“Strathaven is a good man,” she said when her brother finished, “but a little complicated.”
“A little?”
Tentatively, she said, “Do you think you could bring yourself to like him?”
“Does it matter?”
“I want you to like him. To like each other,” she admitted.
A pause.
“If that is what will make you happy, then yes, Emma,” Ambrose said gently. “I will try.”
Her heart swelled. “You see, big brother? You’ve always done your best by us. By me.”
Ambrose gave a gruff nod, and she caught the sheen in his eyes before he turned back to the window.
Soon thereafter, they arrived in a part of town she’d never visited before. As they drove through the Whitechapel slums, her heart constricted at the weary resignation she saw on the sooty faces of women and babes dressed in rags. Their carriage stopped in front of dingy tenements, and they were met by Alaric, Mr. McLeod, and a coterie of guards.
Alaric bowed to her, his gaze as possessive as any touch.
“Hello, Miss Kent,” he murmured. “Recovered from your adventure last night?”
She knew that he referred not to the ball itself but what had transpired in the gallery.
“As a matter of fact,” she said, “I feel quite invigorated.”
His lips curved.
“We’ve scouted the place,” Mr. McLeod said brusquely, “and secured the perimeter. We can start questioning the neighbors. Miss Kent, Cooper and I will escort you.”
“As will I,” Alaric said.
Knowing the brothers’ combative relationship, Emma winced at Alaric’s peremptory tone. To her surprise, however, Mr. McLeod’s face split in a grin.
“Never thought I’d see the day. Ach, but you’re a McLeod through and through, brother.”
Alaric gave him a stony stare. “Meaning?”
“Meaning we Scotsmen stake our territory and don’t give up what’s ours.” Mr. McLeod buffeted his brother in the shoulder with enough force to knock any other man off his feet.
Although Alaric didn’t budge, color washed over his high cheekbones.
“If you’re done flapping your lips, Peregrine, let’s get on with it,” he muttered.
“Gladly, your grace.” Mr. McLeod was still grinning.
Emma marveled at the lighthearted banter. Recalling what Ambrose had told her in the carriage, she wondered if Alaric’s selfless act had triggered the healing of old wounds.
“Miss Kent?” Alaric offered his arm.
As they moved toward the tenements, she murmured, “Are things alright? With you and Mr. McLeod, I mean?”
Alaric hesitated. In a low, bemused voice, he said, “Aye. I think they may finally be.”
The team split into several groups, going door to door through the tenements. The most common response to their enquiries was a suspicious glare, accompanied by some variation of, “I mind me own business and don’t know nothin’.” A few inhabitants spouted tales that were obviously fabricated, based on a desire for reward money rather than reality. And no one seemed surprised or concerned by the fact that one of their neighbors had been found dead.
After an hour of fruitless canvassing, Emma found herself back on the first floor by Webb’s apartment. She idly surveyed the dusty street. The other side was almost a mirror image of the one she was standing on, with tenements directly across the way. A movement caught her eye: laundry fluttering on a line, the whiteness of the linen a stark contrast to the dirty exterior of the building.
