The Body at the Tower - By Y. S. Lee Page 0,55

eyes, in that look of startled recognition, he’d seen something else. Someone else. Not Mrs Fordham, necessarily; it needn’t be that specific. But Reid had seemed to look at her anew just then, and she was worried what that might mean.

Eighteen

Palace yard, Westminster

“Where d’you think you’re going?”

It was astonishing, the effect James had on her heartbeat. “Er – home?” A quick glance about showed they were nearly the last people on site.

“Wrong. You’re dining with me.”

“Like this?” She looked down at her dusty clothes, mud-caked shoes, grimy hands.

“Well, you could come home with me and have a bath first.” There was a distinct leer in his voice.

She blushed from toes to hairline. “Your brother would have fits.”

“He would,” he conceded. “I suppose, then, we’d best go elsewhere.”

“Where?”

“Don’t look so alarmed,” he grinned. “I was thinking of my office.”

“But your brother—”

“Won’t be there; he keeps gentleman’s hours. And even if he were, he’d not look twice at a scruffy little boy.”

This was the opportunity she’d been wishing for … so why was she hesitating now?

“This is hardly the time to come over all ladylike…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped, her feet beginning to move of their own volition. “What’s for dinner?”

He grinned with satisfaction. “No idea. But it’ll be good.”

It was an absurdly short distance from Palace Yard to the offices of Easton Engineering in Great George Street – a matter of perhaps three hundred yards. And one of the freedoms of being Mark was that she could stroll quietly beside James through the sticky streets, dusty and weary at the end of a day’s work, without attracting a single questioning glance. As he’d promised, the offices were deserted but for a pair of clerks preparing to leave. James nodded to them casually. They returned the greeting, clearly accustomed to his irregular hours. Neither did more than glance at her.

Once they were in his private office, James pulled out a chair for her and she sat, amused. The first time she’d visited him here, he’d been rather hostile. But then, so had she.

“Dinner won’t take long,” he said. “It comes from a pub round the corner.”

“D’you always dine in the office?”

He shrugged. “I like to work late.”

She looked around the room. It was tidy, extremely so. Quite unlike the last time she’d seen it. “What are you working on right now, apart from the safety review?”

“Oh – I’m just sorting through old papers, getting ready for the next job.” Was that a blush? “Makes a change, having time to do that sort of thing.”

So he was underemployed. She wondered if it was because of his health or whether the firm itself was short of contracts.

“So – ”

“I suppose – ”

They’d spoken simultaneously.

“Sorry – you were saying?”

“Please – carry on.”

Their words collided again and he grinned. “Ladies first.”

“Even one such as I?”

“The most interesting sort there is.”

She couldn’t hold back a smile. “You’ve learned the art of fine-sounding nonsense since we last met.”

“Oh, I always had it.”

Moments ticked past. The smile lingered on her lips, in his eyes. It seemed enough – more than enough – simply to sit, saying nothing.

Eventually, though, he leaned forward. “Mary.”

“Yes?” Weary as she was, she hadn’t felt this awake for days. Weeks. Months.

“Are you…” He hesitated, trying to frame the sentence just right.

A double-knock on the office door made them both jump.

“Come in,” said James, sitting back hastily.

“’Evening, sir.” A young, coppery-haired barmaid entered carrying two trays, one stacked on the other. She advanced confidently and set the trays on the desk. “When the order come in for two dinners, I thought it were a mistake,” she giggled. Her green eyes flickered momentarily in Mary’s direction before returning to James. “I thought, ain’t one of Mrs Higgs’s portions big enough for a hungry gentleman?”

James’s smile was rather sheepish. “Good evening, Nancy.”

Nancy?

“And you’s early tonight,” she chided him, laying a place before James. “I weren’t expecting for to come for a couple hours yet.” It seemed to Mary that she was leaning forward quite a lot more than necessary, the better to display ample cleavage in a low-necked shirtwaist.

“Er – ” James cleared his throat. “Nancy, meet my young associate, Mark Quinn. Mark, this is Nancy of the Bull’s Head.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” cooed Nancy, flashing her dimples at Mary. Before Mary could reply, she turned back to James. “Double-thick mutton chops, just as you like ’em, with French beans and tatties and all. And your Mr Barker didn’t say about a pudding, but I know as you’re partial