She swallowed. ‘I have nothing to hide.’
She was lying.
The rain increased in intensity as he sought for her shield’s weakness. And then he realised, they were both completely dry.
Looking up, he saw the rain evaporating into steam a foot above their heads. They could be standing in the centre of a bonfire whose heat turned the water into vapour.
Fear, unfamiliar and shocking, thrilled through him.
‘What the bloody hell?’
Miss Blair stiffened her spine. Whatever had been protecting them dissolved, the deluge quickly drenching Thomas and dripping down his neck. He hissed air between his teeth at the shockingly cold water.
Stepping past him before he could reach out and catch her arm, Miss Blair took the ribbons from her footman and disappeared into her carriage so swiftly, her raven fluttered his wings to keep his perch.
Thomas was left standing in the frigid rain, watching Miss Blair’s carriage as it disappeared into traffic.
‘What the bloody hell?’ he repeated, but no answer came to him from the bustling crowd scurrying to find shelter from the storm.
He needed to pay a visit to Superintendent MacDougal. Not all was as it seemed with Miss Blair.
Hailing a hack, he gave the directions to Scotland Yard.
6
Lachlan’s office was just as messy as his wild curls.
4 Whitehall Place had originally been a house before it became the hub of London’s Metropolitan Police force. One of the guest rooms on the second floor comprised Superintendent MacDougal’s office.
Papers were scattered over the surface of his large desk. A coat dangled haphazardly from the arm of a small settee shoved into the corner of the room. A side table next to the couch was covered with books, a magnifying glass, and something greasy wrapped in wax paper. A meat pie, perhaps.
A flickering lamp illuminated a mahogany bookcase dominating the far wall. Superintendent MacDougal himself stood next to the shelves stuffed with books, thumbing through a tome containing ghastly drawings of decomposing bodies.
‘What the blazes are you reading?’ Thomas tried not to smile as Lachlan startled. His eyes, the colour of rich earth, lifted from the book to focus on Thomas.
‘Thomas! I was just about to send you a message.’ Shutting the book, he balanced it precariously on the windowsill next to abattered leather satchel that threatened to spill its innards at any moment. Striding across the room, he shook Thomas’ hand and gestured for him to take the seat across from his desk. When he realised the chair was already occupied by yet another stack of books, he picked them up, turned right, left, then shrugged and plopped the tumbling pile next to the settee.
Thomas lowered himself slowly into the chair. ‘What about?’
‘We got the report back from the coroner on Viscount Beachley. I was going to speak with you and Clio about it together, but you’re here now.’
‘Yes. I’m here. Now.’ Thomas tried to keep his tone calm, but just thinking about Miss Blair set his nerves jangling. He had revisited their interaction in front of Gunter’s as his hack crawled along glutted streets to Scotland Yard. And it wasn’t just then. Something odd had happened when she was driving them to Gunter’s as well. The longer he considered, the more certain he became. Miss Blair was keeping secrets about herself.
‘There was a fair amount of blood found on and near Beachley’s body.’
Thomas shrugged. ‘Blood is to be expected when a man is murdered.’
Lachlan sat in his chair, watching Thomas carefully. ‘No’ when the cause of death is poison.’
‘Poison?’
‘Poison,’ Lachlan confirmed. ‘And he had no lacerations on his body. No evidence of blood in his nasal passages or throat. No reason for there to have been any blood at the scene. Unless it wasn’t his.’
It made no sense.
Blast and damn.
Was Miss Blair right? Could the blood belong to the viscountess? Were they dealing with two murders?
