“Perhaps.” She rose from her chair and stretched, wincing as her back popped. “When can we leave and go do something about them?”
“I still have Hurst’s and Hereford’s statements to compose.” He dipped his quill in an ink well then frowned. Opening his bottom desk drawer, he removed another ink well and unwrapped its seal. “It’s the least I can do after sending them on a fool’s errand to Portsmouth. I’ll have their statements ready to sign whenever they return.”
“In triplicate, if you please, Mr. Strait,” the magistrate called. “I need a copy for my records, the judge will need a copy, and—”
“I understand.” Charles rolled the cuff of his shirt up to his elbow and got back to work. “If you actually were an assistant,” he grumbled, “this task would be all yours.”
There was an obscene amount of forms to be filed after apprehending a killer. It was enough to put Cassie right off the idea of becoming an agent. Charles might grumble, but the truth was the man liked paperwork. Every time he added to one of his precise stacks, he smiled. It appealed to his sense of order, she supposed. His love of structure.
She strolled around the desk to stand behind him. And whenever he got in one of his organizational moods, she wanted nothing more than to muss him up. Make him decidedly disordered. She combed her fingers through his hair. “Are you certain you need to finish that right this minute? It is well past our bedtimes.”
“I am certain.” But he dropped his head back and sighed, making no move to remove her hands from his body.
Trailing a finger down his neck and along his arm, she wedged herself between Charles and his desk. He helpfully moved his leg to allow her in.
“Lincoln is safely behind bars.” She leaned back, resting her bottom on his desk. “He isn’t going anywhere.” Except to hell hopefully. “And all this paperwork likewise will remain. Don’t you want to avoid your duties, just this once, and do something diverting instead?”
“Avoiding one’s duties now only increases one’s workload later.” He rubbed the fabric of her skirts between his thumb and forefinger. “I do believe you are trying to lead me astray, Miss Moore. That is very naughty behavior.”
“And what are the consequences for naughty behavior?” she asked, her voice breathy.
“For you, there have been very few in your life so far. You’re incorrigible.” He leaned forwards, his eyes hooded. “But that is about to change. You—” His eyes flew wide. He gripped her hips and swung her away from his desk. “You’ve knocked over the new inkwell.”
“Oh no.” She twisted, trying to look behind her. “Did it ruin my gown?”
He stood, staring mournfully down at his desk. “Your gown has survived. My forms have not.”
“Oh.” Ink was spilt across two of his stacks, the black liquid soaking through layer after layer. She winced. “Those look fairly untouched,” she said, pointing to a third stack.
He gripped the back of his neck. “Life with you will never be orderly, will it?”
She sidled close. “You mean dull? No.”
The muscles in his jaw tensed. “I am a man accustomed to knowing what to expect, what my day will bring. Predictability gives me a sort of satisfaction.”
She ran the tip of her finger up his forearm and toyed with the rolled cuff of his shirt. “You may think that, but secretly you long to have your systems shaken up. It’s why you became a detective instead of remaining a grocer.”
Sighing, he sank back into his chair, pulling her down on top of him. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”
“Love me.” She raised one shoulder. “That’s all I ask.”
“That goes without question. But Cassie….” He swallowed, his throat rolling. “I’m not sure what you expect from our life. I’m not a gentleman. Your life with me will be very different from what you’re accustomed.”
There was a vulnerability in his voice that tore at her heart. She cupped his cheek. “My father might be the son of a baron, but we aren’t wealthy. I wasn’t raised with jewels and new gowns each month.”
“Having a new gown each year is sufficient to be considered wealthy for many,” he said dryly.
“If you are concerned about money, I will inherit a stipend from my grandfather in a couple of years.” She picked up his hand and brought it to her lips. “It isn’t large, but it is enough to keep us comfortable when added to your income.”
And hers, too, perhaps. She hadn’t given any thought to what she might do now that her sister’s killer had been caught. She could remain at the agency, she supposed, but that didn’t hold any great appeal. She had come here to serve a purpose, and it had now been fulfilled. No, she’d leave the investigating, and the paperwork, to Charles.
She nipped the tip of his finger. “Money doesn’t matter to me. I only want you.”
He huffed. “That’s good to know, but you don’t have to worry about finances. That device I showed you in my father’s grocery, the one that sorts grain. I obtained a patent for it and sold it years ago. I have money. A great deal of it in fact.”
Cassie blinked. “What?”
He frowned. “I said you don’t need to worry about money.”
