“Father’s the one who wants to keep me from Henry? Not you?”
As I approached, Inspector Newcastle caught sight of me. He straightened and smoothed his jacket over his breastplate. “Miss Moreau, a pleasure to see you again.”
Lucy’s head turned to me too, but her scowl didn’t leave. “Good, you’re here. John was just leaving.”
“Lucy, darling—” he started, but stopped as the scowl on her face deepened. He leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek, but she pulled away and stormed into the dress shop with a wild clatter from the bell.
The inspector stared at the doorway, looking disheveled and lost.
“I’ve upset her, I’m afraid,” he said, and then gave a deep sigh. “And not for the first time.”
He looked crestfallen, and I searched for words but could only keep staring at his breastplate and thinking of the preposterous fervor I’d witnessed downtown. “You’ve started a fashion trend,” I said. “It seems quite a few people have adopted your penchant for protective garments.”
He gave a humble shrug. “They think because I’m leading the investigation, I must be a good example to follow. Well, it doesn’t hurt anyone. Perhaps it might even save someone’s life.” I raised an eyebrow doubtfully, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“You haven’t reconsidered my offer, have you?” he asked. “I truly would like to close the case on your father. A promotion would help Lucy see me in a . . . more favorable light. Especially such a personal case. It might give you some peace of mind, too, Miss Moreau.”
I pulled my hood higher. “I’m sorry. I appreciate your concern, but I really can’t help you.”
He looked as though he might say something more, but then changed his mind and opened the door for me. I slipped past him into the dress shop.
A pair of seamstresses looked up as the bell chimed, as did Lucy, flipping a little angrily through a book of sewing patterns. I sat on a peach-colored chaise, while one of the seamstresses brought me a book of cloth swatches and a tray of biscuits. I halfheartedly felt the various samples of velvets, muslins, silks—they all felt itchy to me.
“John proposed,” Lucy said at last.
“Oh my.”
Her eyes flickered to the seamstresses, and she pulled me through the silk curtains into the privacy of a small dressing room that smelled of French perfume, with a screen and a stuffed ottoman, which she now flopped onto.
“He came around last night and told me he’d asked Papa for permission. I turned him down, and Aunt Edith spilled about Henry coming over for tea, and you should have heard the row.” She shuddered at the memory.
“Lucy, I’m so sorry. Are you quite certain you don’t care for him? He seems . . .” I fumbled for an appropriately pleasing word. “Responsible.”
Drat. Responsible would never sway Lucy.
Her graceful fingers toyed with the ribbons on her gown. I took a deep breath, poised to tell her I also didn’t trust Henry, and that she should stay away from him, when she stood up abruptly.
“Well. It doesn’t matter. Henry sent me a letter early this morning, telling me he was leaving town and I wouldn’t see him again.” I heard the sting in her voice, though she tried to hide it. “So I couldn’t have had him anyway, even if Papa had approved. That means it’s either John or some fat vicar’s son, I suppose.” Her face grew serious, which didn’t fit with the almost revoltingly cheerful atmosphere of the dressing room.
I hesitated. I’d intended to warn her away from Edward, but it seemed Edward had already kept his promise and done my work for me.
“That must have been hard for you, but perhaps it’s for the best. You used to swear that Henry bored you as much as the others.”
She flicked an impatient glance at me. “Yes, but you know me. I can’t possibly admit when I actually do care. And Henry was different. I actually enjoyed his company, quite a lot.”
I swallowed back my guilt for not telling her the truth that Henry—Edward—was right this moment in my attic chamber, and that he had always been far more interested in me.
She turned on me a little abruptly, and said, “We’re like sisters, aren’t we? We tell each other everything. You came to me with that awful business about Dr. Hastings, so it makes sense that I should reciprocate, if there was something bothering me as well. Something I wasn’t certain how to handle.”
There was something tense in her movements that I hadn’t seen before. She kept toying with her ribbons, watching me carefully.
“Are we still talking about your suitors?” I asked slowly. “Or is this about something else?”
She paced a little before the full-length mirror, which reflected the sharp angles of her face, her dark hair coiled in intricate pins atop her head. “It’s . . .” She paused. “Well, it’s nothing really. Just some business with my father, some investments he’s made that I worry about. But what do I know about business?”
She was trying to turn her tone back to playfulness, but there was something in her eyes I rarely saw. Fear.
My voice dropped. “Lucy, what exactly is going on?”
But she silenced me with a curt wave as footsteps sounded outside the heavy curtain. One of the seamstresses drew back the fabric and asked us if everything was going all right, and if we’d like more biscuits.
After we’d dismissed her, Lucy smiled tightly and said, “Never mind, it’s nothing. Papa’s business isn’t why we’re here, is it? You listen to me rattling off about men so much, the least I can do is help you pick out a dress. Don’t you dare try to come to the masquerade in one of those old-maid dresses the professor usually buys for you. Mother and Papa want you to be a guest of honor. Go on. Peel those clothes off.”