Leo followed Mrs. Bates as she moved straight toward her sister- and brother-in-law.
“Think of the children, Porter,” she urged, taking Mr. Stewart’s arm and stepping between him and the officers to dissuade a second arrest.
“I am no murderer or bomber,” Mrs. Stewart declared loudly. “I demand to know your evidence against me.”
“You’ll hear all about it at Scotland Yard,” Tomlin replied with a goading grin.
“Detective Inspector Tomlin,” Leo said again, and this time, he turned his head. His mouth creased into another scowl.
“My God, woman, why am I not surprised to find you here?”
She ignored the turning heads and accusatory looks that she might know the man who’d so suddenly become their enemy. “The Women’s Equality Alliance is a peaceful group. It doesn’t endorse or organize bombing campaigns, and neither does Mrs. Stewart.”
The constables shuffled past, bringing the shocked WEA leader with them. “Porter!” she cried as they took her from the room.
“I’ll summon our lawyer, darling! I’ll put a stop to this!” he shouted.
Inspector Tomlin watched the arrest with a satisfied expression. It turned Leo’s stomach. He then turned his smug grin toward her. “You’re a member of this radical women’s group, are you?”
“It is hardly radical to petition for the right to vote,” she replied.
He ignored her and stuck his hands into his pockets. “Interesting howyouwere the one to suggest the suitcase PC Lloyd was carrying belonged to a woman. The crafter’s mark was located on one of the remaining leather pieces, so we tracked the shop down and showed the owner the partial monogram that you yourself told us about.”
A spike of warning darted into her stomach. He’d sweetened his tone, speaking to her as if she were a little girl with nothing but cotton fluff between her ears.
“The letters I saw wereGL,” Leo said.
“Indeed. A partial monogram. The shop owner recalled the valise well, including the lady for whom he’d made it. Geraldine Stewart. Any guesses as to her middle name, Miss Spencer?”
Mr. Stewart and Mrs. Bates were standing by, listening. Now, they both murmured their disbelief.
“Lynette,” Mrs. Bates whispered, then clapped her lace-gloved hand over her lips as if she’d just committed some mutiny.
“I don’t believe it,” Mr. Porter goggled. “I need to speak to my lawyer. Emma, will you see to the children?” he requested, turning to Mrs. Bates, who took his arm and led him from the room.
Leo turned back to the detective inspector, who was still quizzing her with a mean glare. “You know what else is strange, Miss Spencer? Lord Babbage was due to come to Scotland Yard yesterday for a meeting with the Commissioner. With yourconnectionsto the Yard being what they are,” he said, unmistakably referring to Jasper, “might you have known about Babbage’s appointment? Maybe even let it slip to Mrs. Stewart beforehand?”
Lord Babbage was a well-known conservative member of Parliament, and he was wholly against giving women the right to vote. She lifted her chin at his devious insinuation.
“Now, here you are, attending a meeting of this so-calledalliance,” he went on. “And you were near PC Lloyd when the bomb detonated.”
The spike of warning she’d just had redoubled. “What are you suggesting, Inspector?”
He leaned forward, baring his teeth. “I’m suggesting you also come to headquarters so I can question you properly about your involvement.”
She gaped at him. “I am not involved in any fashion.”
Tomlin crooked his finger to the remaining constable at his side. “Put Miss Spencer in the back with our suspect. And don’t forget the cuffs.”
He stood aside, allowing the constable to come forward. “Hands, miss.”
Humiliation and fury slid through her as she stared at the iron cuffs held up for her. She set her jaw, determined not to make a scene. Several ladies were still present, and they would spread the news of the double arrests with alacrity.
“Question me all you like, Inspector. I have nothing to hide,” Leo declared as she held out her wrists.
Chapter Seven
Jasper cracked open his heavy eyelids and took in the state of Lord Oliver Hayes’s library in the early dawn light. Someone had left the terrace doors open overnight, letting in the cold morning mist. He smelled dew on the air. It was fresh and clean—entirely the opposite of everything that had occurred the previous evening. The sight of empty whisky bottles on the carpet, a broken glass near the open French doors, a pair of men’s shoes slung over the curved arm of a chandelier, and what looked to be Jasper’s suit jacket pinned to the dartboard with a bone handle knife accompanied the painful throbbing of his temple.
