“Why?” I was growing tired of asking it.
“Because he’s dangerous. I don’t know what he meant with the cock-and-bull story he spun, but he’s a menace. Stay away from him.” He blew out a sharp breath. “I can’t believe it. How did he find you?”
“He never hurt me, and I don’t think he was lying.” I wanted to sound offended, but his fear doused my anger and planted doubts in my mind. “I don’t understand why my parents and you are so convinced he’s a scoundrel.”
“Please.” He put his hands on my shoulders and stared at me. Pain etched his features. “Please trust me.”
“But you give me no reason to doubt Sandro.”
“Please,” he said again, swallowing. “I need you to trust me. Don’t run away again.”
What could I do? I didn’t want him to get hurt because of me, even though I didn’t understand why he didn’t tell me anything. I nodded. “I promise.”
His shoulders dipped as he pulled me into his arms. “Thank you.”
I sagged against him, resting my head on his chest. Being hugged felt terribly good.
He caressed the top of my head, muttering, “Thank you.” When he released me, he fiddled with the collar of his shirt.
I brushed a speck of dust from my sleeve. “Great.”
“Yes.” He straightened his jacket.
“You’re welcome.”
“Good. You’re welcome too.”
I cleared my throat. “Where do we start?” I asked, tugging at my bodice and hoping it would make my breasts look bigger.
He peeled his gaze off me. “Mrs Francis’s cabin. I want to talk to her husband.”
“Do you think the mysterious Scotsman is the culprit?”
A pained expression scrunched up his face. “I don’t know. Nothing makes sense on this bloody ship. Two attackers disappear into thin air while there are two thousand people on board. No one saw anything. None of the Scots on board fit the description Mrs Francis gave us. The attacker might not have been a Scot at all, but how many six-foot-six tall, red-haired men with broad shoulders and thick legs, and wearing a kilt can be on a bloody ship?”
“You’re right. I, for one, would have noticed such a strapping man.” I chuckled, but he didn’t join me.
The glare he shot at me could have broken a porthole. “That’s a good point.” It didn’t sound like he meant it.
“Maybe Mrs Francis lied about the Scot,” I said. “Maybe she made him up because she wanted attention? Make her husband jealous?”
“That’s another good point.” He worked his jaw.
I knocked on Mr Francis’s door. “Mr Francis? It’s Miss Monia Fitzwilliam and Mr Rennie Steele here. Detective Norton sent us to help find your wife.”
The door was flung open. A distressed and dishevelled Mr Francis greeted me. His dark hair stuck out in every direction, and his eyes were red-rimmed. “Do you have any news about Mildred?”
“I’m afraid not. But Rennie and I are here to help.” I gave him an encouraging smile. “Can you tell us what happened?”
He repeated what Norton had told Rennie, that Mrs Francis had gone to bed last night, but in the morning, she wasn’t in her cabin.
“Did she tell you anything about her attacker?” Rennie asked in his copper tone, as if he were used to interrogating people.Because he is. The thought came unbidden from some corner of my mind.
The Royal Occult Bureau. Coppers. Military order. A sharp ache slashed through my head, and whatever thought I was chasing in my mind was gone. Still, for a split second, I grasped something about the Royal Occult Bureau. I’d heard about it before. I focused. No, nothing. Another pang shot through my head, and the thought was lost. As if on cue, the scar on my wrist flared up, and I scratched it.
Rennie put a hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right?”
I nodded, tugging at my sleeve.
