“Where is Pearl’s house?” Cowasj asked Amelia. His practical tone didn’t show any compassion towards her predicament or the way she paled when Pearl’s name was mentioned.
“It’s actually quite close to the station.” The beam vanished from her lips, and a tremor started in her hands. “It’s a three-storey townhouse right in front of Regency Park.”
“Good.” Cowasj nodded and crossed his legs at the knee. The quick tap of his fingers on his knee betrayed his frustration.
Christopher flexed out his fingers. The uncomfortable silence itched along his skin. Which was odd, considering that he didn’t like small talk and preferred silence over the chatter.
The train whistled, and Amelia flinched, her hands clenching her reticule. When there was only the rhythmic rattling of the train, she straightened. “How do you plan to enter the house? I don’t have the key.”
Cowasj replied before Christopher could say anything.
“We don’t need a key,” the prince said in his usual pragmatic tone. He closed his fists and cracked his knuckles.
Amelia’s eyes flared wide in horror. “Are you going to break into the house?”
Cowasj opened his mouth, but before he could offend or alarm Amelia further, Christopher held up a hand. “If I may.” He cleared his throat. “Blackmoore-Smith’s house is considered a crime scene by the police. As the aggrieved party, the police granted us the right to search the house.”
“Not to break into it,” she snapped.
“There won’t be any reason to break into it. An officer is waiting for us at the house and will let us in,” Cowasj said. “But if the need occurs, if we have to force open a drawer or a safe, I’m ready to do it.”
She flustered and retreated to a corner of the seat. Her gaze fixated stubbornly on the view, and a vein in her neck kicked under the skin. She had to be particularly attached to her friend to be so upset.
Still, doubt scratched its cold nails on the back of his neck. He wouldn’t call himself a close friend of Elias Blackmoore-Smith, but in the few times Christopher had met him, the man had never mentioned Amelia’s family, or that his daughter was a friend of the Ollertons. Amelia’s concern and protectiveness towards Pearl surely accounted for a long and close friendship. Yet, he couldn’t fathom why Amelia’s reaction was important.
Swift clouds crossed London’s sky when they entered St. Pancras Station. The train slowed and puffed grey smoke that obscured the window for a moment.
Amelia’s previously flushed face was now pale and tense.
While they climbed into a cab, he offered her his hand, hoping to give her a small apology with his gesture. “Are you all right?”
“I just hope this affair will end soon.” Her fingers took his hand, but didn’t grab it with need as she’d had on previous occasions.
“Believe me, miss,” Cowasj said in a harsh tone, “we all hope it’ll end soon.”
Blackmoore-Smith’s townhouse rose squeezed between two other buildings, but it was wide and imposing enough to give a sense of space. The red bricks gleamed with dew in the morning sunlight, but London’s soot covered the street and the pavement in a dull grey layer that ruined the picture.
Amelia paused after exiting the cab and gave a long, appraising glance at the house. Something flickered on her face, but it lasted a moment.
He wondered what memories she had of this place. “Have you come here often?”
“Yes.” She averted her gaze and tormented her reticule.
“Where did you meet Pearl?” Cowasj asked.
“Her father worked for my father for a brief period.” The words slogged out of her mouth, as if she didn’t want to say more.
The indecision hadn’t escaped Cowasj’s notice, judging by how his gaze narrowed.
The constable in front of the house removed his hat when they approached. He bowed to Amelia. “Good morning, Lord Lyons, Prince Cowasj, madam.”
“Is the house opened?” Cowasj asked.
“As you asked, sir.”
They climbed the few shallow front steps and stopped on the porch. A gasp rose from Amelia at the half unhinged front door. The wooden frame had been smashed in places, and the lock hung halfway out of the socket.
“What have you done here?” she asked with the outraged tone the house’s owner would use.
