Page 50 of The Unfortunate Debutante
“I would prefer not to.” Pembrooke smirked. “I understand you were spotted laying on top of Miss Pearson near Gunther’s yesterday.”
He let out an exasperated huff. “A carriage was barreling towards us, and I shoved her out of the way. Unfortunately, I tripped on her skirts, and I landed on top of her.”
“I’ve noticed that you haven’t posted the banns yet.”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but Miss Pearson rejected my proposal,” he grumbled.
Pembrooke let out a loud, drawn out laugh. “I knew I liked this girl. She’s choosing a life of spinsterhood over marrying you.”
“She’s doing no such thing,” he contended. “Miss Pearson is well connected, and I have no doubt that the Beckett family can save her reputation.”
“That will be no small feat. She has had a rather unfortunate series of accidents befall her,” Pembrooke said, suddenly serious.
Simeon pushed off from the wall. “They were no accidents. Mr. Peter Lockhart is behind this.”
“Who?”
He came to sit down across from Pembrooke. “Lockhart is mad, and he truly believes that Miss Pearson belongs to him. I have a few friends looking into this…”
“What friends?” Pembrooke asked. “Because I happen to know for a fact that you don’t have any friends.”
“We are quasi-friends.”
Pembrooke gave him a curious look. “Are these other friends Bow Street Runners?”
“No. Will you drop it?” he asked firmly.
Pembrooke put his hands up in front of him.
“We need to get into our criminal system and find out all that we can about this Lockhart.”
“What do you hope to find?”
Simeon shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I will look into it.”
“Thank you.”
Bringing his hand up to his chin, Pembrooke rubbed it thoughtfully. “You seem out of sorts, Martin.” He paused, before adding, “At least, more than usual.”
“I am fine, Pembrooke,” he remarked dryly.
“Ford wants us to officially work the Anti-Corn Law rebels assignment together,” Pembrooke informed him, his words starting off slow.
He clenched his jaw. “I work alone. I do not have a partner anymore.”
Sighing, Pembrooke lowered his hand. “Jared died over a year ago at the hands of The Cursed Lot gang. No one blames you for his death.”
“I blame myself!” he shouted. “He was my partner, and my friend.”
“He chose to work undercover as a customs official in Gravesend. He knew the risk! Blazes! We all know the risks associated with this job,” Pembrooke asserted.
Simeon refused to yield. His last partner had been found dead, floating face up in the River Thames. He wouldn’t do that to anyone again. “I work alone, and that’s final.”
“You caught the men responsible for Jared’s death,” Pembrooke pressed. “They hung for their crimes.”
He scoffed. “Does their death suddenly bring Jared back?”
