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Those were hardly the actions of a callous brute. He had sacrificed his own interests for Tuppence, and he would have done the same for any of them.

All lies weren’t the same. William might be guilty of committing fraud that would harm countless people. But John’s deception had been in the service of protecting them.

Slowly Reina let go of the knob and turned to face him.

How different he looked with his shirtsleeves rolled up over his forearms, and his jaw roughened with a day’s beard growth. No starch or polish, no tailored coat to cover the workingman’s brawn. He was a complex man with his own needs, desires, and fears. An outsider, like her, belonging nowhere and everywhere.

Maybe “hating” him had been putting it a bit too strongly. It would be more accurate to describe the feeling as “unmitigated annoyance” or “qualified umbrage.”

“How much of it was real?” Reina brought herself to ask.

John’s reaction to the abrupt question was subtle but remarkable. He backed away a step, his expression turning wary. “How much of what?”

“All the things you and I talked about—the night we danced—the kisses. Was it all a performance to gain my trust and liking?”

“Performance,” he repeated, his voice a mere husk of sound. “No.”

Now that Reina was able to think past the initial shock of hurt, it occurred to her that if she asked the right questions, and listened closely to the answers, she might find out something important.

“The night of the tertulia,” she said, “I told you I had feelings for you, and asked if it was one-sided. But you never answered.”

“I did.”

Reina shook her head. “You kissed me so you wouldn’t have to answer.”

John scowled. “The kiss was the answer.”

“It was an avoidance tactic.”

“The devil it was,” he said irritably. “The feelings weren’t one-sided.”

“Weren’t or aren’t?” she asked, her gaze not moving from his face.

“Why does it matter?”

“I’m trying to understand the situation,” she said. “But your rather elastic version of the truth doesn’t make it easy.”

Looking surly, John stalked to the desk. “You want proof of my feelings?” He jerked open a drawer and pulled out a few sheets of writing paper.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“The first draft of a report to Ransom.”

“You wrote about your personal feelings in a detective report?”

He was busy sorting through heavily marked pages, some with entire paragraphs crossed out. “When I write, I have to put it all down and decide afterward what stays or goes.” After finding the page he wanted, he brought it to Reina. “Read the last paragraph,” he said gruffly.

She took the page, drew closer to a wall sconce with a frosted glass shade, and read,

—the care of a wet nurse, Ivonne Zamudio, a young woman who recently arrived from Spain. Señora Zamudio planned to join her husband, Pedro, who came here two months ahead of her and disappeared while looking for work.

I would appreciate any information you may have concerning East London gangs that target immigrant workers for debt bondage. I also have need of assistance in searching workhouse infirmary records and recent crime reports for any mention of Pedro Zamudio, or a Spanish-speaking man approximately twenty-four years of age, black-haired, height five feet, eleven inches.

Finally, it will come as no surprise that my position here is no longer tenable. Among other reasons, I have developed a deep and overwhelming an inappropriate attachment to Miss Martin. I take full responsibility for my lack of professionalism, and expect the position in the Metropolitan Criminal Investigation Department to be rightly withdrawn. But there’s nothing I could have done to change this. The fact is

Reina glanced up with a frown. “There’s nothing about your feelings in this.”

John drew closer and pointed to the last paragraph. “It’s right there.”