I stared at her. “You didn’t say he was a police officer!”
“He isn’t a police officer,” she said, fluffing her hair where the humidity had made it go flat. “He’s an inspector. Scotland Yard’s top inspector.” Her voice dropped to a mutter. “He’s rather fond of telling me how important he is, not to mention handsome. He’d marry himself, I do believe, if he could.”
“Lucy—” I started, but Inspector Newcastle reached us then and gave us a dashing smile, his eyes only darting to me in a perfunctory manner before settling on Lucy. I wished he’d taken no notice of me at all.
“Lucy, darling.” He bent forward to kiss her cheek. It left a glistening mark that she dabbed at with the handkerchief.
“Papa sent you, I presume?”
“He invited me to supper, and I offered to come collect you.”
She grabbed my arm again. “John, this is my friend Juliet Moreau. Oh, Juliet, I’ve a fine idea. Go ask the professor if you can join us for a bite to eat.” Her insistent wink told me she didn’t want to spend an extra moment alone with her suitor.
“Yes, you’re welcome to join us, Miss Moreau.” He extended his hand to take mine, but as soon as my fingers were in his, his hand tightened. “Have we met before? Your name sounds familiar.”
I glanced at Lucy. “I don’t believe so, Inspector. I think I would remember.” I extracted my fingers from his grasp, wishing I could just as easily remove his suspicions about my name from his thoughts. I nodded my chin toward his copper breastplate. “What an unusual piece. Is it an antique?”
“Why, yes,” he said, clearly pleased. “It belonged to my grandfather. A lieutenant in the Crimean War. Kept him alive despite five bullets and a gunpowder explosion. I try to be a modern man, and we have better protective garments, but a little sentimental superstition can be healthy, don’t you think?” He tapped his breastplate good-naturedly.
I smiled, relieved I’d managed to distract him from my name.
Lucy slid her arm into mine and said, “Juliet’s quite a tragic case, I’m afraid. Both parents dead, left penniless. She even had to work at one point.”
She started to lead me toward the door, but I pulled away a little too fast. I had errands to run before returning home, which I would much prefer to keep secret from her.
“Thank you for the offer, but I’ve plans with the professor. It was a pleasure meeting you, Inspector. I’ll see you soon, Lucy.”
I ducked away from them, found the professor amid the crowd, still engrossed by the rusted mechanics of the greenhouse. He smiled warmly when he saw me.
“I wondered if you’d mind if I had a bite to eat with Lucy,” I said.
“Well, certainly,” he said, eyes twinkling. Now he could go home back to his books and a thick slice of Mary’s gingerbread cake. I kissed him on the cheek and hurried through the tunnel of palms to the doorway. I took one last breath of the thick, warm air, before pushing the heavy door open and bracing for the cold.
A swirling gust of snow ruffled my velvet skirts and heavy coat. The botanical garden’s ice-covered lake spread in front of me, the water sprite fountain in the center now frozen under a waterfall of ice.
I’d get an earful from Lucy later. She wouldn’t like that I left her to fend off the inspector’s kisses alone. But just being around the police—even a well-mannered inspector—made me nervous. And I had my errands to run.
I drew my fur-lined coat around my neck and waited behind the frozen skeleton of an azalea for Inspector Newcastle and Lucy to leave. They climbed into the black carriage amid pleasantries I couldn’t make out, save a single curse from Lucy when her skirt caught on the curb. I smiled at her ribaldry as their carriage rolled away over the cobblestone.
Pulling my coat tighter, I made my way toward Covent Garden. The sun was already heading for the horizon, so I slipped into an alleyway that would cut my walk by half. The alley was quiet, save a pair of cats chasing each other through abandoned crates. The strange solitude whispered foreboding things.
Ahead of me a short young man approached from the opposite direction, cap pulled low over his brow so his face was hidden in shadows. As our paths grew closer he took his time looking me up and down, giving me gooseflesh. He wasn’t wearing gloves, and I noticed that he was missing his middle finger—a difficult detail to ignore. I stiffened. The only reason an otherwise warmly dressed man wouldn’t wear gloves on a day this cold was if he planned on needing his dexterity for something.