“Wait here,” Emme said under her breath to Oliver, then dashed inside. She returned moments later with a light pelisse draped over one arm. Dover stood at the carriage, ready to assist Emme, but she waved him off. “Settle yourself at the controls, Dover. The detective can assist me.”
Oliver approached slowly, amused in spite of himself, and watched for his cues. He would wager his pension that he and Emmeline were not getting inside the carriage.
Emme made a show of putting her foot on the bottom step and then paused, looking behind the carriage at the empty street. “Oh, Detective-Inspector, I believe I see Isla’s carriage approaching. I must wait just a moment to be sure. Ladies, I’ll see you at the shop; I’ll ride with my cousin.”
Lysette responded, but her words were lost as Emme flipped up the steps, slammed the door shut, and pointed Dover forward.
The servant tipped his hat to her with a wink and set the carriage in motion. The carriage wobbled as someone moved erratically from inside, and Lysette opened a window. Her hand could be seen, and she yelled, “No! Detective, wait!”
Emme watched the vehicle disappear down the street before turning to Oliver with a sigh. “One irritant vanquished. For the moment.”
“Will the driver stop?”
“No. We have an understanding.”
“Might I assume Lysette doesn’t usually ask to accompany you around town?”
“You might, and you would be correct. She wants to weasel information from me or from you, or perhaps she seeks your company. Unfortunately for her, she doesn’t know the things I do.”
“Oh?” He put his hands in his pockets, affecting a casual stance even as his eyes flicked up and down the street, registering two nannies strolling with perambulators, four gardeners tending to roses in front gardens, and a delivery man circling around the house across the way with a wire crate of milk bottles. “What do you know that your sister doesn’t?” He had to admit curiosity. For all that he’d studied Emmeline O’Shea’s movements and general habits, knew of her deeply held convictions, there were aspects of the woman he suspected nobody knew.
“I know you play your cards close to your vest. After last night, you’ll have recognized her as one who manipulates, and so you’ll keep information from her—even the inconsequential—if only to prevent potential drama.” She looked up at him.
He tilted his head. “Astute. Guesswork, though? This charade over the carriage just now was of no import, but you gambled I would follow your lead. Our past interactions would have given you no indication I might.”
Her lips twitched. “Because our past interactions show a decided example of your desire for complete control over everything?”
He lifted a shoulder, and the corner of his mouth turned up, catching him by surprise. He was not one who smiled often.
She shrugged. “As much as you assume you have learned of me in the past few years, I have learned the same of you. Words cannot express the level of disappointment I would experience if a person of your integrity and intellect fell victim to my stepsister’s machinations.”
She paused. “She is mean, Detective. Cruel. If you were to fall under the spell she weaves, as so many unsuspecting men do, I would lose hope for your gender entirely.” She looked at him and then away, and he was surprised to see a light flush on her cheeks. She’d undoubtedly given him much more than she’d intended. “Wait here. I’ll instruct Barnesworth to have another carriage brought ’round.”
Oliver watched as she went back to the door and poked her head inside. She gave instructions to the butler as she shrugged into her pelisse, her movements precise and efficient. She was physically strong and quicker than he’d ever imagined possible, especially the first time he’d been forced to give chase. She’d been caught spying on a PSRC meeting from the grounds outside the building. He’d torn his trousers climbing over a gate she’d vaulted with seemingly little effort, and watched her vanish into the trees. That had been two years ago and had marked the beginning of a steep uptick in his attendance at Gentleman Maxwell’s Gymnasium.
She rejoined him at the curb and pulled a notebook and pen from a reticule hanging from her wrist. “Today’s itinerary, as you’ve requested. First, Castles’ Boutique for a torture session I hope will last less than one hour. I trust you will clear the storage rooms of any potential assassins.”
He withdrew his own notebook, glad they were finally getting to the business of her schedule. He shot her a flat look at her reference to the murder. “Continue.”
“I plan to dine with Isla and Daniel Pickett for an early luncheon at the Tea Room. Fortuitous for you, is it not?”
“Indeed. Odd that our social circles seem to overlap.”
She looked up at him, finger poised on her notebook. “Of course they overlap. My blood is not blue but for my mother’s marriage, Detective, and while you enjoy a reputation of certain renown, it is not from birthright either but from impressive military service.” She paused, her gaze turning speculative. “Which you left.”
“True enough.”
“Could have climbed through the ranks, they say.” She tapped her pen against her lip and narrowed her eyes. “Already well on your way . . .”
He nodded at her notebook. “Next item on the schedule.”
She regarded him for another long moment through narrowed eyes but finally turned back to her schedule. His military service and reasons for leaving were nothing he cared to discuss with anyone.
“Yesterday descended into mayhem, what with the Bad Letter and all, so I was forced to reschedule a meeting with the International Shifter Rights Organization president. Thankfully, he was willing to accommodate me. He hasn’t much time but is available today for twenty minutes at three o’clock.”
Oliver nodded. “Giuseppe Giancarlo?”
“Yes. His London
