“He won’t mind,” Daniel said. “I come here all the time for a bit of a chat. Ah, there it is.” He picked up a book from Fellows’ bedside table. “I lent him this a while ago. Thought it might be in here.”
Louisa gave him a sharp look. It would be just like Daniel to pretend he’d given Fellows the book in order to have an excuse for snooping in the man’s bedroom.
She ought to tell him they should leave the room and close the door. But Louisa stood in the middle of it, absorbing everything about Lloyd Fellows.
His bed was large, with low posts and no hangings. Neatly made, the pillows plump, a quilt folded across the bottom. Louisa wondered if his mother had sewn the quilt.
The room was small, most of it taken up with the bed. Fellows didn’t have many decorative touches, except a few photographs in frames on top of the high dresser. Louisa moved to look at them.
One photo was of his mother, taken when she was younger. Louisa had met Mrs. Fellows at informal Mackenzie gatherings—the photograph showed she’d been vivacious and pretty when younger, and her eyes held shrewd intelligence, much like her son’s.
Another photo was a full-length portrait of a very young Lloyd, in his policeman’s uniform, probably taken when he’d first joined the force. He stood stiffly, proud, his helmet tucked under his arm.
The third photograph was of Louisa.
Louisa looked quickly behind her, but Daniel was busy flipping through the book he’d found. Louisa turned back to the photo, her heart hammering.
The photograph was a casual one, taken by Eleanor during one of Louisa’s visits to Kilmorgan—Eleanor enjoyed taking photographs and developing them herself. Louisa stood in the garden at Kilmorgan Castle, sunlight on her face, climbing roses around her. The sepia photo showed the roses as white, but in reality they were very light pink. Louisa’s hair looked a shade of brown instead of bright red, her dress darker than the pretty green it had been, but overall, the photograph was a good one. Because Eleanor was skilled at photography, Louisa wasn’t standing ramrod-stiff, her face and eyes washed out from the light, but was smiling, her pose natural.
How the photograph had gotten onto the dresser in Lloyd Fellows’ London bedchamber, Louisa had no idea. Eleanor might have given him a copy. Or perhaps Daniel, who’d just ingenuously said that he’d been here many times before, had.
Louisa bit her lip as she turned around. The open door beyond the bed led into his bathroom, where she told herself she wouldn’t go. But the window gave full light into the little room, showing her a mug and shaving brush on his washstand, towels neatly hung, a large bathtub with a tap. Fellows was a very tidy man, or else the landlady provided a competent maid. Nothing was out of place.
Louisa wanted to enter the bathroom and touch the shaving brush, an object of masculinity. She wanted to connect to Lloyd through it, feel again his strength, heat, the weight of him on her.
She’d never erase the imprint of his mouth on hers, the taste of him on her tongue. And she wanted more than kisses. Last night, if the constable hadn’t arrived, Louisa would have let Fellows carry their passion on the desk to its conclusion. She’d have slid off her drawers and raked up her skirts, welcoming him into her arms and inside her body.
Louisa, who should go to her marriage bed a virgin, would have thrown virtue aside for the joy of being with Lloyd at least once. By the social rules she lived by, Louisa would then have had to withdraw herself from the marriage mart after that, because no man wanted to discover on the wedding night that his bride was soiled goods.
But Louisa would not have cared. Even now she felt nothing but deep regret that they’d been interrupted.
“We should wait for him in the sitting room,” Louisa said abruptly.
Daniel looked up. “Eh?” He closed the book and shrugged. “Just as you like.”
Daniel led the way back to the sitting room, and Louisa made herself shut the door of the enticing chamber behind them.
Fellows walked home in the dark, his thoughts piling one on top of the other. Hargate’s notebook had revealed much. Fellows had left the book in its box firmly under lock and key at the Yard, but Fellows’ notes on it burned in his pocket, waiting for him to have the time to sit and go over them.
He might be lost in thought, but Fellows knew the placement of every single person on the street with him as well as those lurking in dark passages, what they were doing, and, if he’d seen them before, who they were. Those he hadn’t seen before, he made a note of in the back of his mind to look for again.
Denizens of the night always left Fellows alone, however. Though he wore a suit no different from that of any other businessman returning home late from work, somehow even those who knew nothing about him stayed far from him. Fellows was trouble, they sensed, and they didn’t want to deal with that much trouble.
Fellows let himself into the house with his key, walked up the quiet stairs, and used his flat key to open the door to his sitting room.
Daniel looked up from the sofa where he’d been reading a book. He didn’t spring to his feet, because Louisa was dozing next to him, her head on Daniel’s shoulder.
Fellows stopped in the act of dropping his hat to a chair. Louisa was so serenely beautiful, her face flushed, her body limp against Daniel’s, her red curls across her cheek.
Fellows drew a sharp breath as he imagined her head on
Daniel touched her shoulder. “Louisa.”
Louisa frowned in her sleep, moved against his arm, then she opened her eyes. She stared in puzzlement at Fellows a moment, then she came fully awake, and sat up, pushing her hair from her face.
Fellows closed the door behind him. “You can’t be here.”
Daniel put his book aside and got to his feet. “A fine way to greet your family.”
Fellows finally set his hat on the chair, stripped off his gloves, and dropped them on top of the hat. “I meant Louisa. She can’t be seen anywhere near me until this investigation is closed.”
Louisa rose, still trying to press her hair back into place. Fellows wanted to tell her it looked much better mussed—he wanted to go to her and muss it some more.
“I am in the room with you, Chief Inspector,” she said. “You may tell me directly that you want me to go.”
Fellows fixed his gaze on her and her alone, and wished he hadn’t. “I want you to go.”
“Not yet,” Daniel said. “We didn’t come for a social call. We came to tell you something.”
Fellows still looked at Louisa. Her gown today was a brown broadcloth she’d covered with a jacket of burnt orange, autumn colors that went with her pale skin and red hair. She was a confection he wanted to eat.
It took a moment before Fellows realized Louisa was speaking to him, her eyes full of anger. “The Bishop of Hargate was blackmailing Mrs. Leigh-Waters. I told you he tried to blackmail me into marrying him, but I’ve learned that he also tried to blackmail Daniel.”
“I know,” Fellows said.
Louisa stopped, surprise pushing aside her anger. “You know? How?”
“Not about Daniel.” Fellows shot his nephew a look, which Daniel returned with a guileless one. “But I know about Mrs. Leigh-Waters.”
“This is interesting,” Daniel said. “Was Hargate blackmailing any others?”
“I’m not discussing the case with you, Daniel.”
“No?”
“No.” But Daniel was perceptive. Hargate’s book, once Fellows had deciphered his somewhat simplistic letter and number substitution code, showed he’d carried on an active round of blackmailing. A few of his victims, besides Mrs. Leigh-Waters, had been at the garden party. “The murderer doesn’t need to know in advance what line of inquiry I’m taking,” he said to Daniel.
“Of course not,” Louisa said, sounding reasonable. “We should let the chief inspector do his job, Danny.”
“Yes,” Fellows said dryly. “Please do.” He stepped aside and signaled with a wave of his hand that they should go.
