Sam’s eyebrow shot up, and Hazel squinted, first at him, then Emme.
“Miss O’Shea,” Oliver said and gestured to the carriage, where a footman held open the door.
Emme planted a quick kiss on Hazel’s cheek. “I am well. I promise.” She turned and accepted the driver’s hand, climbing into the carriage.
Oliver followed closely on her heels, suspicious she might give the driver instructions to leave him behind. With a quick wave to their friends, who were still frozen in place, Oliver settled into the seat across from Emme.
Emme blew a kiss to Hazel through the window, giving her a quick smile as the carriage pulled away from the curb. The smile slowly faded as the carriage moved down the street, and Emme settled back, resting her head against the seat.
She closed her eyes and said, “It may have been only an accident. A novice driver, perhaps.”
“Perhaps.” He felt the opposite to be true, and he suspected she did, also. He reached into his pocket and retrieved his own unsoiled handkerchief and handed it across to her. “You’ve a smudge of dirt, just there.” He motioned to her jawline.
“Oh,” she said, and taking it from him, rubbed her face, somehow managing to wipe every part of her skin except the dirty segment. “Thank you. Wouldn’t do to arrive at the boutique looking as though I’ve been playing games at the park.”
He frowned and gestured impatiently to the handkerchief, which she returned with a smirk.
“I wasn’t going to keep it, Detective.”
He scoffed and shook his head, moving toward her with a beckoning motion. “You’ve missed the spot entirely.”
She scooted forward warily, turning her head as he took her chin in one hand and wiped at the dirt with the cloth.
What had begun perfunctorily enough merged into a moment altogether more intimate. He’d never had occasion to gently hold her face, and he was disconcerted to note the softness of her skin beneath his fingertips. She swallowed, and the subtle movement of her throat drew his attention to the lines of her neck and the evidence of a rapid pulse just beneath her skin.
He cleared his throat and pulled back slightly, dismayed to see the stubborn dirt clinging to her face. “Doesn’t want to come clean,” he murmured, for the first time feeling awkward in her presence.
The corner of her mouth turned up. “Please do not spit on the cloth. It will bring to mind my mother’s relentless scrubbing and scolding when I played as a child.”
“There,” he said, relieved to have most of the spot cleared, and pocketed the cloth. “Unfortunately, the rest seems to be a small bruise.” He settled back into his seat and considered flipping through his notebook to give his hands something to do.
“Thank you.” She nodded once, completely composed, and had he not seen the evidence of her rapidly beating heart, he’d have believed she was unaffected by the awkward moment. Of course, she might still be feeling the aftereffects of nearly being run down by a carriage.
“You’ll want to glance in a mirror.” He gestured to her cheek. “To be sure the spot is gone.”
“No, I mean, thank you, Detective, for saving my life. Accident or no, I might be in very different circumstances right now if not for your quick action.” A light flush stained her cheeks, and she looked down at her hands.
“You’re welcome.” He smiled in spite of himself when her right knee began bouncing. It was her tell. Agitation, nervousness, discomfort—that bounce signaled her state of mind while seated. He’d have to observe her while standing; she was rarely still, so he had no notion of her idiosyncrasies then. Of course, it could be that her constant movement was another tell.
She was complicated—most people were—and he rarely made the mistake of analyzing a person in only one dimension. Defining Emmeline O’Shea as “a nuisance” had been tidy and convenient for him but would no longer suffice. If he were to truly keep her safe, he figured he’d better start digging.
Emme forced herself to be still. She stood on a stool in one of Castles’ Boutique’s three plush fitting rooms as two seamstresses pinned her dress. It was the eighth dress her mother insisted she’d needed, and with an inwardly resigned sigh, she mentally readjusted the size of traveling trunk she’d need.
A quick knock sounded before the door opened a crack to reveal Hester and Lysette, who slipped into the room and took stock of the progress, both examining Emme with hands on hips.
“Lovely,” Hester announced with a satisfied nod. “The ice-blue is perfect, just as I knew it would be.” She smiled at Emme. “You’ll wear this when you address the international representatives the last night of the Summit.”
Emme’s heart thumped at the pride in Hester’s expression. She smiled, absurdly wishing she and her mother could spend the day together alone, just the two of them.
“Have you been falling out of trees again, Emmeline? You’ve an enormous bruise on your shoulder blade and elbow!” Lysette’s voice carried from behind and grew as the young woman circled around Emme to stand beside Hester.
Hester frowned and moved around Emme. “Oh, Emmeline!”
Lysette’s mouth ticked up slightly. It was inevitable. Lysette smelled blood and circled like a shark.
Emme gritted her teeth. “A minor skirmish with a runaway carriage, Mother. It was not intentional, I assure you.”
There was a beat of silence, and then Hester appeared in front of Emme. Even the seamstresses pinning the dress paused as though fearful of her reaction. “Runaway carriage?”
“Yes. An accident, nothing more.”
Hester pursed her lips, spots of color appearing high on her cheeks. “I’ll speak to Detective-Inspector Reed. Why was he not protecting you?”
“He was. His quick thinking is the reason I was spared.” Emme flicked a glance at Lysette, exasperated when her stepsister arched a brow and lifted one corner of her mouth. Why? Why did Lysette find it necessary to
