He moistened his lips. “No, about the dimples in your cheeks when you smile, about the way your voice drops an octave when you’re aroused.” The way his name fell from her lips with she came. “The list of your charming qualities is endless.”
“Oh.” Her brows knitted together. “And what did you conclude?”
“That you have me bewitched.” He was besotted.
She shifted nervously. “Perhaps I shall see if Madame Vestris is looking for another witch for her parody of Macbeth.”
“I’m not joking.” He stepped close enough to rest his hand on her waist. “It killed me to leave you last night.”
She held his gaze. “It killed me to let you go.”
“Then we should deal with the solicitor promptly and spend the rest of the day in bed.” He bent his head to avoid attracting a passerby’s attention. “I’ve never known desire like this.”
He was acting like a lovesick fool, lingering in the shadows just to glimpse his enchantress. Looking for any excuse to touch her.
“We must visit Mr Daventry, and I hoped to check on Emily and ask her more questions. I would also like to ask Miss Franklin how she knew I’d tumbled down the stairs.”
Don’t you want me? he wanted to say.
She was being logical while he could think of nothing but her soft thighs and porcelain skin, how everything felt right when he was buried inside her. Equally, he didn’t want her to worry and bringing her the peace she deserved was just as important.
“Then I shall work tirelessly to help you achieve your goals.”
“We could speak to Miss Franklin now,” she said, her eyes flicking to the silversmith shop and the woman at the window. “But we’ll never get away. I cannot help but pity her. It’s why I permit her to idle away hours in my shop.”
“I suspect she’ll be at the window when we return. We can ask then.”
Miss Franklin seemed the pious sort who would wash out her mouth with bar soap if she uttered an untruth. She was keen to foster a relationship between Eleanor and her brother, so why push her down the stairs?
The journey to the solicitor’s office on Fetter Lane took less than ten minutes by carriage. Thatcher’s & Sons occupied a four-storey terrace house next to the grocers. The smooth stucco exterior had recently been painted.
“Will you take the lead?” he asked.
“Me? Professional men rarely take women seriously.”
Theo reached into his pocket and retrieved the Home Secretary’s letter. “This will force them to take notice. I’ll intervene if necessary.”
The gesture earned him a sweet smile. “Perhaps if I prove my worth, Mr Daventry will employ me as an enquiry agent.”
A chill ran down Theo’s spine. “One of his female agents was shot at the observatory some years ago. I’d never sleep a wink if I knew you were tackling murderers and spies.”
She looked at him strangely. “My welfare never concerned you before.”
“Everything is different now.”
“Because we’re friends and lovers,” she jested.
“Because I care what happens to you.” Because he realised as he watched her sleep last night that she owned a piece of him. “You’re important to me, Eleanor.”
Eleanor’s hand fluttered to her chest. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. I care about you, Theo. I always have.”
They stared at each other, the world around them fading away.
But then a burly fellow stormed out of the solicitor’s office, complaining about the extortionate fees. “It’s criminal, that’s what it is.” Spittle flew from his mouth. “I’m the one owed money, yet I have to pay through the nose just to send a letter.”
He stormed off, waving his fists and cursing the law.
Eleanor straightened when Theo held the door open. “I’d have a few sovereigns ready,” she said. “I suspect information comes at a price.”
The clerk, a young fellow whose trousers were too short, brushed a greasy lock of hair off his brow and came to greet them.
Eleanor spoke before the clerk opened his mouth. “We have a meeting with Mr Thatcher. Don’t bother checking your diary. We’re here on official business.” She presented the letter. “If Mr Thatcher fails to grant us an audience, he will be required to answer our questions at Bow Street.”
Theo watched with glowing admiration. She would make an excellent enquiry agent, but he couldn’t bear the thought of her chasing criminals at night.
The clerk stuttered and eventually said, “Wait here. I’ll fetch Mr Crump. He’s in charge while Mr Thatcher is in Brighton on business.”
Crump, an elderly man thin enough to slip through gaps in the paving, came hobbling out of his office using a walking cane for support. He observed them and frowned. “Mason said there were men from Bow Street.”
Eleanor smiled. “We’re investigators acting on behalf of Lord Melbourne, the Home Secretary. He asked—”
“I know who Melbourne is, but I haven’t the faintest clue why it should concern me. Show me the letter.”
Theo presented the document, grateful it was vague. “As you can see, that is Melbourne’s official seal. You’re required to answer questions about a matter of national security. We’re investigating the possibility that a French spy is operating in London.”
Crump’s bottom lip quivered. “A French spy? Surely you can’t think anyone working here is involved.”
“May we discuss the matter in your office,” Eleanor said. “I’m sure you understand this is a sensitive subject.”
