“A common footpad, most likely. Though, to judge by the angle of the blows that struck him, one several inches taller than our victim here. He surprised the deceased from behind—the first blow likely knocked him senseless; the second broke the skull.” Sebastian combed his fingers through his hair, wincing as they caught and pulled in knots he’d been in too much of a rush to bother relieving.Blast. Hewasunkempt. “Good day, Mr. Beckett.”
“Good day?Good day?” Mr. Beckett threw his hands into the air. “Is that all you’ve got?”
“Apprehending murderers isyourjob, Mr. Beckett. In the interest of justice, I have given you what information I could.” It was nomysterywhy the man had been killed. Greed accounted for the majority of crimes. Sebastian slipped his watch from his pocket.Damn. He’d have to run at this rate. “I’m in a rush, so I must be off.”
Mr. Beckett shook his head, turning back toward the corpse. Beneath his breath he muttered, incredulously, “Context.”
Yes.Context. Sebastian had solved one mystery this morning. But the most fascinating one still remained.
∞∞∞
Jenny had spent too much of her life looking over her shoulder not toknowwhen she was being observed. Of course, she had beenobservedrather a lot, lately—far more so than she was accustomed to.
Such a thing tended to happen when one managed Ambrosia, London’s first ladies’ club, which had had its public debut only two months past. There had been a great manner of grumbling—mostly from men, who did not understand what a woman could want with a ladies’ club—but there had also been a great deal of interest from London’s ladies. The number of subscriptions had swelled considerably since they had had their official public opening, and, curiously, Ambrosia had become something of a status symbol amongst certain classes. They loved to beseenentering, made a production of it.
Even vouchers for Almack’s—which was slowly fading into obscurity with each passing year—no longer seemed to confer with them the prestige they once had enjoyed. Now, you were notanyoneunless you held a subscription to Ambrosia.
Although Ambrosia operated at all hours, the bulk of their clientele made their visits in the evening, either when they had no other engagements or after their other engagements had already let out. And as Ambrosia’s manager, Jenny was obliged to be available through the night to handle whatever crises might arise during the busiest of times.
Which meant that by this time of the morning, she wasexhausted. It had become her habit, therefore, to take breakfast before she retired to sleep through the day in deference to her nightly obligations. She could easily have done soatAmbrosia—they had a fully-staffed kitchen, and the staff would happily prepare whatever she might have asked for. But if not for these morning jaunts to the bakery just a street away, Jenny might never have seen sunlight at all.
Or, at least, whatever passed for sunlight in perpetually dreary England.
There was little enough hope of sun today, anyway. It had stormed all evening and well into the early hours of the morning, and though the rain had ceased some time ago, still the sun remained resolutely tucked behind the thick of the cloud cover that hung overhead. Probably it would storm again by afternoon—but she quite liked the sound of rain on windows. Perfectly lovely weather to sleep through. Made one feel like burrowing deep into a nest of bedclothes and hibernating.
The owner of the bakery had her favorite pastries waiting when she arrived, as she did every morning at this time—profiteroles; light, airy pastries filled with a sweetened cream. She had never enjoyed one in her native France, though she had often watched the pastry chefs prepare them through the windows of their shops and wondered what they might taste like. But back then she had never had more than asouto her name, and certainly never enough to justify the purchase of a pastry when a loaf of bread would stretch farther.
Now she had them every morning, or whenever else it pleased her. And she had yet to grow tired of them.
But as she handed over the coin and at last bit into the crisp pastry, that feeling of beingobserveddeepened. It prickled the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck, sent chill bumps skittering down her arms. But it didn’tfeelmalicious. It felt—curious.
She flicked a glance about, subtly searching for her observer. The street was not so busy at this hour of the morning; hardly more than half a dozen passersby who did exactly that—pass by on their way elsewhere. All except the man who stood on the opposite side of the street, watching her intently. Her gaze collided with his, and she felt the shock of it straight to her toes. He wasn’t even trying tohideit, his illicit observation. In fact, he allowed their eyes to connect for only a second or two before he continued his slow perusal, as if he hadn’t particularly cared whether or not she had noticed.
Jenny had seen him before, but that was nothing suspicious in and of itself. The bakery was a popular one, and many people regularly traversed this area of London. It would have been impossiblenotto if one lived close by, which she assumed he must, given that he was here at this time of morning.
Perhaps this was not the first time he had so observed her. Perhaps this was only the first time she had caught him at it. The thought sent a little shiver sliding down her spine. He seemed neither surprised nor alarmed by her own perusal, and she wondered at it. Ifshehad been caught staring at someone in such a manner, certainly she would have been embarrassed by it. But he evinced not even the vaguest flicker of shame or guilt; he simply continuedwatchingher, those dark eyes locked upon her and strangely intent.
Well, ifhecould look, then certainly she could as well. She wondered what she was meant to make of him, this eccentric man with his disheveled gold hair and his faintly wrinkled wool coat. The tails were slightly darker than the rest of the fabric, almost as if they had become saturated with water. And was that a tea stain upon his chest? How odd.
Years ago, she might have felt threatened by such an avid gaze. But she had changed from the fearful girl she had once been, and besides—fear was so muchmoresuspicious than was indifference. The truth, as she had learned it, was that people largely saw what it was they expected to see. And so she had given theTonprecisely what it was they expected of her, and no one had ever been the wiser. Not even her nearest and dearest.
Nobody was looking for a duchessmanaging a ladies’ club, in much the same way that they had never looked for a duchess in the proprietor of a dress shop. She was somewhatlessinvisible than she once had been, but to be sure she was stillsafe.
Still, she hadn’tallday. And so she offered the odd man a casual nod, let her gaze fall from him and continued on her way. He could stare all he liked, she supposed—but she didn’t have to stand there andlethim.
And yet, she was not at all surprised when a few moments later there was the sound of footsteps behind her, long strides eating up the distance until he appeared at her side. It was the way of gentlemen, she had learned, to presume upon an acquaintance they had not yet made.
“You’re Madame Laurent,” he said, in a clear voice, a little lower than she would have expected.
“I am.” She took another bite of her profiterole. “It’s quite rude to stare, sir.” Also to foist one’s presence upon an uninterested party.
“My apologies. It was not my intent to make you uncomfortable. Did you know that the fire that burned down your shop some months ago was, in fact, arson?”
She choked upon the bit of pastry in her mouth, paused to cough into her palm until the obstruction had been cleared. “I beg your pardon?”
“You didn’t know.” His brows furrowed, mouth tightening as if he had just realized he had given bad news to an unsuspecting woman.
“No, I did.” Her fingers curled round the remains of her profiterole, appetite suddenly vanished. “How didyou?” Whowasthis strange man?
