Leo nodded. “I understand.”
Jasper waited, a skeptical brow raised as if expecting her to tack on some dispute. When she didn’t, he seemed to be at a loss.
“All right. Good, then,” he said.
He still blocked her path to the door.
“Might I get by?” she asked. “There are several corpses at the morgue, and I’ve already been away too long.”
After the torturous walk from Bloomsbury Square, it seemed like days had passed since she’d left Connor rather than just a handful of hours.
Jasper stepped aside swiftly. “Right. Yes.”
She passed him, a smile she could not suppress tugging the corner of her mouth. He really was quite charming when he was ungainly. She opened the door, allowing in the hum of activity in the busy department.
“Leo?”
She turned back at his voice, predicting another warning to stay out of the investigation. Instead, Jasper had his hands in his trouser pockets, something he only ever did if he felt discomposed. After parting his lips once without making a sound, on the second try, he managed to say, “Will you have dinner with me?”
Heat reached like a tidal swell from her stomach to her throat, and then back down again. She prayed the flush stayed clear of her cheeks as she tried to maintain some degree of poise.
“Tonight?” she asked, her voice slightly rough.
“If you don’t already have plans.”
She pinned her lower lip with her teeth, biting back the giddy grin threatening to break forth. It felt altogether foreign and more than a little alarming.
Forcing some composure, she nodded. “I’ll be home by seven.”
A grin began to emerge on his mouth, and before her own involuntary smile could take shape, Leo swiftly turned to leave.
Somehow, the walk to the morgue didn’t pain her feet at all. The fatigue and frustration weighing her down when she’d arrived at the Yard had dissipated completely, and taking its place was an exhilarating thrum that seemed to lift her from the pavements as she walked. Jasper’s invitation to dinner had been like a cup of strong black tea to her system, waking her up and electrifying her brain.
It was nothing like how she felt when Constable Elias Murray had asked her to dine with him a few months ago. Those invitations had made her squirm and perspire. She’d accepted once, but even then, she’d had her reservations. Did she like him well enough to encourage him? And what would they discuss for the duration of dinner?
However, the idea of dinner with Jasper filled her with a trembling of anticipation, not doubt. To calm her flittering pulse before entering the morgue, she turned her mind to practicalities, like what she should wear and where they might dine. Leo had seen Jasper in a fine suit and tie when he’d been courting Constance. The vision of him turning up at her front door on Duke Street in such clothing gave her stomach an unruly swoop as she neared the back door to the morgue’s office.
Instinct flared up Leo’s back and alerted her to a presence behind her. Too late. A hand wrapped around her arm and jerked her back. Something dull and hard pressed firmly into her back, just below her right shoulder blade.
“Don’t shout,” the male voice said, and at the pungent waft of neroli and bergamot shuttling up her nostrils, Leo knew exactly who had sneaked up on her.
“Mr. Seabright.”
The door to the morgue was close. Connor would be inside, waiting for her to return.
“How do you know that?” the man asked, his breathing choppy with panic.
“You ought to have a lighter hand with your cologne,” she replied. “And for someone who is a prime suspect in at least one murder, you are unadvisedly close to the Metropolitan Police headquarters.”
“I’m no murderer,” he said through what sounded like gritted teeth. He was strong, his grip severe, and he was tall; in her limited side vision, he stood a good head taller than she did.
“If that is true, then why are you thrusting the barrel of a revolver into my back?”
He emitted a soft growl of aggravation. Then, his grip on her arm loosened. With some bewilderment, Leo stepped away and turned to face him.
Gavin Seabright resembled his mother in many ways, from the grim slash of his thin lips to the bold, high forehead and hard, gray eyes. But when he showed her his weapon—an empty glass beer bottle, the tapered neck of which had doubled as a revolver’s barrel—his maladroit hands revealed the truth: he wasn’t a killer.
Leo exhaled, and while not exactly comfortable, she was at least relieved.
