Lady O’Shea’s eyes widened, and her mouth dropped open. “Emmeline, do you not remember that letter?” She moved to her daughter and grasped her arm. “I do. I remember every word.” Her lips tightened, and she lowered her voice. Her profile was to him, but Oliver saw the sheen of tears gathering, and from Emmeline’s uncomfortable expression, he assumed it was a rarity. “I will enlist the help of Daniel Pickett, then, and Isla.”
Emmeline’s eyes closed briefly, and she whispered, “Mama, please, let us discuss this later.” She glanced around the room at the faces watching the drama continue. Constables Brinley and Tyler hovered behind Conley, quiet but riveted.
Conley cleared his throat. “Sir Ronald, with your permission, I should like to instruct my two constables to speak with your staff concerning one line in the message Miss Emmeline received, the one intimating that the sender is aware of your home’s interior.”
Sir Ronald frowned. “That is rubbish, surely.”
“Nevertheless, several people work here at the house throughout the course of a day and are frequently in and out?”
O’Shea nodded. “Yes, but surely—”
“Papa,” Lysette interrupted, “I believe the Chief-Inspector’s suggestion is sound. Families of our stature do bear the burden of multiple servants. Why, on any given day, there are several I’m sure I don’t know.”
“True enough, Lyssie. Very well, Chief-Inspector, your men may question the staff.”
“Barnesworth.” Lady O’Shea motioned to the butler, who stood at the doorway. “Show the constables to the kitchen and introduce them to Mrs. Stanway. She will direct them further.”
Brinley and Tyler awaited a nod from Conley, then followed the butler from the room.
Lysette looked at Emmeline. “The sender may be one of your associates. They are unseemly, and he could be one of hundreds. It really is beyond the pale of you, Emmeline, to carry on to the point that you endanger us all.”
Emmeline looked at her sister flatly. “To my knowledge, any threats sent to this house have been addressed to me, Lysette, so you needn’t worry about your own safety.”
Lysette’s eyes widened. “Emmeline, someone is aware of the layout of this house! How can you possibly be so selfish?” She turned to Conley and Oliver. “Surely you understand my perspective.” Her pretty blue eyes clouded, and Oliver felt a flash of irritation. He did not appreciate emotional manipulation.
He had seen enough. He looked at Conley with a nod and spoke for them. “Sir Ronald, Lady O’Shea, I would ask your permission for a word alone with your daughter.” He pointedly looked at Emmeline. “This one.”
Lady O’Shea swallowed and blinked at him. She finally nodded and released her death grip on Emmeline’s arm.
“Detective-Inspector Reed.” Lysette moved closer. “I hope you’ll not dismiss my earlier comments. My safety must also be considered. And Madeline’s.”
Oliver nodded amiably. “Of course, of course.” He clapped his hand on Conley’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you in the capable hands of my superior to discuss it while I have a word with your sister.”
Conley turned his head toward Oliver, and Oliver gave his shoulder a squeeze before releasing it with a friendly slap.
“Mr. Reed,” Emmeline said, picking up his cue, “perhaps you’ll join me in the library. We’ll leave the Chief-Inspector here to discuss the matter with the others. My itinerary in Scotland will be different from theirs, and we will seldom cross paths.” Without waiting to see if he followed her, she left the room.
Oliver, his back to the others, winked at Conley before following Emmeline across the hall into a richly appointed library with warm tones, leather-bound books, and furniture. Globes and maps covered the tables and walls, and sconces lit each corner. A fire blazed warmly in the hearth, and it was blissfully, peacefully quiet.
Emmeline took a deep breath and blew it out softly. She seemed to appreciate the peace, too, but she wasn’t still. She paced silently across the hearth, hands on her hips, for a long time without looking at him. She was dressed in a dark skirt and emerald-green corset that defined a trim torso. Long white sleeves came to a lacy point on the back of her hands, her fingers splayed across her waist.
Oliver studied her carefully, taking advantage of the unguarded moment. What he knew of Emmeline O’Shea stemmed from things he’d gleaned observing her in social settings, usually while she was marching for her cause, which was protecting and advocating for the rights of the shape-shifting population. She was a tireless champion for those unjustly persecuted—especially predatory shifters—and he didn’t fault her for that in the least. As a matter of point, he agreed with her. Where they differed was in approach. Tactics.
She disturbed the peace. She broke in, broke out, picketed, marched, yelled, chained herself to buildings, littered leaflets, and disrupted official meetings and gatherings. She was underfoot, in the way, either leading the charge or lending support.
His job was to maintain order. She disrupted it. She could whip a crowd into a well-meaning frenzy faster than anyone else, and he did not know how she did it.
The majority of his exchanges with her involved screaming, slapping, dragging, pulling, or shoving—actions mostly taken against him. Those pretty hands resting on her pretty hips usually came at him shaped like claws. This pensive woman who currently paced in the quiet room was not someone he’d met.
“I read your editorial piece in The Times last week.” He approached slowly, hands in pockets the way he would when trying to disarm a skittish felon.
She stopped moving and looked at him, eyes wary.
He almost smiled. “It was very good.”
She remained in one spot, still staring.
He took pity on her and returned them to familiar footing. “Will wonders never cease?” he murmured. “I have rendered Emmeline O’Shea speechless.”
She scowled at him. “Thank you for the compliment of my editorial. I wasn’t aware you approved of such ideas.”
“I wholeheartedly support equality and decency for one and all. We differ on how best to achieve it.”
She opened her mouth, then
