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“Because Ransom would be accused of overstepping the bounds of his authority, and he’d be sacked.” Seeing that she wanted more of an explanation, John grimaced slightly. Discussing the complexities of banking regulations wasn’t exactly his strong suit. “Investigating a private bank is a thorny proposition. Without direct evidence or a single witness statement, Ransom’s hands are tied. His only option is to wait until the bank collapses and then take it to court. But by then the damage will be done, and he’s concerned for all the lives that would be ruined. So am I.”

“I understand. But I don’t like the idea of throwing you to the wolves!”

His lips twitched. “I’m not fond of it either.”

“Why did you agree to this in the first place? The benefits couldn’t have been worth the risk.”

“Aye, they were. He offered me a job in the criminal investigation department . . . better pay . . . and a flat of my own.” Deliberately he cast a slow glance over her from head to toe. “And as it turns out, there were benefits I didn’t even expect.”

Reina smiled reluctantly and came to him. “You’re not going to enjoy those benefits if we’re arrested for trespassing and attempted burglary.”

John reached out to bring her close and brushed his lips against hers. “Well, then . . . I’ll make sure we’re not caught.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Breaking the Bank

One of the more vexing aspects of women’s fashion was that “walking dresses” made for exercise were so heavily draped and ornamented, walking was the last thing one wanted to do in them. Not long ago, Reina had asked her dressmaker to make a wool skirt in the simple style worn by working-class women. To her surprise, the dressmaker had not only refused, she’d seemed offended by the request.

“Well, o’ course she was,” June had said irritably. “The woman’s worked her whole life to make fancy clothes for fine folk, and then you go and ask her for the kind of skirt you could buy for ten shillings on Oxford Street!”

“Is that where I can find one?”

“No, you ain’t paradin’ yourself about in the kind of skirt I wear!”

“Why can’t I? Your skirts let you walk with a free and easy stride, whereas mine keep me hobbled like a horse that’s prone to wandering off.”

“That’s different. Walking’s part of my job. I have to go to market, and I’m always on me feet in the kitchen. You do your job with your arse in a chair.”

“I should be able to walk comfortably regardless.”

“If you wear a skirt like mine, folk will say you’re puttin’ on airs.”

“How could anyone possibly say that when it’s a work skirt?”

“Just a different kind of airs, is all.”

But Reina had gone ahead and bought a simple black wool skirt—and it was perfect for tonight’s outing to the bank. After pairing it with a tailored walking jacket, and a pair of low-heeled boots, she felt a bit dangerous and dashing, like a lady adventurer heading out to save the day. She should have known better than to say as much to June, who had replied sourly that she looked more like a woman going shopping in Southwark.

With his usual efficiency, John had arranged for a hansom cab to be waiting outside the house—but they weren’t able to leave without an objection from an unexpected source.

Maddock approached them in the entrance hall with a scowl that would have alarmed anyone who didn’t know him.

John glanced at Reina and said curtly, “A moment.”

Understanding, she drifted toward the entrance hall’s demilune table on the pretext of adjusting a flower arrangement, while the two men spoke in a tense, low-voiced exchange.

“. . . has nothing to do with you,” John was saying.

“Drivin’ her’s me job, mate, innit—”

“Maddock, let it be. I need you to stay and look after the household.”

“Seems to me you and Miss Martin is what needs looking after. Why are you dressed like a bloody bookmaker?”

Instead of his usual black coat and trousers, John wore a flat cap, rough tweed jacket, wool trousers, and old worn boots, nearly paper-thin from age and use. The informal masculine attire suited him wonderfully, but gave him a vaguely disreputable air.

“I’ll explain later,” John said. “It’s a private matter.”