Chapter Ten
February 25, 1818
Fanny listened with half an ear to the tour guide at the British Museum. The outing with Lord Wainwright had already been scheduled prior to her life-shattering meeting with William yesterday. As she and her group moved from exhibit to exhibit, she let her thoughts have free rein.
She hadn’t expected to prod the inspector into having it out with her, and in the Earl of Hadleigh’s home no less, but too much tension had brewed between them that had required an outlet. So, she’d screwed her courage to the sticking place and told him the truth of things, that he might like her more than he’d thought and that perhaps he was confused about it.
Of course, he’d argued, for he’d presented the face of a snarling, stinging storm, but those feelings had quickly flipped to desire, and when he’d kissed her, pulled her into that study, she’d been lost on a sea of foreign sensations she couldn’t wait to explore.
For the first time in her life, she’d been desired by a man—wanted by one—for no other reason than for herself. That had been heady stuff indeed, and she’d willfully given herself to him with the only gift of value she had. No, their coupling hadn’t been remotely romantic or heartfelt, but it had been exciting and scandalous and all-consuming. It had cleared her head and brought a new understanding of the inspector.
He was driven to succeed in all aspects of his life, wanted to stay relevant for reasons only he knew. But he also suffered from anger and anxiety. Impatience simmered with all those things just below his surface, ready to erupt, but why? What had he not made peace with his life? She assumed that after the family drama during the Christmastide house party he might have laid most of those demons to rest.
Perhaps I can help him with that.
Is that truly what she wanted to do? There was a certain danger there in poking the bear, so to speak. To say nothing of the fact she hadn’t chosen him over the viscount. Hot guilt circled through her insides at the truth. She’d lain with William, shared the most special of intimacies with him, yet she hadn’t done the same with Lord Wainwright, nor had she immediately told the viscount she wasn’t interested.
What did that say to her character?
She rather feared it presented her in a horrible light. What must William think of her? What did the viscount? For that matter, what did she think of herself?
Dutifully trudging to an exhibit she had no idea about, Fanny stared at the sculpture—or perhaps it was something dug from the ground?—and frowned. She needed to talk privately with William, not at a society event or at a crime scene, and have a personal, perhaps heart-felt chat to see if he could help her figure out what she should do next. He hadn’t offered an apology following what they’d done together and neither did she want one, but life being what it was, there was the very real chance she could find herself increasing from that act.
What would happen then? Would he offer for her out of obligation? Would she accept that and forever wonder if he’d have regrets in his life? Above all that, she desired to know about the man behind the Bow Street façade, the real man, the one who loved playing the violin. Did he have other hobbies? What was his favorite food? What made him joyful?
And perhaps more importantly, if she ultimately chose him over the viscount, would he and his demons bring heartache and chaos to her life? Could he take care of her financially and offer her stability? If any of those answers were in the negative, she would have no choice but to choose Lord Wainwright, for despite wanting to succeed as a journalist, her father’s mind was rapidly leaving him, and she did need to marry and settle, if only to make him happy.
Oh, why was life so difficult, especially in the aftermath of that wonderful interlude she’d shared with William, when she’d seen a small peek into the man he was as he’d allowed his mask to slip.
“Miss Bancroft?” The touch of Lord Wainwright’s gloved hand to her arm yanked her from the confusing thoughts.
“Hmm?” With a start, she glanced at him, a tad disoriented.
“You’ve been frowning at the statuary for the better part of ten minutes. The remainder of the tour group has moved on to the next piece.” Slight admonition lingered in his voice, and though he spoke in low tones, she couldn’t help but feel the censure. “Are you quite well? Shall I escort you home?”
What the devil was he talking about? She glanced from the still unidentified—to her—sculpture and back to his face. How much, exactly, of the tour had she missed? “Uh, I’m well enough. Thank you. Merely woolgathering. I don’t necessarily wish to return home, but I would like some fresh air.” It would give her the opportunity to be alone with him, and in deference to William and their working partnership—as well as her budding journalistic career—she’d attempt to ask the viscount a few questions without making her interest obvious.
“Very well. Shall we proceed to the front steps then?” He offered her his bent elbow.
“Yes. That’s just the thing.” When she slipped her hand through the crook of his arm, she docilely walked beside him, but his long-legged stride proved too strenuous for her to keep pace with. “Slow down, if you please.”
He barely tamped on a sigh before turning his head and glancing at her. “Perhaps you should have a surgeon look at your ankle. It’s possible they can break it again, they can reset it properly, thereby ridding you of the limp.”
“I can’t imagine that would be pleasant for either the surgeon or me, and there’s no guarantee it would work.” She narrowed her eyes and pressed her lips together for fear she’d say exactly what was on her mind and how much of a cad he was to mention her difficulty. “However, I did have a surgeon examine my ankle at Christmastide. He agreed that the bones didn’t knit back together as seamlessly as they should have all those years ago, but that there was nothing to be done now, especially if I wanted to keep the limited movement I do have.”
“Ah,” was all her companion said as he escorted her out the front door of Montague House where the museum was located.
A few couples milled about the wide sweep of the stone staircase that led to the doors. Fanny moved off to the side so she could feel the winter’s sunshine on her face. Lord Wainwright followed and stood nearby, his spine straight, his top hat tilted at an angle over his left eye that might be considered rakish on a different man.
Now was as good a time as any to begin her interview. “I find it so terribly sad about those dead women, murdered so cruelly.”
The viscount frowned. “What dead women?”
“You know, the ones Inspector Storme referred to the other night at the rout.” Obviously, she didn’t have much skill in questioning a potential suspect. “The ones that are assumed murdered.”
He grunted. “I heard there was another one found that same night,” he said in a non-committal voice, but he didn’t look directly at her.
“Oh, I didn’t know that.” Then some pieces of the puzzle surrounding William slid into place. No wonder he was in a foul mood yesterday. He already knew of the third murder, and that meant Lord Wainwright couldn’t be a suspect any longer, for the viscount had been at the rout with them during that same time. Ah, poor William. “But that makes the story even more tragic, doesn’t it?”