It seemed preposterousto have such strong feelings for Lord Burnley—indeed, to be ardently in love with him, if Adelia were honest—while being firmly opposed to his actions and his conclusions. Moreover, despite feeling sympathy for his family’s horrific tragedy, she had to tamp down flashes of anger toward him at his faulty reasoning.
If one looked at the evidence in the way the detective and Mr. Brassel did, it seemed ridiculously sloppy, as if Thomas wanted to be caught.
Or as if someone wanted him to be blamed!The notion came to her for the first time. She hadn’t considered such malice in the world.And for what purpose?
Crimes of passion were not foreign to her. She’d heard a few tales of such while eavesdropping over the years and had duly written some into her stories. The most obvious reason would be someone else vying for the attention of Miss Moore.
“You are very thoughtful today, my lady,” Owen said, recalling her to the present.
Without thinking, she said, “I wonder if someone else is in love with Miss Moore.”
They were nearly back at her carriage where her driver awaited.
“Why are you wondering such a thing?” Owen asked.
She was not about to tell him her latest theory, that someone might have wanted to make Thomas look guilty. Undoubtedly, he would dismiss it anyway.
She lifted a shoulder. “She is pleasant, educated, and employed.”
“And pretty,” he added.
Frowning, feeling a little deflated, she said, “True.” She wished he hadn’t noticed, but, of course, the Lord Burnley she had come to love was a renowned flirt and admirer of women.
“Why are we discussing Miss Moore?” he asked. “I suppose you feel responsible for her and intend to look after her the rest of her days.”
She was taken aback. In truth, his notion was not beyond the pale. If Thomas had intended to marry Constance Moore, it might be Adelia’s duty to look after her, at least until Thomas could do so again. Certainly, that would be something Lady Jane would do.
Adelia nodded to her driver, who opened the carriage door.
“We arenotdiscussing Miss Moore. At least, no longer,” she said, her tone clipped and off-putting.What she really wanted was to throw herself into his arms. “Is there anything else you wish to tell me?”
Owen looked at her with his crystalline-blue eyes, and her stomach flipped.
“Truthfully, yes, but not here and not yet.”
She was surprised by the seriousness in his voice. It was almost as if he might declare himself to her.
“When?” she asked.
Owen shook his head, glancing back at the police station. “I wish I knew.”
Hope fled like a rabbit from a fox.
“Good day,” she said, and let her driver help her into her carriage. Through her carriage window, she watched Owen standing there as she drove away, and she wondered if she would ever get to hear him express what she’d seen in his gaze.
*
Adelia went directlyto the family’s company office at the Coal Exchange. After her father passed, Thomas had taken her to see the impressive building built of cast iron and stone. She passed through the entranceway, a Roman temple of Doric columns under a tall circular tower seeming to stretch to heaven. Inside, the building’s main hall was crowned by a lofty rotunda, a dome rising far overhead and lined with paintings of flowers and fossil plants found in the areas producing coal. The glass cupola far overhead let in natural light, and all of it rested airily on eight piers.
Under her booted feet were four thousand pieces of inlaid wood, as Thomas had pointed out, representing the face of a mariner’s compass. She hardly paused to look at it. Instead, she made her way up a flight of stairs, past paintings of Percy Pit, Wallsend Colliery, Regent’s Pit, and other celebrated collieries from which coal was shipped. It was exciting to think her family played a part in this tremendous undertaking of heating the British people’s homes and providing their cooking fuel.
A middle-aged clerk admitted her to the modest Smythe Coal office on the second floor. She had met the man when Thomas had brought her previously. Before that, she’d never seen the grand structure or had reason ever to be in that part of the city, between London and Tower Bridges. Her father hadn’t considered it a suitable place for women.
Mr. Beaumont was not in although he was expected back momentarily, which suited her. It gave her a chance to prepare how best to broach the subject of her brother’s female friend and potential rivals, and anything he might know that could be helpful.
When she assured the clerk he could go about his business and that she needed nothing from him, he left the door open for her comfort and returned to copying documents and addressing envelopes to post. Roaming the office, eventually, Adelia came to stand by Mr. Beaumont’s desk, noticing an envelope on the top of a stack which the clerk had recently finished. It was addressed to someone in Romford. The name tickled her memory.
Someone had recently mentioned the very same town to her.Miss Moore!
