She rolled her eyes and folded her hands over her notebook, giving him her full regard. “Detective, I have a pleasant, young face and a healthy inheritance. I am an idealist but also a realist. Due to absolutely no effort of my own, I am a woman of privilege, and it would be irresponsible of me to ever forget it. As lovely as it would be to think I have achieved some measure of status due to my merits, I must be honest.”
“Why would you not allow it to be both?”
“Privilege and merit?”
“Certainly.”
She tipped her head, pensive. “Perhaps the privilege allows for quicker development of merit.” She paused, concerned she presented a false sense of humility. “I—”
She fumbled for the words, unsure she could define her emotions even to herself. Always, the emotions. “I have seen children lose mothers or fathers to either the Committee’s unholy zealotry or need to hide from the Committee’s unholy zealotry.” She paused again, frowning. “I do not understand why some people are dropped at fortune’s doorstep and others must fight daily, continually, for the opportunity to simply live. To be treated with fairness and decency. Or to be left alone, if desired.”
Her throat closed, and she cleared it. “To be teased or insulted for another’s entertainment is unpleasant enough. To be persecuted—hunted? That is unthinkable, and if others with the means and the time can speak on behalf of those marginalized . . . Well, then, they should do it.”
Silence filled the carriage, and she looked out the window, uncomfortable. “I do not mean to sound didactic. You will think I am preaching, no doubt. A bored young woman of means who champions a cause that has nothing to do with her.”
She heard his quiet inhale and exhale. “I am thinking I have no doubt as to the reasons for your appointment as the spokeswoman for the International SRO.”
She turned to look at him, unsure if she ought to brace for sarcasm or perhaps some sort of censure. She’d always expected it from him, even as she never understood how he maintained a brotherly friendship with a predatory shifter while simultaneously working to thwart her efforts.
“I’ve never heard Emmeline O’Shea speak to the crowd before the riot. I’ve not taken the opportunity, and I should have.”
The tension in her shoulders eased, but only slightly. “Would you have supported my work rather than stymied it?”
His lips twitched. “No.”
She frowned and thumped her hands on her notebook. “Whyever not? Lord Blackwell is your best friend.”
“As long as your work includes a decent into social mayhem, my work necessitates a return to order.” A ghost of a smile played on his lips, but his focus was direct, and she felt pinned to her seat. “You should not assume you are alone in your attempts to affect change. Many of us approach the same issue but from different vantage points. Different methods. One doesn’t necessarily negate the other, and probably all are necessary in their own way.”
She scrutinized him, wishing he would speak with less nuance and more detail. “Dare I hope you’ve committed legally questionable acts in the name of the greater good?”
“Even if I had, I would not admit such to you.”
She frowned. “That does not stand to reason. If ever there was a person who would appreciate such activity, it is I.”
“Be that as it may, I do not feel the need for a confidante.”
“Pity,” she grumbled, more to herself than him.
He gave her a sidelong glance, clearly amused. “The horror of my personal matters falling into your hands is quite enough to keep me awake at night.”
She huffed and turned back to her notebook. “As if sharing secrets with me would put them at risk of exposure. Quite the opposite, you should know.”
She sniffed, piqued. She wasn’t sure why—she’d never cared to know Detective-Inspector Reed’s secrets before. He was an intriguing puzzle, and the more time she spent with him, the more evident that became. She would never have guessed that he attempted in any way to affect societal change. In her mind, he’d been stuffy, unyielding, and entirely unsympathetic to any entity other than his precious law.
“I shall bear that in mind,” he said. There was humor in his voice, but when she glanced at him, he was as impassive and impossible to read as ever.
It shouldn’t matter one way or the other whether she could read him. They were not friends, and they could be considered colleagues only in the loosest of terms. No, understanding the inner workings of Oliver Reed’s mind was so low on the list of her priorities as to be nonexistent. She would tolerate his company for the next two weeks, and when their time together ended, she might not know him any better than she did now, an idea she was entirely comfortable with. Fine, in fact. Better than fine. They were oil and water, the two of them, naturally repelling each other. She was grateful for the professionalism he possessed because it would keep her safe, but such was the extent of their connection.
The carriage swayed and bumped lightly as they traveled to the Tea Room, and the length of Oliver’s leg brushed up against hers. She glanced down in irritation, her frown deepening when the detective made no move to shift away. What was it about the male species that they seemed to expect, as their due, the right to space? Acreage. Even the most proper of her male acquaintances, who sat with legs crossed and elbows in, seemed to occupy excess space around them with an extreme sense of entitlement.
She kept an irritated huff from escaping her lips but couldn’t stop the eye roll as she flipped absently through her notebook. Her attention was scattered, her focus far-flung and unlikely to return until she was no longer in such close confines
