Hester grasped Emme’s hand. “Perhaps it wasn’t an accident. It might have been an attempt on your life!”
“It was an accident,” Emme told her evenly.
“You ought to have ridden with us after all,” Lysette said, studying a cuticle.
“Where is the detective now?” Hester clutched Emme’s fingers.
“Searching for nefarious perpetrators amongst the garters and ribbons.” Emme motioned to the store floor with her thumb.
“Shall I express our thanks for you, Mother? For saving Emmeline’s life?” Lysette asked.
“She doesn’t need you to speak for her,” Emme snapped.
“Girls, please, no quarreling.” Hester put her hand to her head and made her way to the door. “I’ll find the detective myself.” She left the room, Lysette close on her heels.
The seamstresses finished quickly and helped Emme out of the dress full of pins and needles and into a fresh dress; her breeches needed to be mended after the morning’s adventure. She was braiding her hair, thinking of how nice the detective had smelled when her nose had been pressed against his neck as he’d shielded her from danger—she frowned; finding him the least bit attractive was not part of her plan—when a knock sounded at the door.
A shopgirl stood there, with the detective himself hovering close behind.
“Miss O’Shea? The detective wonders if you are finished.” She glanced over her shoulder and then back to Emme.
“I can see that.” She nodded at Mr. Reed. “We must escape before my mother decides I need yet another dress. This fitting has thrown off my schedule.”
She looked around the store’s main level at the newest available fashions on display, matching accessories, glittering crystal chandeliers, and trays of small, sugared treats. The shop invoked feelings of warmth, and Emme had spent much of her life within its walls. It was only later as conflicts increased with Lysette that Emme’s relationship with the store had become complicated.
She waved to her mother, who was consulting with a customer. Hester held up a finger and mouthed, “One moment!”
Emme shook her head and mouthed back, “I’ll be home tonight.” She made a beeline for the door, gritting her teeth with a smile as she stood aside for an influx of customers. A few women greeted her by name, which she answered with a small wave on her way out the door.
She pulled out her pocket watch, prepared to give the detective instructions, when she felt Oliver’s light touch on her back.
“This way,” he said, gesturing to a horseless carriage cab waiting in the street. “We should be on time for lunch.”
She blinked. “Oh. Well, excellent.” Emme held tight control over the operational details of her life, and she couldn’t decide if she was irritated he had taken the proverbial reins or grateful for the help.
The driver moved to climb down from the front seat of the carriage, but Oliver waved him back. “I’ll see to it,” he told the man. He flipped down the steps for Emme and offered his hand.
She stood for a moment, her mouth quirked at the irony of how their situation had changed. “Look at how well we play nicely together!” She took his hand, realizing she’d forgotten to put on her gloves—not a rare occurrence—and noted he didn’t wear any either. His hand was lean and strong, and she suddenly felt warmer than the air warranted. She settled into the seat, refusing to blush. Emmeline O’Shea was not the blushing kind.
The detective sat next to her, rather than across, and rapped the ceiling to signal the driver. The conveyance pulled into traffic with a clink of gears and a hiss of steam.
“There would never be occasion for us to behave with anything other than perfect cordiality if one of us would remember the rule of law and behave accordingly.” He tilted his head with a bland expression.
“Ha ha. Perhaps the other one of us should endeavor to remember the first is doing nothing but exercising her rights to protest unjust governmental tyranny and buffoonery.”
His lips twitched. “Hmm. I suppose we must content ourselves with a friendly disagreement over the reality of the matter.”
“Yes, I suppose we must. Now, tell me, did you find anyone suspicious in the boutique? I was most relieved at the lack of assassins in the dressing rooms.”
He glanced at her and braced one arm along the back of the seat, his hand near her shoulder. He seemed casual enough, but she knew everything he did was calculated. His eyes took in the streets and the people outside the carriage even as they conversed, and the casual posture he affected allowed him a more natural view of the area through the side and back windows.
“I noted three assassins and dispatched them posthaste to Newgate. Realizing there is little that is more important than a woman being fitted for her wardrobe, I took extra care to be efficient and quick.” He tipped his head deferentially toward her.
“I do not know if I should be amused that you are willing to engage in silly wordplay or irritated that you would so roundly insult me and my entire gender.”
“You’ll forgive the assumption, but a man of modest means and little exposure to polite society must rely on conjecture and limited observation.”
She scoffed. “Detective-Inspector Reed, you see the entire world at a glance, and nothing escapes your notice. You do not rely on conjecture or limited observation to form an opinion.”
He was quiet for a moment, and she wondered what he was thinking, as his face gave nothing away.
A shout near some shops caught his attention, and her heart thumped despite her resolve to pretend she hadn’t a death threat looming over her head. He took it in as he did everything else—with a few seconds of analysis, a barely discernable twitch of tension in his muscles, and then relaxation as the shout proved to be nothing more than a friendly argument. He turned his head and studied her with that same analytical expression.
“Emmeline, I owe you
