Page 157

She hesitated before following an impulse. Quickly she removed her hat, reached beneath the inside band, and tugged out a lining strip of chamois leather. It was used to adjust the fit of the hat more snugly. The length of chamois was soft and almost silky, a luxury that few officers at his pay level could afford.

“Here,” she said, handing it to him. “I know it’s not proper but do take it. Have someone stitch it over the inner band of your helmet—it will be much gentler on your forehead.”

The table-straight line of his mustache collapsed with astonishment. “Miss Martin, I shouldn’t—”

“I know,” she said. “But the small discomforts always grind one down the most.” Seeing that he was unsure whether to accept the scrap of leather, she added, “No obligation, I assure you. Good evening, gentlemen.”

As soon as the carriage began on the way home, John moved to sit beside her. “I was going to give you high marks for burglary,” he said, “until you tore out part of your own hat to give to the police constable.”

“His helmet chafes his forehead,” she protested.

He only gave her a look.

“I’m aware of how it muddles things,” Reina said, “but I have to relate to others on a human level. He had a problem, and I had something that would help.”

John picked up one of her hands, peeled back an inch of her glove, and kissed the exposed skin.

“I know you think it was naïve,” she said. “You’ll say that kindness can be misread. I’m sure you wish I would change how I—”

“I would change nothing about you,” he interrupted, and turned her hand over to press his lips to the inside of her wrist. “Nothing at all.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Palimpsest

After arriving at Westbrook House and seeing Reina inside, John went to help Maddock unhitch the horses in the carriage yard.

The coachman had already unthreaded the reins and was unbuckling Sol from the carriage shaft. John went to take care of Cielo, who was still breathing and puffing from exertion. “Good boy,” he murmured, stroking the sweaty neck and ending with a few pats to the shoulder. “A good, steady lad, you are.”

Mindful of keeping the horses calm, he said in a measured tone, “I told you to keep your arse situated here at the house, Maddock.”

Maddock sent John an unrepentant glance. “I’m Miss Martin’s driver. I thought she might need me. Turns out she did.”

Annoyed by the hint of smugness in his reply, John fought for patience. “No, she didn’t. Your appearance might have been convenient, but in no fucking way was it necessary—and the risk outweighed any benefit.”

“What risk?” Maddock countered, now looking surly. “There weren’t no risk.”

John held Cielo’s reins short and began to lead him around the carriage yard to cool him, while Maddock did the same with Sol.

“You’re a danger to yourself and others,” John said flatly. “Do you know why they wrote in your Millbank papers that you have a history of ‘violence under provocation’? Because you proved in the past, more than once, that in certain situations you can’t control your impulses. Now you have to prove you can—and tonight wasn’t a bloody shining moment.”

“I ain’t set a foot wrong since I left Millbank. I gone to cookery school twice a week, and I ain’t caused one minute of trouble for none of them ladies.”

“Only because they’re feeding you the entire time,” John said acidly. “Don’t expect a bloody round of applause for acting civilized when you’re in friendly company. It only counts when you’re being confronted by brutes who want to pull you down to their level.”

“I been acting civilized,” Maddock growled.

“Aye, you’ve done well,” John said. “You’re a good man, Maddock. The household depends on you. Tonight was the first time you’ve ever been unreliable, which is why I’m now obliged to remind you there’s no room for mistakes. The first time you’re caught out after curfew, or drawn into a fight, you’ll be sent back to Millbank faster than hell beating tanbark. Even worse, there’s a chance the others will be sent back too. Think of them, if not—” He broke off with a reluctant smile as Cielo turned his head to nuzzle him affectionately, using his lips to delicately nip the collar of his jacket. “Fancy a tweed coat, do you?” Without breaking pace, he transferred the lead to his other hand and reached up to stroke the horse’s cheek.

“Horses don’t take to a bad sort,” Maddock muttered. A high compliment.

For the next few minutes, the only sound in the carriage yard was the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves.

“This is a good life,” John remarked. “Tolerating a curfew for five years is better than a prison cell, aye?”

“Aye,” Maddock said.

John sent him a quick sideways glance, wondering if that was mockery. Seeing that it had been a sincere bit of imitation, he smiled slightly.