“Surely not every pair. You walked here today.”
“Every pair.” Eva stood. She placed her gloves and notebook near the inkstand before rounding the desk and raising her hem a fraction. “See. These tatty old boots belong to my maid. The poor girl is going about her duties wearing my mother’s best dancing slippers.”
The gentleman considered the scuffed boots before his gaze climbed slowly over the entire length of her body. “May I ask why the thief failed to take the dancing slippers?”
“They were hidden in a hatbox along with other personal mementoes.”
“I see.” He gestured to the chair. “You may lower your skirts and sit, Miss Dunn, before I make further study of your trim ankles.”
Oh, the man was a terrible tease.
Eva dropped her skirts and brushed the material to hide her mild embarrassment. “But that is not all,” she said, returning to her seat.
“No, I don’t imagine it is. Though I wonder why you’re here when your profession suggests you have the tools necessary to solve complicated mysteries.”
Eva had spent a sleepless night making notes, looking for connections, rummaging through her brother’s possessions to find clues. But she had struggled to remain objective and had other reasons for seeking professional help.
“Because emotions cloud one’s judgement. I find the situation overwhelming.” And due to her brother’s wicked ways, she had no friends she could trust. “I need guidance. I need someone to take my hand and steer me through the fog.” Eva glanced at Mr Ashwood’s strong hands resting on the desk. A woman would never feel afraid when held in his firm grip. “I speak metaphorically, of course.”
“Of course.”
Silence descended, yet an invisible energy thrummed in the air—a palpable attraction she could not suppress.
“I am also a victim of snowing,” she said.
“Snowing? Someone stole garments from your washing line?”
“Indeed. Kathleen, my maid, often hangs out my petticoats first thing in the morning. This morning, someone stole them. But that is not all. My cobbler was found bludgeoned to death, and my publisher is trying to force me into a romantic affair.” Eva’s shoulders sagged with relief as she caught her breath. She should have kept the last comment to herself but needed to confide in someone. “So you see, Mr Ashwood, why I would be confounded by it all.”
The gentleman remained silent for what seemed like an hour.
“Sir, perhaps I should take up your quill and list the events in chronological order. That way, you will have all the information to hand, and nothing will be missed.”
“There is no need, Miss Dunn.” Mr Ashwood pushed to his feet. He moved to the window and stared at the bustling street. “Your godfather died last year. Your reprobate brother has been missing for a week. Your cobbler was bludgeoned to death five days ago—”
“Five days ago? I don’t recall mentioning when—”
“I keep abreast of all serious crimes committed in the city.”
“I see.”
Perhaps she had made the right choice after all. If she could just get past this inconvenient attraction, together they might solve her problems in a matter of days.
“I suspect you received the blackmail note yesterday, forcing you to visit your publisher at night,” he continued in a serious tone. “While you were warding off Mr Hemming’s amorous advances, someone broke into your house and stole your shoes. A thief attacked you and stole your boots as you walked home.” He turned to face her. “Oh, and someone took your undergarments from the washing line this morning. Have I missed anything?”
“No, sir.” Dear Lord. He was so thorough she couldn’t help but admire him all the more. “That is exactly as it happened.”
If he agreed to take the case, there were many more facts to consider. From the glint of intrigue in his eyes, Eva was convinced he would.
Mr Ashwood folded his muscular arms across his chest and glared. “What the devil possessed you to walk the streets alone at night?” His voice was tight with disapproval, and he sounded more concerned than Howard ever had. “You had ten pounds on your person. For a woman with a logical mind, do you not think it a foolish thing to do, Miss Dunn?”
Eva was torn between telling the man to mind his own business—but she had made it his business—and letting the anxiety of the last few months show.
“I am in dire straits, sir.” Eva shot out of the chair. “Writing provides my only source of income. To put food on the table, I must endure my publisher’s wandering hands and salacious comments. Yes, I should have visited during the day, or taken a hackney, but desperation makes the most logical behave recklessly.”
The gentleman had the decency to incline his head in acknowledgement of her plight. “And I presume those willing to publish the work of a woman are few and far between.”
“Indeed,” she said, relieved he understood.