“Shh,” he soothed, rubbing his finger across her brow again and again. Slowly she relaxed in his arms, her face smoothing back into peaceful slumber. Such a sweet little blessing. He could only imagine the hole in his chest—in his soul—were she to be taken from him. Was that what was bothering his father-in-law? Was he remembering that his own daughter had been lost to him and this was simply too personal a case to manage?
“Very well.” Jackson sighed. “Find that woman’s baby and assess the danger, but you must let your father know that’s what you’re about. You’re a team, remember? And I saidassess,not rescue, mind? If the child is in peril, you will come to me for help, understood?”
“Yes!” she whisper-screamed then tore around the table and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, Husband.”
He reached for her hand and entwined his fingers through hers, his jaw clenched rock tight. Hopefully that woman’s child wasn’t in harm’s way, for as it was, he wouldn’t really be able to help Kit with her investigation, not personally. The superintendent had made it abundantly clear he was to unsnarl the paperwork fiasco left behind by the former chief, and he was to “do so bloody well as soon as possible!”
Or he’d be let go.
Chapter Three
Darkness owned the streets at night. Not so much the mere blackness of sky or the sinister shadows hiding God knew what. No, this sort of insidiousness ran far deeper than that. Evil burrowed into men’s hearts and sprang out on the unsuspecting. Sharpers. Bludgers. Killers and thieves. Charles Baggett understood that singular truth more than most.
But that didn’t stop him from whistling as he strode along Blackfriars Lane. Let ’em try to take him down. He guaranteed he’d be the last man standing—on wobbly legs perhaps, but standing nonetheless.
He upped his pace, eager to see a certain golden-haired beauty. Indeed, fear was no way to live. Caution, however, was a whole different tale, which was why he kept his Webley revolver loaded and good to go.
No merry light shone out of the dining room’s windows. He peeked inside as he approached the door. Dark, save for the glow coming from the kitchen at the far side of the room, making the empty tables look like hulking bully boys about to launch. Blast. He was later than he’d thought.
He tried the doorknob, a strange mix of relief and irritation churning in his empty belly. Martha should know better than to leave the thing unlocked. Any number of malcontents could bust in here and harm her and her children. His annoyance quickly faded, though, as he swung through the kitchen door and spied the graceful figure of Martha Jones and her four older girls working together to wash the dishes.
“Need some help cleaning up, ladies?”
Five heads turned his way. “Evenin’, Mr. Baggett,” two of the girls said in unison. The eldest, Harriet, frowned, but ten-year-old Jane broke rank and raced over to him, her face shining up into his. “I knew ye’d come! The others din’t, but I knew it.”
“You can’t keep me away so easily.” He swung her up into the air until she giggled, then set her down.
“Back to work, Jane.” Martha arched a brow at the girl as she reached for a bowl. Despite her soiled apron and loosened strands of hair trailing from beneath her white cap, the woman’s allure never failed to make Charles forget to breathe.
“What I be needin’ help with, Inspector,” she said, grinning, “is someone to eat this last dish o’ stew. Be ye up for the task?”
And that right there was what he admired most about Martha Jones. She always thought of others, sometimes to her own detriment. Charles leaned against the doorframe, unable to pull his gaze from her. “I’ll do my best.”
“I thought ye might.” She winked. “Mind the cleanup girls. I won’t be a minute.”
A chorus of “Yes, Mum”s blended with some giggles and a few giddy whispers. Harriet merely gave him a sour side-eye as he and Martha strolled out to the shadowy public room.
“Sit yerself down and dig in.” Martha set the bowl on the table then retrieved a candlestick and lit it while he shoveled in his first bite.
Rich broth filled his mouth, the meat so tender it melted on his tongue. “Mmm,” he moaned. “Delicious as always. Thank you, Mrs. Jones.”
“Ye sound like a starving man.” She sat across from him, a frown bending her brow. “And ye’re late tonight. Rough go of it today?”
“More so for Forge than me. Actually—” He shoved in another bite, manners be hanged for food this good. “I had rather a banner day. Finally hauled in that sharper I told you about. After a little convincing, he ratted on his handler and gave me a lead on a bonneting gang troubling Regent’s Park.”
Martha bit her lip. “Sounds dangerous.”
“It is—for them.” He smirked.
“Don’t be takin’ any chances now, Mr. Baggett.” She wagged her finger at him. “Who would eat the leftovers should anything happen to ye?”
He picked up his bowl and drained it dry, then set it down with a satisfied sigh. “I suspect, m’lady, any number of men would be happy to fill this chair. I do not take this privilege lightly. Rather, it is an honour.”
“Go on with ye.” A brilliant smile lit her face as she cut her hand through the air. The movement lifted her sleeve, revealing a small bruise on the inside of her wrist.
A mark the size of a man’s thumb.
All his good humour vanished. He reached for her hand and turned her arm over for inspection. “How did this happen?”
