Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)

She could feel his cheek press into a smile next to hers.

It wasn’t possession. It was still some damnable form of inequity, where she let him have all of her, and he held himself back. She could cry about it. She could accuse him of poor sportsmanship.

But what good would that do? She’d take what she could get, and fight for the rest as best she could.

She let out a long breath, exhaling her fears away. “With glass strewn underfoot, I see we have only one option.”

“Oh?”

It hurt to smile, but she did it anyway. His arm snaked around her waist.

“Have you seen how thin my slippers are?” she whispered in his ear. “With all this danger about, you’ll have to carry me to bed.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

BY THE NEXT AFTERNOON, the glass had long been swept away. But as Kate left her house, she felt a chill prickle up her neck, as if danger itself were still present. She had one silk-slippered foot upon the carriage steps, one kid-gloved hand on her footman’s shoulder.

There was a man standing on the pavement, not three yards behind her. He was dressed in the blue uniform of a metropolitan police officer; the cuffs of his jacket were frayed at the edges. He watched her, and as she halted, he walked toward her.

“Are you Mrs. Carhart?” he asked. As he spoke, he shifted his truncheon from one hand to the other. He didn’t look as if he planned to use it. His gaze dropped down her form—not in sexual interest, but in wariness.

Kate turned from the carriage that awaited her. She drew herself up to her full height—which, compared to the man who approached her, seemed nowhere near full enough. Still, in her experience, officers and servants alike were more likely to speak with respect if they knew precisely with whom they were speaking. Short as she was, the yards of lace at the hem of her gown would make the man think twice. Lace was dear; more importantly, it was a symbol that she was the sort of woman who could purchase such a thing and wear it, even on something so mundane as a morning call. Police officers did not often mix with ladies.

“Officer,” she said sternly, “I am more properly addressed as—”

“Yes or no will do, ma’am.”

Kate touched the pearls at her neck. “Yes, but I am La—”

He interrupted her again before she could finish.

“Well, then. I have a warrant sworn out for your arrest, and you’re to come with me.”

All those yards of lace stopped feeling like armor. Instead, she felt nakedly vulnerable. “My arrest?” No. She wasn’t going to flutter like a useless sparrow. She balled her fists. “See here, Officer.” She glanced at his jacket collar, where his designation was marked. “Officer 12-Q, what do you mean by ordering my arrest?”

Officer 12-Q took another step forward. “Didn’t,” he explained. “The warrant’s signed by Magistrate Fang. I don’t order anything—I just execute it. If you’ll excuse the witticism.”

She stared at him blankly.

“I just execute it,” he repeated. “Execute. See? Heh. Heh.” Despite that odd chuckle, Officer 12-Q had not even broached a smile yet.

Kate let her blank stare take on a chilly component.

“I suppose,” the officer allowed slowly, “it would be less amusing to you, what with your having to stand trial and all.”

“Stand trial! On what charges? And when?”

The man came forward, and Kate stepped backward. Beside her, her footman winced. No doubt he was trying to figure out precisely how far his loyalty to his employer stretched.

“Oh, come,” 12-Q was saying. “Fine lady like you doesn’t want to resist the metropolitan police. As for when—right now. Why do you suppose I was sent to fetch you? Justice waits for no man. Or woman. Particularly not when justice is administered by Magistrate Fang. He doesn’t like staying after his time.”

“But I have an appointment to take tea.” Kate set one foot in the carriage, and her footman backed away from her slightly. Her voice was significantly steadier than her nerves. “Are you intimating that instead, I must undertake a tedious journey to—to—”

“The police court at Queen Square, ma’am.” He fingered his collar. “It’s what the Q stands for.”

“So I must travel to Queen Square, hear a set of trumped-up charges and stand trial? But I shall be quite late. I pride myself on my punctuality.”

Officer 12-Q shrugged and reached for her arm. “If you plead guilty first, there’s no need to stand for trial. Trial’s only if you wish to establish your innocence.” His hand closed around her elbow—firm, but not harsh.

Kate glared at him. “Thank you. That is most helpful.”

“Of course,” he continued, “six months in gaol will likely delay your arrival, as well.”