” Simon said simply. “And I’m not a member of any clubs.”
He certainly wouldn’t be counting the Cloven Hoof.
“You don’t have to drink,” put in Mr. Webb, his secretary. “Public houses also have hot meals.”
True. Simon glanced into faces of the other men. A few had clearly only invited him out of habit, not because they expected him to suddenly become sociable. Others, like Mr. Webb, stared back at him hopefully. Earnestly. The corner of his mouth curved.
“All right,” he said. “One hour. The kitchen had better rival the prince’s.”
Mr. Webb’s face erupted into a wide grin.
“Prinney adores overcooked pigeon,” he assured Simon. “You’ll ask yourself how you managed to stay away for this long.”
Simon laughed, and allowed his men to lead him to a tavern not far from Bow Street. A roaring fireplace and loud, convivial chatter enveloped them in warmth the moment they stepped inside. Simon followed as his colleagues headed straight for one of the few long wooden tables not crowded with other patrons.
“Welcome to the family,” one of the day inspectors said with a smile as he tilted back on his chair’s rear legs.
“Enter at your own risk,” said one of the others. “We fight like brothers.”
“Drunken brothers,” laughed another.
“Speak for yourself,” called one of the others. “A few of us are civilized, mind you.”
Simon gazed at their animated, bantering faces and the easy way they’d invited him into their fold. Brothers. As if family was not what one was born into, but instead wherever one found it. The thought was dizzying.
Several of the officers ordered food or a pint. Mr. Webb and a few others did not.
Simon turned to his secretary with a raised brow. “Not in the mood for pigeon?”
“A gentleman is always in the mood for overcooked pigeon,” Mr. Webb assured him. “My wife has one waiting at home for me, and will be sorely offended if I do not arrive with sufficient appetite as to repay her kindness in cooking for me.”
Simon’s smile faltered. After all the years he’d worked with Mr. Webb, he had never wondered what his home life must be like. Sure, Simon had known his secretary was a husband and a father, but he hadn’t imagined him eating tough pigeon because it was all that they had.
“You should come by for dinner next week,” Mr. Webb suggested, as he always did. “Perhaps Thursday?”
“Perhaps I will,” Simon found himself agreeing.
His secretary’s eyes lit up. “Truly?”
“May I invite a friend?” Simon asked impulsively.
“The future Mrs. Spaulding?” Mr. Webb’s eyes twinkled.
“A female friend,” Simon allowed grudgingly. “Headmistress at a boarding school.”
Mr. Webb smiled. “Bring anyone you please. I’ll even have Mrs. Webb make pudding with red currants.”
Simon glanced about at the other inspectors. He wondered how many of them had a cook, or at least a small staff. Perhaps all of them. Perhaps none of them. He hadn’t thought to wonder before.
He’d been so focused on the slights and disappointments being a bastard had caused, that he hadn’t considered just how privileged his upbringing might have been. His father’s visits to his mother were intermittent at best, but he had more than fulfilled his obligations insofar as providing his mistress with spending money and paying her bills and her retainers.
Simon had never not had a cook, or at least a multitalented housekeeper. If he were forced to fend for himself in the kitchen, he was unsure he would be able to even overcook a pigeon.
That Mr. Webb had unhesitatingly invited Simon for supper on many occasions led Simon to believe that Mr. Webb’s wife wasn’t nearly as unskilled a cook as his joke would imply. It also meant Mr. Webb hadn’t the least compunction in inviting a guest to a dinner likely to be staffed by few if any servants. Or at least, Mr. Webb didn’t mind inviting Simon.
No matter how focused and task-oriented Simon became, his secretary had never ceased trying to be friends.
The other men were just as amicable, Simon quickly discovered. They regaled each other with stories of encounters on the force, poked fun at each other over laughingly recalled misadventures, and made the afternoon fly by so quickly that two hours had vanished before Simon remembered to glance at his pocket watch.
