A Rogue No More - Lana Williams Page 0,27

this sort of research. It could prove extremely helpful with my next book. That should excite you as well.”

“If we were conducting this at the publishing office, perhaps.” He glanced around the busy street. “But not here.”

“We’ll be surrounded by constables. What could be safer?” Yet her gaze followed his, and she immediately understood his concern.

The rough look of the area had her tightening her hold on Thomas’s arm. The buildings were not especially well kept and those walking past were dressed much differently than the people in Mayfair.

“The success of the police in deterring thefts along the river with their boat patrols is impressive, don’t you think?” Annabelle asked, determined to make the best of this opportunity despite her unease. “Crime has been greatly reduced because of their presence.”

“With the exception of failing to prevent the murder of Joseph Smead, yes.”

“I’m sorry.” She pressed his arm, hoping he knew she meant it. “I didn’t mean to make light of his death.”

“I hope we can uncover the reason behind it and find the murderer.”

“As do I. Perhaps the constable will share something to help us. He might not realize a detail is significant, but we will.”

Thomas turned to her before they crossed the street to the building. “I reviewed the murder scenes in the book this morning so that they’d be fresh in my mind.”

“As did I.”

He frowned. “You don’t have them committed to memory?”

“Good heavens, no. The only details I remember now are the ones for the third book, which I’ve started plotting.”

“Another? So soon?” Thomas’s surprise was cut off as he stared at her. “I detest that veil. I prefer to see your face.”

“I’m certainly relieved wearing it is temporary.” Did he want to see her because he liked what he saw or only because it made conversation difficult?

She forced herself to focus on the task at hand. “I had the opportunity to read The Commerce and Policing of the River Thames before writing my book. It shares significant details about both the police force and the criminals they tend to catch.”

Thomas paused with his hand on the door, one brow raised. “That sounds like light reading.”

“It was very interesting, given my occupation. Are you familiar with the Ratcliffe Highway murders?”

“Isn’t everyone in London? Such terrible attacks.”

“Positively dreadful.” Annabelle couldn’t help but shiver.

She remembered the details of the case vividly. The murders occurred in December of 1811 and left seven dead in two different locations a mere twelve days apart. Though a man had been arrested, much speculation continued as to his guilt or innocence. The accused had committed suicide—or been murdered and the crime concealed—before his trial. He’d been convicted posthumously but many wondered if that had been merely to quiet the public outcry.

“I found it fascinating that one of the clues was a chip in the maul believed to be the murder weapon,” Annabelle added. The long-handled axe used to split wood had been traced to the accused, recognizable because of the chip. “Sometimes convictions come down to small details.”

“Wasn’t there some blood on the man’s clothes as well?”

“Yes, according to the laundress who washed his clothing.” She was impressed that Thomas remembered the fact.

“Do you think they arrested the right man?” he asked.

“I have a few doubts based on what I read. Do you?”

“The authorities certainly painted a convincing picture. However, they had to convict someone to calm the public.”

Annabelle dearly wanted to continue the discussion. There were so few times she was able to speak about her interest in such cases with others. Caroline could be counted on to listen as long as Annabelle didn’t go into too much depth, but her mother refused to talk about it at all. Nor were murder weapons and similar topics well received at balls or other events.

“Let us see what Constable McConnelly will tell us.” Thomas opened the door, and she entered the building, trying her best to absorb and remember all she saw.

Yet the warmth of Thomas at her side was a distraction that made it difficult. Though she had yet to see his dimples today, he still managed to stir her senses in small ways. The subtle scent of bergamot made her want to lean closer. The way his hair fell across his forehead when he removed his hat tempted her to brush it back. The strength of his arm under her gloved hand reminded her of his physical strength.

But now was not the time to dwell on such things. Surely meeting the man who’d