time that evening, Mary froze with a combination of panic and disbelief. But this time, it was much, much worse. This time, she had no hope at all of going unrecognized.
This time, the man was James Easton.
He hadn’t thought himself all that terrifying to look at. But judging from the little boy’s expression, he was the bogeyman himself. It was rather late to be paying calls, of course, but he couldn’t help that. He needed to build a picture of the dead man in his head. Was Wick the sort who’d flout safety precautions while in the belfry? Or was he a steady, cautious sort whose fall was inexplicable except by violence? Part of the answer lay here, in his home, and the Wick family would just have to believe that he wasn’t a tax-collector, bailiff, or worse.
“Well, lad?” When the child continued to gape up at him, James glanced past him into the house. And what he saw made him stare too.
Two women stood at the centre of the room, interrupted in deep conversation. One was pallid and emaciated – obviously the widow Wick, surrounded by her enormous brood. The sight of the other made his pulse kick hard, the blood rush to his head, his hands go weak.
Mary advanced towards him, a complicated expression in her eyes. “Mr Easton,” she said in a high, affected voice. “How very kind of you to call on the Wick family, too. You remember me, of course: Mrs Anthony Fordham, from St Andrew’s Church.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then swallowed. “Mrs Fordham.” His voice was rusty, but at least words were coming out. “What an unexpected surprise.” Belatedly, he managed a clumsy bow.
“Wholly unexpected,” she agreed emphatically, inclining her head. The long, dyed-blue feathers in her hat swayed each time she moved. “I’ve just been having a conversation with Mrs Wick – woman to woman, you know – but I shan’t detain her any longer. I’m sure you have business to transact.”
“Hardly business,” he protested. He wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. And he certainly disliked the voice she was using as Mrs Fordham. But she wasn’t attending. Instead, she turned back to the young widow and murmured a few rapid sentences. Mrs Wick nodded, apparently rather bowled over – by Mary? By the sudden stream of do-gooding callers? By life in general? – and bobbed a string of curtseys, nodding all the while.
The sitting room was narrow. On her way to the door, Mary passed so close that her wide skirts brushed his trouser leg and he caught the fragrance of her lemon soap. He inhaled gently, surreptitiously.
Mary bowed once again, a faint flicker of mischief in those hazel eyes. “Good evening, sir.”
“Allow me to help you to your carriage.”
Slight alarm flared in her eyes. “How kind of you, but it isn’t necessary.”
Alarm. He could deal with that. He rather liked that. “I insist.” He turned to Mrs Wick, who was watching with dazzled confusion. “If you could be so kind – two minutes’ indulgence…” James turned back to Mary and offered his arm, his eyes daring her to flee.
She looked as though she’d rather walk with the devil himself, but she placed her extreme fingertips on his right sleeve. He clamped them in place with his left hand, and her eyes widened. Still, she said nothing. The moment the door closed behind them, he expected her to wrench free.
Instead, she stopped demurely on the pavement. “Thank you, sir. This is my carriage just here.”
He pressed down on her gloved hand, wishing he could feel her skin. “What are you playing at, Mary?”
“I beg your pardon?” The voice was still Mrs Fordham’s, but there was a slight quiver at the end that he quite enjoyed.
“I think you’d better tell me what you’re up to.” He paused, looked into her eyes. “Both here and on site.”
Her eyes widened.
He grinned.
“I – I must be on my way.” She glanced quickly at her coachman, a young fellow who watched them with undisguised interest.
James scowled at him and he merely smirked in response. Insolent. “Well?”
“Did you follow me here?” The voice was all Mary, now – not Mark, not Mrs Fordham. He’d not realized how much he’d missed hearing it.
“Answer me first.”
She glanced towards the carriage again. “We haven’t time right now.”
“So out with it.”
With a sigh, she tried to pull her hand away.
He curled his fingers around hers and gripped hard – hard enough to hurt.
“Carter!”
The young coachman hopped