“Oh-ho!” teased one of the officers. “Spaulding is late for his day off work.”
Simon grinned and shoved his watch back into his pocket. “One of us ought to be half-competent at detecting.”
“You mean because you’re almost lead inspector, is that it?” said another with good-natured ribbing. “I heard the Justice of the Peace say you won’t earn another promotion until you’ve captured the elusive Thief of Mayfair.”
“Nooo,” Mr. Webb moaned, dropping his head theatrically into his hands. “You’ve reminded him of his arch nemesis. Now he’ll never take another hour off.”
“The Justice of the Peace did say my next promotion hinges on finding this thief,” Simon admitted. Worse, there was a ticking clock. Thanks to aristocratic pressure, the Justice of the Peace had given Simon a fortnight to solve the case—or the promotion would go to someone else. “I will catch him. Soon, he’ll make a mistake.”
“Might have last night,” one of the other officers said. “Mapleton came by earlier with a list of names.”
“Phineas Mapleton?” Simon asked.
He supposed it was no surprise. Mapleton had bragged about hosting a dinner party. Such events had thus far proved irresistible to the Thief of Mayfair.
The other inspectors grinned at each other. “Stormed in as red as a tomato, he did. Said either a jealous fop had stolen his globes, or they’d told a rival aficionado where to find them.”
“Globes,” Simon repeated.
He wasn’t certain what was the least likely: that the Thief of Mayfair had managed to walk off with a globe in his arms in the middle of a party, or that Phineas Mapleton was an aficionado of science to begin with. Perhaps this theft was unrelated to the others.
“How many globes were stolen?” he asked.
“Four,” answered one of the officers.
Simon frowned. “What did they look like? What brand? What size?”
“Mapleton hasn’t the least idea,” one of the other inspectors said with a grin. “Seems he kept a count, but not a list. He wouldn’t recognize his own collection if it was sitting right in front of him. Can’t even say for certain that it was last night. Might’ve been weeks ago.”
“There, that should be easy to solve,” said Mr. Webb with a sharp nod. “Go ahead, Inspector Spaulding. Tell us who committed the crime.”
“Your tea leaves can give you as good of an answer as I can,” Simon said with a shake of his head. “If it is the Thief of Mayfair, then it is a worrisome escalation. If it is not the Thief of Mayfair…”
“Then there are two thieves of Mayfair,” breathed an officer in mock awe. “Brilliant work. I shall pen a note to the Justice of the Peace commending your sleuthing skills.”
“Spaulding is never getting that promotion,” sighed one of the others.
“Of course he is,” Mr. Webb said staunchly. “He’s the most brilliant inspector London has ever had.”
“More brilliant than the Thief of Mayfair?” asked one of the others with an arched brow.
“Let’s find out.” Simon pushed to his feet and tipped his hat toward the table. “I hate to leave the party, lads, but I’ve a criminal to catch.”
He smiled to himself as he hurried back to Bow Street. His hunt for the pernicious thief had become more important than ever.
The sooner he caught the man, the sooner Simon would receive his promotion. A larger salary meant more money he could
spare to help Dahlia and her school. He was no longer hunting the thief because it was his job.
He was doing it for Dahlia.
Chapter 22
“I should call off,” Dahlia said in agitation as her best friend picked up the curling tongs.
“You are not calling off.” Faith lifted a chunk of Dahlia’s hair and expertly applied the tongs. “I am going with you. With me as your companion, it’s not scandalous at all.”
“It’s a little scandalous,” Dahlia insisted. “It’s not some open-air carriage in Hyde Park. This is a private supper with Mr. Spaulding and another couple.”
“It’s…an unusually cozy dinner party,” Faith said firmly. “Besides, you aren’t invited to open-air carriages in Hyde Park anymore. Trust me, Mr. Spaulding is much better.”
Dahlia winced. Her outing with her mother had made it clear that her days of attracting aristocratic bachelors were over. Or even wealthy suitors at all.
