“What about the lady who lives there, Mrs Hodge?”Olivia said. “She assured me it was safe. Just stories, she said. And no cause for alarm.”
“She would say that. Some of them go into her cottage and don’t leave till morning.”
So that explained the cups on her table, Gabriel thought. No wonder she’d insisted on speaking to Nesbit herself.
“If you ask me,” the sexton said, lowering his voice, “they’re footpads, using the graveyard to stash stolen goods. Happen the rector is afraid to confront them and turns a blind eye. That said, I’ve not seen anyone there these last few weeks.”
As he rambled about the rector and the overgrown graves, several things struck Gabriel. Nesbit was remarkably free with his information. And footpads did not keep records, gather at night by appointment, or use mausoleums.
Hang a few thieves and no one asked questions. A convenient excuse, should the fraternity need to allay suspicion.
“That’s all for now.” Gabriel had heard enough. “For your sake, I trust you’ve told the truth.”
“I’ve told you what I’ve seen and heard,” Nesbit muttered. “Make of it what you will.”
Gabriel let the remaining coins fall into Nesbit’s palm, not as a kindness but a warning. “Return to your duties. I may have further questions, and I’ve no wish to scour taverns looking for you.”
He waited until Nesbit had slouched off towards the church, then handed Olivia into the waiting carriage and instructed Kincaid to head for Covent Garden.
“You don’t believe a word Mr Nesbit said, do you?” Olivia straightened her skirts and held the strap as the carriage lurched forward. “If it’s footpads they fear, why didthe rector pretend he needed to trace the families of those buried there?”
“He may have been searching for the stolen goods,” Gabriel said, “but we both know there’s more to this than thieves hiding their bounty.”
“Are Reverend Clay and Mrs Hodge being paid for their silence,” she said, “or accomplices in something larger?”
“We’ll ask Daventry to have his men watch them. They might lead us to something useful.” He studied her, briefly wondering what he used to think about before her—before them. “On the subject of clues, you changed when the verger asked if there might be a mistake with the name.”
She tilted her head. “You noticed?”
“I notice everything about you.”
“What else have you noticed?”
That she spoke his name like a breath when she wanted more of him. That when he’d moved inside her, she had looked at him with longing, not shyness or fear.
“You’re more relaxed around me. More tactile since we were intimate last night.” Her fingers hadn’t simply rested in the crook of his arm on the way to the tavern; they had drifted over his bicep.
“And you, Gabriel,” she said softly, “I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve touched my back. Or how often you’ve looked at my mouth today.”
“You are … difficult to ignore.”
He’d been studying her for months, through crowded rooms and entire recitals, seeing nothing but her. Answering a call he couldn’t quite explain.
“And you’ve always had a way of drawing my attention. It seems neither of us is particularly good at hiding how we feel.” The subtle purr in her voice stirred the hair at his nape. “Perhaps this is what happens when lonely people seek companionship.”
It was a damn sight more than easing loneliness.
Or was he imagining she felt the same?
He was fluent in suspicion, not sentiment.
He could read a man’s lies, but not a woman’s heart.
Was he alone on this journey? Expecting too much from someone who had practically been forced to marry him?
It was a sobering thought. One that sat heavy in his chest. One he didn’t wish to explore. Not yet.
And so he turned the conversation back to the case. “What was it that piqued your interest at the church?”
