Martha shot Charles a grateful look before facing her son. “That’s better. But how did ye manage to be in the right place at the right time?”
“Em…er…” He scuffed his toe against the floorboard, a telltale sign it wasn’t only his foot that scrambled for traction. A moment later his face brightened. “God’s providence, that’s what! When Mr. Bellow learned I could read and cipher—thanks to Miss Kit—he took me on with an advance.” He poked the money with his finger. “That’s what he called it.”
This time Charles did snort. “That is highly irregular, lad. No businessman hands out coins like peppermint drops.”
Frankie slapped his hand to his heart. “God’s truth.” He pecked his mother’s cheek then wheeled about. “I’ll be off to bed now. Got to work tomorrow.” He waved a hand in the air as he dashed to the stairs. “G’night, Mr. Baggett.”
Silence reigned in the absence of the young tempest. Charles stared at Martha. She stared back—worry pinching her lips. That didn’t sit well. Up till now her life had been nothing but worries. He’d gladly take this one from her.
“Don’t fret.” Reaching across the table, he squeezed her hand. “I will check into the validity of your son’s story tomorrow and make sure Frankie is not in harm’s way.”
Her face softened, candlelight dancing lovely in her blue eyes. “I do believe, Inspector, that ye would save the very world if ye could.”
“I do what I can, though I don’t think there’s anything I can do for poor ol’ Forge. He’s going to have to sink or swim on his own. And if he doesn’t get that paperwork snarl untangled soon, he and his family will be in deep waters.”
“Then we’ll give ’em our prayers, eh? And by God’s grace they’ll manage. After all, ’tis not the job that provides their needs but the gracious God above what does.”
Warmth swelled in his chest. She grounded him, this woman, always circling back to remind him that God was—and is—ever in charge.
He cracked a smile. “I think you are a saint in disguise, Mrs. Jones.”
“Stuff and nonsense! Off with ye now a’fore my head swells too big fer my bonnet.” Rising, she rounded the table and bent close to collect his bowl, her scent of warm bread and sweet butter leaving him hungry for more of her.
“Ye might not want to be late tomorrow evenin’. Fish chowder and sourdough. Won’t last long, I suspect.” She straightened.
He stood, one brow arching. “But no doubt a magical bowl will appear even were I to come after hours.”
“Ack. Think ye’re onto me, do ye?” She angled her head, loosing another strand of wavy blond hair.
He shoved his hands into his pockets lest he give in to the temptation to rub that silkiness between his fingers. “It is my job as an inspector to read people.”
“That so?” She stepped close, face lifted, nothing but an empty soup bowl between them. “And what sort of story do I tell?”
“The most beautiful sort.”
The words flew from the cage before he could recall them, and though he’d given his best effort for restraint, his hand snaked out of his pocket, and he brushed back that wave of hair. Just as he suspected, the downy feel of it nearly drove him to his knees. She was all softness and light, this woman. Someone he might pledge his heart to.
Suddenly sobered, he stepped back and gave her a sharp nod. “Good night, Mrs. Jones. Oh, and be sure to lock the door this time.”
He stalked out without looking back, not even when she said, “G’night, Inspector.”
Cool night air slapped him in the face as he pulled the door shut behind him. What was he doing? Flirting with a woman he had no business pursuing! There could be nothing between them. Martha Jones deserved better than a lawman who could be taken out by a bullet any day. She had already suffered the death of a husband, and he would not put her through that again. He was a good several years older than her, so that didn’t work in his favour either. Besides—more importantly—he was a confirmed bachelor, one who’d vowed never to drop the guard around his heart.
Indeed, Edwina Draper had made sure of that.
Chapter Four
Strolling the rows of white stucco terrace houses in the Pimlico neighbourhood always made Kit toss back her shoulders in defiance. Here lived the middle class, looking down their noses at those with less wealth, less status, less humanity—leastwise according to many who resided here. The funny thing is that those who inhabited Cavendish or Grosvenor Square would do the same thing to the tenants of Pimlico.
And it would serve them right.
Kit smirked at the thought as she climbed the stairs to number thirty-seven and rapped the door knocker.
Moments later, a housekeeper in a freshly starched apron answered, her hair tucked neatly beneath her white cap. The tips of her shoes peeking beneath her hem were polished to a fine sheen. Nary a wrinkle marred her skirt. My. This quintessential servant had to be the envy of every household on the street.
“May I help you, miss?” Even her voice carried dulcet tones.
“Yes.” Kit held the woman’s gaze. “I am here to see Mrs. Coleman, following up on a visit she made to me yesterday.”
