“Why do you have my photo in your bedchamber?” Louisa asked.
Fellows started, pushing his fantasies aside. Louisa looked at him expressionlessly, without anger, or disgust, scorn, or any other emotion he’d expect her to have. He kept a picture of her without her knowledge, and she only asked him about it in a calm voice. How she’d discovered he had it, Fellows hadn’t the slightest doubt.
“I will throttle Daniel Mackenzie,” he said.
“You have three photographs on your dresser,” Louisa said slowly. “One of your mother, one of yourself in your police uniform. Natural enough. And you have me.”
Any lie would sound ridiculous. There was no reason in the world Fellows should have her photograph, except one.
“I don’t often see you,” he said. “I have the photo so I can look at you in the stretches of time between.”
She regarded him in silence a moment, as though considering his answer. “Did Eleanor give it to you?”
“She did.”
“Did you ask her for it?”
“No,” Fellows said. “But when she offered it, I didn’t refuse.”
Louisa swallowed, the movement faint in her slender throat. “I, on the other hand, have no photograph of you.”
“I don’t often have one taken. Haven’t in years.”
“Eleanor would do it,” Louisa said.
“No doubt.”
Another pause. Shakespeare would have had trouble writing this play. His characters talked and talked, spilling out streams of poesy. So many words, when silence spoke volumes.
“That photograph of me was taken a year ago,” Louisa said. “Just after Eleanor and Hart’s wedding.”
“I believe so, yes.”
“You’ve had it all this time.” Louisa lost her frozen stance and stepped forward. “You’ve had it all this time, and you’ve not said a word. You haven’t said anything.”
“Would it have done any good?”
“I think it would have done the world of good.” Louisa’s voice increased in volume. “But how could I know? How can I know anything of what you’re thinking? You hide so much.”
Fellows came out of his rigidity. “I don’t have much of a chance to speak to you, do I? Every time I see you, you’re at a party of some kind, surrounded by friends, laughing with them. You’re where you belong. You’re part of their world, with people you understand, and I am not.”
“What are you talking about?” She glared at him. “You are in that world now. You’re part of the Mackenzie family. They’ve welcomed you with open arms.”
“They have, yes.” His tone went ironic. “They’ve been adamant to erase the part of my life when I lived in penury. Their remorse is touching. The only one not wallowing in guilt is Ian, because I don’t think he understands the meaning of the word.”
Louisa flushed. “Do you think I’m wallowing in guilt?”
“You feel sorry for me, Louisa. You’ve told me.”
Her face reddened further. “You think I’ve kissed you out of pity?”
“You might believe otherwise, but yes.”
“Is that what you truly think? That I’d be so . . . patronizing?”
“Aren’t you?” Fellows knew he made her angry, but maybe if she grew furious enough she’d go, and stay away from him. “You told me once that I looked as though I needed cheering up. Poor Inspector Fellows—like a beggar standing outside the window, gazing at a feast he’s not allowed to have.” He’d felt that way often enough as a lad, especially the day he’d watched the boy Hart climb back into the sumptuous Mackenzie carriage and ride away with their father. Fellows had been left behind, outraged and bereft, and dragged off to a police station. That was the day he’d decided to become a policeman.
Louisa’s eyes were starry with anger. “How can you say that? How can you know anything about my feelings for you? You’ve never bothered to ask me!”
“I don’t remember you bothering to ask me before you coaxed me onto a ladder with you, or dragged me under the mistletoe.”
Louisa moved to him, halting close enough to him that he could breathe in her scent. Dangerous. “I don’t recall you pushing me away,” she said.
Was she mad? “Dear God, what sane man would? There you were, beautiful and wanting to kiss me. Last night you wrapped your arms around me and pulled me down to my desk with you. Only a saint would push you away, and I assure you, I am no saint.”
Louisa took a breath, pulling her voice down from a shout. “Why are you trying to make me angry? You are being deliberately cruel. Why?”
“Because you can’t be here. I said that when I came in. We can’t be together, Louisa. No declarations, nothing.” Fellows tried to speak steadily. “If anyone discovers me even talking to you, the investigation will be compromised. I’ll be pulled from the case and a detective assigned to it who cares nothing for truth, only for arrests and convictions.”
She looked puzzled. “But I’m not the only suspect now. Hargate was a blackmailer, with many other victims. You said you had ideas.”
“And by your own admission, Hargate was blackmailing you. You still had a motive, still are a very good suspect. So until this investigation is over, we don’t see each other, we don’t speak. If I have anything more to ask you regarding Hargate, I’ll send Sergeant Pierce to you. Do you understand?”
“Well enough.” Another of the small silences fell. “What about when the investigation is over?”
“I don’t know.” Fellows drew a breath. “There is still . . . I don’t know.”
“And yet, you have my photograph.”
They looked at each other a long moment. Everything spoken and unspoken hovered between them, waiting to be shattered.
Then Fellows moved around and past her, making himself give her a wide berth. He strode to the bedchamber, slammed inside it, grabbed the small photo from the dresser, and slammed out again.
He thrust the photograph at her. “Take it.”
Louisa didn’t reach for it. “Why? It’s yours.”
“Take it.” Fellows grabbed her wrist, pulled her gloved hand to him, and slapped the framed photo into it. “Give it back to Eleanor, keep it for yourself, give it to Mr. Franklin. I don’t give a damn.”
“You’re horrible.”