Bedford gave an exaggerated shudder. “Every time I speak to Inglewood, I feel like I need a bath. Possibly two.”
Dominic didn’t respond. Instead, his eyes remained fixed on the door through which Inglewood had vanished. Why did it feel like he had just danced with the devil?
10
Dorothea reclined against a stack of pillows, a book balanced in one hand and a half-eaten biscuit in the other. Sunlight poured through the open windows and she could hear the birds chirping a cheerful tune. It was, she decided, a perfectly pleasant way to pass the afternoon. There had certainly been worse days in her life.
A soft knock disrupted the peaceful quiet.
Her gaze lifted from the page. “Enter,” she ordered.
The door opened slowly, and Dominic appeared in the doorway, hovering like a man unsure whether to flee or step forward. He looked deucedly uncomfortable, shoulders taut, his hand still resting on the doorframe.
She smiled, feeling a need to tease him. “You do not need to knock. This is your bedchamber, after all.”
“Not for the time being,” he replied. “Are you well?”
She nodded. “Very much so. The physician declared me the epitome of health. Even the cold has passed.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” He hesitated, as though unsure how to continue. “Do you need anything—anything at all?”
“I wouldn’t say no to a bit of company.”
For a moment, she feared he might retreat, offering some vague excuse and disappearing down the hall. But instead, to her surprise—and delight—he stepped into the room and let the door close softly behind him.
“I suppose I can spare a few moments,” he said, walking towards the chair beside her bed.
“Thank you,” she responded, setting her book aside. “Perhaps you can regale me with a story or two.”
That earned the faintest curve of a smile. “I’m not much of a storyteller,” he said, lowering himself into the chair. “But I can read to you, if you like.”
“Or you could tell me one from memory. Surely you had some memorable cases when you worked for Bow Street.”
His expression shifted, something flickering in his gaze. “I did.”
“Well then—will you share one with me?”
He paused, as if weighing how much to say, then gave a small nod. “There was one case that stayed with me. A series of thefts in Mayfair, all occurring during lavish social events. I was asked to investigate after it became clear that the incidents were more than mere coincidence.”
“Was it the butler?” she asked, her tone teasing.
He grinned. “No. It was a young maid. She’d stolen a gown from her mistress and used it to pass herself off as a lady. She blended seamlessly with the crowd—dripping in stolen jewels, no one ever questioned her presence. During the height of each ball, she’d slip away and pilfer whatever valuables she could find.”
“How clever. How did you catch her?”
“I recognized a necklace she was wearing—one that had been listed among the stolen items weeks earlier. I kept my distance and followed her when she left the ballroom. I caught her red-handed in an upstairs chamber.”
“And what happened to her?”
“I arrested her. She was transported for her crimes,” he said, his voice sober. “Frankly, she was lucky to escape the noose. The value of the stolen items was staggering and not everything was ever recovered. I suspected she had help, but she refused to reveal who it was.”
Dorothea popped the last bit of biscuit into her mouth and brushed the crumbs from her fingers. “It sounds like dangerous work. But thrilling, too.”
He shrugged, eyes distant. “It had its moments.”
She considered him for a moment, then ventured, “May I ask you something?”
“That depends on what it is.”
