Murder on Cold Street (Lady Sherlock #5) - Sherry Thomas Page 0,46

in a state of unhappy listlessness, knowing that he would always remain out of her reach.

So was she wise, or completely mad, not to fall upon him now as she would a plate of cake after she had at last vanquished Maximum Tolerable Chins? Goodness knew she still wanted to touch the coat, this once forbidden garment.

She became aware that he was still waiting for an answer to his question about whether she was thinking of hot cocoa and plum cake.

“I was thinking of your children.” She was not entirely lying. She had thought of his children several times since last night. “You were on your way back to Stern Hollow. They don’t mind staying longer in London?”

“They enjoy London. They’ve never been in London so close to Christmas and are still ecstatic to spy yet another Christmas tree through a window,” he answered, smiling a little.

She loved that smile—and almost didn’t ask her next question. “I don’t suppose you’ve told them about your divorce yet?”

His smile fading, he shook his head. “No. I’ve decided to speak to them after the New Year.”

“How do you think they will react?”

“As children do, I hope, with great sorrow and outrage.” He looked at her. “This is more interest than you usually display in my children.”

He was no longer tapping the top of his walking stick, but was instead passing the handle from one hand to the next, almost as if he were tossing a ball back and forth to himself. It was performed with a magician’s dexterity, but still, for him, this was fidgeting.

“I suppose it’s because I wonder whether you’ll expect me to play a larger role in their lives.”

He went still. “Did you get that impression from what I said last night?”

“No. But recall that at Stern Hollow we became lovers out of necessity.”

One corner of his lips lifted. “How can I forget?”

Her heart thudded. She pushed on. “At the end of the case, when I asked you why we couldn’t continue on as lovers, you said that perhaps your body in bed was enough for me, but the reverse wasn’t true. You’d already endured years of unhappiness because you wanted more than what a woman could give. You would not put yourself through that again—especially not with me.

“That was your position not long ago. But now you are willing to put yourself through exactly that?”

He looked fully at her, his answer businesslike, almost stern. “Recall that at Stern Hollow I was forced to admit, to a pair of police investigators, that I loved you, with you right there in disguise. I did not enjoy making that confession and would never have done so, were I not under duress. Having done that, I didn’t want to make any further concessions. If you couldn’t love me the way I loved you, I’d have rather we not be lovers at all.

“But now . . .” His voice softened. “I suppose I’ve become less precious about it. Now I’ll be happy for you to love me however you would.”

She felt as if she’d been caught next to a fifty-foot-tall gong struck at full force, the shock of the vibration pushing all her organs out of place. “You presume a great deal! You presume that I love you.”

“You don’t?” he countered calmly.

She looked down at her hands and said nothing.

He picked up his walking stick and knocked it lightly against the floor. “As I said, however you love me will be fine.”

Nine

Cold Street was in a relatively new district. Thirty years ago, it had still been agricultural land. But these days, its location, south of Hyde Park, was considered convenient enough. And the stone and white stucco houses, their façades assiduously maintained against London’s grimy air, were suitably grand.

Here the attraction was not just bigger houses, but a feature that the older row houses of the more aristocratic areas did not possess. Lord Ingram’s town house in Belgravia, like many others in his district, was built around a garden square, and enjoyed a view of greenery out of the front windows.

The houses on and around Cold Street, on the other hand, were erected with their backs to a long green space, thus serving as the fences around it. And where gaps opened between stretches of houses, wrought iron gates were installed to keep the large garden private.

It was before one such gate that they alit. A young bobby named Lamb, standing guard, read the letter Lord Ingram produced from Scotland Yard, and was about