Page 18 of Honor Unbound

“Of course.” I kept my gaze on Ernest as he unfolded the coach steps. Mr. Ryder was far too decent to slide anintentionally cutting remark into a conversation. And he didn’t know all the secrets of my marriage but had only heard vile gossip. But he knew enough.

I allowed him to help me into my carriage. He leaned his arm on the open doorway. “Lady Mary—”

“No need. Whatever you are about to say, I have no need to hear it.” I dropped my reticule on the seat next to me. “I know you meant nothing with your remark and I won’t have you purifying your words around me.”

The corners of his chocolate brown eyes crinkled. “I hardly think that’s possible when most of our conversations revolve around murder and immorality.” He sobered. “I must warn you against continuing your investigation in such sordid locales. Prostitution isn’t merely immoral in and of itself. There are people who greatly profit from it, and where there is money, there is always someone willing to do violence to protect it.”

I cocked my head. “Has Mrs. McKendrick threatened you for trying to convert her girls away from their work?” Even with all the dainty frills of her gown, the softness of her body, I could envision the brothel’s manager becoming violent. There was something hard in her eyes, and all those frills could conceal any number of weapons.

“Mrs. McKendrick doesn’t have the authority to make that kind of decision.” Ryder straightened.

Meaning someone else did. “Who owns that brothel?” I examined Ryder’s hard face, and my stomach sank. I knew what he was going to say.

“Edric Cooke.” He looked away. “He owns many such establishments, and he is not a merciful man. You would do well to avoid him and any who work for him.”

Cooke. One of London’s crime lords. A man who’d assisted me in the past but of whom I held no illusions. If it ever became profitable for him to stop me, he wouldn’t hesitate.

I cocked my head. “Yet you take no such precaution yourself.” I knew there was some connection between Mr. Ryder and Mr. Cooke, one I couldn’t fathom. How the president of a morality committee had become acquainted with the head of one of London’s largest criminal enterprises I couldn’t even begin to guess at. But before he’d retired, Mr. Ryder had been an attorney. Perhaps he had met Mr. Cooke in a professional capacity.

“I think he finds my efforts amusing.” Ryder blew out a breath. “In any case, I would counsel you to—”

“Leave the matter to the magistrate and focus my attention on more appropriate activities.” I flapped my hand at him. I’d heard it all before. “You do realize those activities would be the management of my club, the one you find so distasteful?”

Ryder shut the door and leaned in through the open window. “I’ve learned with you, Lady Mary, that one must pick one’s battles. Right now, The Minerva Club is the safer alternative.”

I’d found that too many people’s idea of safety meant cutting out any of the interesting bits of life. I had no desire to die before my time, but I wasn’t willing to sacrifice truly living until I was six feet under.

I shouted our next stop up to Ernest. “As always, I thank you for your concern. I’m sure it was kindly meant.”

“And I’m sure you will disregard it completely.” He sighed.

I repressed my smile. “At least we can take comfort in the fact that we know each other so well.” I rapped the ceiling of the carriage with my walking stick.

We jolted forward. Mr. Ryder jerked backwards so he wouldn’t be caught in the window, an amusingly shocked expression on his face, and disappeared from view.

His words lingered, however.

The darkly charming Mr. Cooke owned the brothel that my victim had patronized. The one in which Mr. Trent had harmed one of Cooke’s girls.

I had only met Edric Cooke a handful of times. Had corresponded with him once. When he’d understood my club wasn’t a threat to his business, he had been nothing but chivalrous in his dealings with me.

But Ryder was right. Cooke wasn’t a merciful man. What might a man like him do to make the person who’d harmed one of his investments pay for his offense?

Chapter Seven

Brett

Miss Murphy’s kneebrushed against his as their carriage pulled to a stop. “You needn’t come in with me,” Brett said. Not waiting for the driver, Brett opened the hackney door and jumped down to the street. “You can stay in the coach until I return.”

“How will you charm the information from the coroner without me by your side?” She rolled her eyes as she spoke. It didn’t seem possible, but Miss Murphy apparently didn’t count herself among the lovely young women capable of loosening a man’s tongue. She must not own a mirror.

Brett shrugged and lowered the steps. If Miss Murphy was overcome in the coroner’s office, it would be no hardship to assist her, though he suspected she was made of sterner stuff.

The coroner’s office was a one-story stone structure only a block off Bow Street. It was next to a large church and cemetery, which must make burial of some of the bodies that entered its doors more convenient.

They entered into a narrow front room, cluttered with a small wooden desk, chair, and two cupboards. A curtain hung in a second doorway, a distinct chill drifting in from that room. A brass hand bell sat on the corner of the desk with a note reading “Ring Me” wedged underneath it.

Brett picked it up and rang. “You and Lady Mary hinted that you had some experience looking into murders. What did you mean?”