Her new, lower status was still close enough to the fringes for begging donations from old friends, but there would be no prince sweeping in to save her and her school from financial ruin.
She would have to do that herself.
“Are you certain you wish to play chaperone?” Dahlia bit her lip. “As much as I appreciate the help, I would hate for you to suffer through what might be an incredibly awkward evening.”
“What else do I have on my calendar?” Faith replied lightly. “There’s no need to worry about my reputation. Your set doesn’t send me invitations anyway.”
Dahlia grimaced. After tonight, she would redouble her efforts to mind her place in society so that she too didn’t stop receiving invitations. Future donations depended on her maintaining those ties.
“My mother wanted me to marry for money,” she said after a moment. “Particularly if it involved a title. She’s quite disappointed it won’t happen.”
“Don’t all mothers want that?” Faith moved to the next section of hair. “What do you want?”
Dahlia closed her eyes. The fact that she had spent the past hour primping for a dinner with Simon answered that question on its own, and her best friend knew it.
“I want to keep the school open for as long as humanly possible,” she said instead. Both answers were true. One was simply more important than the other. “I want to bequeath the school to a new headmistress when I die. I want opportunities like this to always exist for girls who need them.”
“Are you saying you’re uninterested in Mr. Spaulding?”
“I’m saying I can’t have him. Not when I need to nurture what few connections I have left,” Dahlia replied with a sigh. “I almost wish I had married for money. Everyone thinks it’s more important than love, and in this case maybe it is. I cannot help but have more sympathy for—”
Faith stopped fixing hair.
“No sympathy,” Dahlia said quickly. “No sympathy at all. He’s a cretin. A selfish, boorish cad. He should never have cared about your position in society or your lack of dowry. A pox on his soul! I hope his valet ties his cravat so tight that he faints face-first into a bowl of cold porridge in front of the entire ton.”
The hurt expression didn’t leave Faith’s face, but she began curling Dahlia’s hair again.
Her shoulders sagged. Dahlia hadn’t meant to allude to the sins in Hawkridge’s past, or the daily burden it had caused for Faith. Yet the parallels were uncomfortably clear.
The only recourse was to behave completely unlike the marquess. She would be friendly to Simon, but not romantical. The kisses had been a mistake. Delicious, toe-curling, intoxicating mistakes.
But she liked Simon too much to promise him a future they could not have. As much as she enjoyed their clandestine kisses, if the choices were formal courtship or simple friendship…then they would have to remain friends. She would have to avoid private interludes after this.
No matter how difficult that would be.
“The girls enjoyed mathematics class today,” Faith said in an obvious attempt to change the subject.
“They love role-playing.” Dahlia grinned. “I had them take turns playing flower girl and serving wench to practice making change and doing sums in one’s head.”
“You love role-playing,” Faith corrected, her voice fond. “I watched you interrupt every transaction by pretending to be an irate customer. I can’t say I’ve ever seen someone cartwheel about a fruit stand before.”
Dahlia cleared her throat with an unrepentant smile. That had been her favorite part. “Life is an endless string of distractions. They must be able to add and subtract correctly no matter what might be going on about them. Besides, I could use the practice. If this headmistress bit doesn’t work out, I may need to join the circus.”
“Every one of those girls would join right along with you.” Faith set down the tongs and began arranging ringlets with pearl combs. “You ought to teach circus class to those who want more exercise.”
“Circus class,” Dahlia breathed with growing excitement. “Faith, you’re a genius! The girls could put on a small acrobatics performance to raise funds and build awareness about the school. Who doesn’t love the circus? And impish little girls? Society ladies will practically throw pound notes at the stage.”
“At a troupe of street children in trousers?” Faith asked doubtfully.
“We can sort out the details,” Dahlia assured her. Already the idea was taking root.
If the donations raised were anywhere near what she hoped, perhaps the girls could put on a small show every season—or every month! Heaven knew aristocrats considered themselves aficionados of all performing arts, from the grand opera to family musicales. Why not acrobatics?
