Murder on Cold Street (Lady Sherlock #5) - Sherry Thomas Page 0,91

he had walked and walked. And turned so many times to avoid colliding with one wall or the other that he was faintly vertiginous.

One single word thumped in his head.

Alice. Alice. Alice.

Judging by how mercilessly he himself had been interrogated—and skewered in places where he was most vulnerable and helpless—he could only imagine the accusations that had been brought to bear on her.

He hurt for her distress. But it was the pincushion sensation of guilt that kept him hurtling from one end of the room to the other, a windup toy gone mad.

There was so much that he didn’t know, so much that she didn’t feel that she could tell him. So much she’d never told him because she understood him better than he’d understood himself.

He had always wanted to give her everything. But it had been an everything that revolved around him. He’d never known what she wanted. And how could he have, when he firmly believed that he knew enough for both of them?

A key turned in the door. He stilled, his heart pounding. He hoped he was being taken back to his cell. He’d rather face a day of jeers from drunks and miscreants in neighboring cells—and their combined stench—than an hour of Inspector Brighton’s face in his own, his stomach churning at the caraway smell of the man’s shaving soap.

The door opened.

“Alice!”

She was thinner. Shadows bloomed under her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept in days. And yet she didn’t look nearly as crushed as she had the morning before. As soon as the door shut behind her, he rushed over and pulled her into his arms.

He was sure that he could be seen and heard in this room, even with the door closed. The first time she’d visited he had deliberately stayed away from her, but now he could no longer. He buried his face in the crook of her shoulder, needing her, needing the solace of their embrace.

She trembled, but her back was straight and her arms around his back strong.

“Robert, are you all right?”

“I’m fine. You . . . you seem better.”

There was a smile in her voice. “I sacked four of Mr. Sullivan’s most staunch allies yesterday. Thank goodness for Mrs. Watson, who gave me enough spine for it.”

Mrs. Watson? Charlotte Holmes’s Mrs. Watson? The woman who had been a stage actress and goodness knows what else?

But those filaments of dismay were buried under an avalanche of relief. Every single person who aided Alice now would forever have his gratitude.

He pulled back to look at her.

She set her palm on his cheek. “Now I finally have all the Cousins accounts. Miss Holmes says that they are important because if you didn’t do it, then it’s most likely because of something at Cousins and—”

His entire body shaking, he stopped her words with his lips on hers.

She must have sensed his tremors. She pushed against him, trying for enough distance to see his face. “Robert, what’s the—”

“Alice, listen to me.” He spoke directly into her ear, an urgent whisper that he prayed would not be overheard. “Be very, very careful about inquiring into the doings at Cousins. Don’t, in fact. Don’t look into it at all!”

Silence.

He let go of her.

“Why?” she mouthed, her face ashen, her eyes fear-stricken.

He shook his head. He dared not tell her. He dared not breathe a word of the reasons. He could only take her hand and place it over his madly beating heart. “Please, Alice, trust me. And please, proceed no further!”

* * *

“I don’t think I’ll need any makeup today to look ten years older,” said Charlotte sadly, over her third cup of tea.

Livia possessed the ability to stay awake—and alert—for two entire days. Charlotte was almost as fond of her beauty rest as she was of cake. When she’d returned the night before, after having clarified matters with Mr. Bosworth, instead of finding a somnolent household, she’d come across Mrs. Watson and Miss Redmayne still bent over the loot from Cousins.

Apparently, during Charlotte’s outing, Mrs. Watson had realized that there was no proper summary of how much the renovation and modernization at each factory cost. Despite the hour, she had immediately proceeded to sort through hundreds of invoices and receipts, as well as to audit all the accounts for relevant entries, in order that she could arrive at her own rough estimate.

At one o’clock Miss Redmayne had shooed her aunt off to bed—Mrs. Watson had an early train to catch in the morning to Reading. The