Steadman’s remark drew Morgan from her silence. “For what?”
“For maintaining a cool head and a long view. I lost myself briefly.”
Relieved to escape her dark musings, she dipped her forehead to him. “Just doing my job, sir.”
“Well done, then.”
“Thank you.” She fidgeted with her reins as they drew near the inn. “Steadman?”
“Yes?”
“Why do you suppose youlostyourself, even if briefly?”
He shrugged and stared blankly ahead. “It is this place, I reckon. When last I was here, I was an impulsive firebrand of a man, young and filled with vinegar and visions. For a moment, I forgot what I have learned over the years.” Then he flashed a smile at Morgan that nearly blew her from the saddle. “Fortunately, you were there to catch me falling.”
She ducked her head. How could he not see the way she reacted?How does he not know?“We have arrived at the inn.”
“So it seems,” he said. “The stable lies behind.”
Only after stabling the horses did Morgan remember just how precarious her position had become. She would not survive another night in a shared room, and yet their investigation could take weeks. As a result, she waited to one side while Steadman approached the innkeeper’s desk, not wanting him to notice her trembling. The young woman behind the desk watched Steadman with astonished fascination, apparently forgetting how to speak. He tapped the countertop with two fingers.
“Good day to you, young miss. Might I inquire as to lodging availability?”
The girl stared a moment longer before seeming to realize he had spoken. “Uh…yes.”
“And?”
“Uh…” she glanced at the array of keys hanging behind her. “We have rooms. Sir.”
“Very well. I would like two, please.”
Morgan straightened bolt upright. Two? As if reading her thoughts, Steadman grinned sidelong at her before addressing the girl again. “One room for my associate, Mr. Brady, who cannot share a bed and sleep at the same time. And one for me, under the name of Steadman.”
The girl dipped her quill to print the names before freezing. Her eyes drifted from the paper to the man before her. “Steadman? Mr. Drew?”
“Simply Steadman. Never Mr. Drew.”
She scripted the names in the ledger with a jittery hand. Morgan understood. Steadman had the same effect on every woman, regardless of age. She reminded herself to resist his charm, good looks, and powerful presence, no matter how muchthe effort sapped her womanhood. She nearly faltered when he pressed a key into her palm.
“There you are. A bed free of hairy bodies. Especially mine.”
She cut her eyes up at him. “What about the Bow Street budget?”
He sailed past her toward the narrow stairs. “A mere suggestion by the magistrate, but I am granted discretion. And while on this investigation, I require you well rested and alert.”
She followed him up the stairs while lugging her bag. “Of course. Who else would stop you from handing out unhelpful beatings?”
“My logic exactly. Now, wash up, Mr. Brady. Meet me for supper downstairs in one hour.”
After entering her room, Morgan dropped her bag, leaned against the door, and exhaled. With a room of her own, she might survive long enough for the investigation to conclude. Hope flickered, which was usually a sign from God that the roof would soon cave in. She removed her coat and draped it over the room’s single, wooden chair. A quick sniff of her shirt told the tale. She stank. She peered through the window into the fading light to find the River Ebble behind the inn. Suddenly sick of her scent, she impulsively grabbed the towel and small bowl of soft soap from the washstand and headed downstairs, bound for the river.
She found a secluded spot behind a hedgerow where the ground sloped gently into a shallow pool, apparently well-used by guests for the purpose of bathing. She waited for the light to ebb completely before stripping from her pantaloons and drawers to step into the water. Her shirt reached mid-thigh, providing only minimal modesty. With urgency driven by fearof discovery, Morgan washed swiftly in the brisk water. In her carelessness, she managed to soak the front of her long shirt while leaning over to wash her face. When she straightened, the garment clung to her torso, revealing every curve.
“Morgan? Is that you?”
Steadman’s voice from feet away nearly sent her sprawling into deeper water. She turned her back to him, plucked the clinging shirt away from her chest, and considered swimming for the far bank.
“Morgan?”