With luck, the school could start to earn enough funds to keep Dahlia from ever being forced to play Robin Hood again. Excitement rushed through her blood. How much time would be required to choreograph a reasonably competent performance? Three months? Two? She only had to stretch pennies until then. Hope buoyed her spirits.
She could do this. They could do this.
“Once we start raising more than we spend, we can remodel the rest of the abbey.” She couldn’t stop smiling. “Not all at once. One room at a time.”
“Possibly even take in a few paying students to offset the cost,” Faith suggested.
Dahlia nodded. She wasn’t convinced that parents who could afford boarding school tuition would want their offspring rubbing shoulders with destitute children…but perhaps that was because she was still thinking like the daughter of a baroness.
As a mere trade mogul, Faith’s father had sent her to the finest institution that would accept her. Undoubtedly there would be families who couldn’t afford what the ton might consider a proper boarding school—or even the wages of an independent tutor. They might leap at the chance to give their children an education they could not otherwise afford.
“Thirty days has come and gone,” she said as Faith stepped back to admire her handiwork. “You’ve seen the school. You’ve met the girls. Please say you’ll stay on permanently. I can have a barrister transfer fifty percent ownership this very week.”
Faith bit her lip. “I have so many obligations at home—”
“I know you do,” Dahlia said quickly. “I would never come between them. Your schedule can be as flexible as you need.”
“Let me finish,” Faith chided with a fond shake of her head. “You always rush into everything you do without taking a moment to breathe. I was going to say that I see my situation at home as complementary to the potential here. You know how much I love children. I cannot imagine walking away from these girls or this cause. I shall be honored to consider this school my own.”
Dahlia leapt up from her chair to envelop Faith in a fierce embrace.
Not only would she start the official transfer first thing in the morning, she would have her brother Heath hold on to a second document bequeathing the entirety of her portion to Faith in the event Dahlia was run over by a carriage—or forced by circums
tances to wed. Unlike their unmarried counterparts, wives could not own property. Dahlia couldn’t risk having a husband decide not to allow her to support the school. It would be unfair to Faith, and disastrous for the children.
“You are the very best,” she informed Faith with feeling.
Faith swung her hands in a dramatic Who, me? gesture, then grinned. “I know. Now, that’s enough saving the world for one day. Someone is waiting for you to join him. A certain handsome inspector whose gruff, straight-and-narrow exterior cannot begin to hide the heat in his smoldering eyes every time he looks in your direction.”
“Really, Faith. Smoldering eyes?” Dahlia said weakly, as her heart thumped in total agreement. Just thinking about Simon sent a frisson from her spine to her core. “Let’s go hire a hackney.”
When they arrived at the address, the front door flung open to reveal a short, jovial looking man with ruddy cheeks and kind eyes.
“You must be Inspector Spaulding’s friends,” he said merrily. “Do come in. I am Mr. Webb. Inspector Spaulding is already at the table, and Mrs. Webb will be joining us shortly.”
Inspector Spaulding was not at the table. Simon had materialized behind Mr. Webb’s shoulder within moments of their host opening the door.
“Good evening, Miss Grenville, Miss Digby.” Simon’s low voice had addressed both ladies, but his fathomless blue eyes focused wholly on Dahlia.
Any reply she might have made was trapped somewhere behind her rapidly beating heart. It was unpardonably rude to ignore her host in order to drink in the sight of a tall, dark, deliciously buttoned-up inspector, but her eyes could look nowhere else. It had been days since last she’d seen him. Days since his warm, firm lips had claimed her own.
Now here he was.
If the mere thought of seeing him sent butterflies to her stomach, finally having him within reach—and still being unable to touch him—had every nerve ending electric with awareness. She would not be able to eat. Not when the only thing she hungered for was the return of Simon’s kisses.
Faith looped her arm through Dahlia’s and all but dragged her to the dinner table.