leaving it to dry a fine trail against her pale skin. “Fine,” she said, taking a shuddering breath. She stood taller, straightening to her full height before tucking his handkerchief in her reticule and sliding on her gloves with a resolute gesture. “I’m grateful for the aid you offer my brother. I only hope these ridiculous charges can be put behind us as soon as possible. Robert will be mortified to have been caught up in this faradiddle and eager to prove his innocence.”
Chapter Three
The ride to Bow-Street was conducted in near silence. All too soon, they reached the police station, an imposing stone building opposite the Covent Garden Theatre. The theatre was shuttered in the early afternoon—it would not open its doors until the supper hour—but the nearby pubs were crowded. A surprising number of men and women weaved boskily around the cobbled verges, and a vendor hawked eel-pies from a handcart nearby.
Securing his carriage, Thomas held out his hand and assisted her down from the high-set box.
“Thank you,” she said, distracted from her worries momentarily by the sensation of being lifted from the carriage by his strong hands. They spanned her waist easily, and she closed her eyes against the pleasure of his touch. But even through her lashes, she could distinguish his nearness and felt the tug of attraction he always seemed to exert on her senses. She opened her eyes and before she could help herself, she smiled. There was no occasion for it. Her brother had been arrested and their lives in turmoil, but it didn’t seem to dissuade the part of her mind that adored his proximity.
Thankfully, Thomas didn’t return her smile. His sculpted mouth remained even and his eyes distant, taking in a point above her head. He instead released her before stepping respectfully away. Reminding herself once again that such behaviour was to be encouraged, not regretted, she steeled herself and took his arm. But she couldn’t help but wish that just once, he might smile at her. Her heart thudded at the notion.
He led her inside.
The Bow Street police station was not what she had expected. Inside, crowds of people—prosperous and paupers, old and young, men and women—stood, awaiting their turn. The police wore no livery, and excepting their positions on the far side of the counters and desks, were indistinguishable from the criminals and petitioners who seemed to circulate in equal numbers throughout the large room. The walls were unadorned except for a plain clock and a rather grotesque bust of what Hester supposed to be Sir John Fielding, the blind founder of the notorious force, his homely likeness displayed with place of pride above the unlit stone fireplace.
Wide green shades covered the windows, no doubt in an attempt to keep out both the heat and the flies, but they had the unfortunate side effect of casting all within in a peculiar hue that hinted strongly at universal indisposition. Across the middle of the room, a waist-high railing divided the petitioners from the force and served to limit the size of the gathered crowds. A raised platform stood on the far right, overlooking a collection of desks and harried clerks while on the other side, a high counter was nearly invisible, such was the crush of men and women surrounding it.
“Let us begin by making enquiries of the clerk,” Thomas suggested, and she was suddenly profoundly grateful both for the strength of his arm beneath hers and for the safety of his tall, strong form beside her. He led the way to the counter, threading through the stifling groups of people, then waited until the officer had finished dealing with the aggrieved complaint of a querulous old man, whose rambling account of his dealings with a pickpocket were not quickly dealt with.
At last though, the policeman turned and straightened.
“Ma’am. Sir. Welcome to the Bow Street station,” he said politely, his pen poised above his account book. “And what is the nature of
Chapter Three
The ride to Bow-Street was conducted in near silence. All too soon, they reached the police station, an imposing stone building opposite the Covent Garden Theatre. The theatre was shuttered in the early afternoon—it would not open its doors until the supper hour—but the nearby pubs were crowded. A surprising number of men and women weaved boskily around the cobbled verges, and a vendor hawked eel-pies from a handcart nearby.
Securing his carriage, Thomas held out his hand and assisted her down from the high-set box.
“Thank you,” she said, distracted from her worries momentarily by the sensation of being lifted from the carriage by his strong hands. They spanned her waist easily, and she closed her eyes against the pleasure of his touch. But even through her lashes, she could distinguish his nearness and felt the tug of attraction he always seemed to exert on her senses. She opened her eyes and before she could help herself, she smiled. There was no occasion for it. Her brother had been arrested and their lives in turmoil, but it didn’t seem to dissuade the part of her mind that adored his proximity.
Thankfully, Thomas didn’t return her smile. His sculpted mouth remained even and his eyes distant, taking in a point above her head. He instead released her before stepping respectfully away. Reminding herself once again that such behaviour was to be encouraged, not regretted, she steeled herself and took his arm. But she couldn’t help but wish that just once, he might smile at her. Her heart thudded at the notion.
He led her inside.
The Bow Street police station was not what she had expected. Inside, crowds of people—prosperous and paupers, old and young, men and women—stood, awaiting their turn. The police wore no livery, and excepting their positions on the far side of the counters and desks, were indistinguishable from the criminals and petitioners who seemed to circulate in equal numbers throughout the large room. The walls were unadorned except for a plain clock and a rather grotesque bust of what Hester supposed to be Sir John Fielding, the blind founder of the notorious force, his homely likeness displayed with place of pride above the unlit stone fireplace.
Wide green shades covered the windows, no doubt in an attempt to keep out both the heat and the flies, but they had the unfortunate side effect of casting all within in a peculiar hue that hinted strongly at universal indisposition. Across the middle of the room, a waist-high railing divided the petitioners from the force and served to limit the size of the gathered crowds. A raised platform stood on the far right, overlooking a collection of desks and harried clerks while on the other side, a high counter was nearly invisible, such was the crush of men and women surrounding it.
“Let us begin by making enquiries of the clerk,” Thomas suggested, and she was suddenly profoundly grateful both for the strength of his arm beneath hers and for the safety of his tall, strong form beside her. He led the way to the counter, threading through the stifling groups of people, then waited until the officer had finished dealing with the aggrieved complaint of a querulous old man, whose rambling account of his dealings with a pickpocket were not quickly dealt with.
At last though, the policeman turned and straightened.
“Ma’am. Sir. Welcome to the Bow Street station,” he said politely, his pen poised above his account book. “And what is the nature of
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