Page 84 of Honor Unbound

He sat and crossed one leg over the other. “I am here as a favor to a friend. A very small friend. Do you know Harold, the errand boy for The Red Chemise?”

I shook my head, and Ryder continued. “He runs errands for anyone on the street actually. He’s a nice boy, and very worried. He thinks there are a group of people trying to falsely implicate his friend, Miss Rogerson, in two murders.”

“Ah.” The boy Burton and Marie had told me about. “Is Miss Rogerson such a friend that he would lie to protect her?” We’d thought Peg had been wiped from our suspect list.

Ryder’s eyes crinkled. “He might, but in this instance he did not. He assures me that Miss Rogerson didn’t leave the brothelthe night of the cannery manager’s murder, and I believe him. I’ve had a couple of years acquaintanceship with the lad, and have learned to discern when he lies and when he speaks the truth.”

My shoulders relaxed. Good. She was still off the list. “Well, you can tell your friend that we don’t suspect her any longer.”

“So you are persisting in your foolhardiness and continuing this investigation? We do have magistrates and Runners for a reason.”

“I am.” I must be growing accustomed to Ryder. His use of the word foolhardy to describe me didn’t even ruffle me. I tilted my head. “I’m surprised at you. Letting a child interact with such a sinful establishment. I would have thought you would have dragged him away.”

The lines around his milk chocolate eyes deepened. “Believe me, I have tried. I even invited the lad to come live with me as he seems to have no home to go to, but he refused. He likes his freedom, as he says.”

My breath hitched. Mr. Ryder was a study in contradictions. A thorn in many a boot, but capable of such generosity of spirit. I was tempted to say something complimentary to the man, but was saved by the appearance of Timothy and our tea service. “Just leave it on the desk,” I told the footman.

He did as I said, then hesitated. “Milady, you have another visitor. A Mr. Cooke.”

Ryder’s hand paused over the teapot. “Does he call on you often?” he asked, his voice flat.

“About as often as you do.” I frowned. “Did he say what he wanted?” I asked Timothy.

“No, milady.”

Ryder poured two cups of tea, then settled back with his. “Well, let’s not live in suspense. Why not invite him back?”

As I could think of no way to decline without appearing suspicious, I nodded to Timothy. As we waited, I added an extra lump of sugar to my tea, needing the fortification.

Southey sat at the side of my desk, looking between me and Ryder. Probably trying to determine who was more likely to feed him from the tea tray. But when Mr. Cooke appeared in my doorway, a slightly red-faced Timothy a step behind him, Southey slunk toward me, settling down beneath the desk.

The footman darted around the crime lord to stand in front of him as he announced his name.

I pointed to the chair next to Ryder. “Please, join us. Would you care for tea? I can ask Timothy to fetch another cup.”

“No, thank you.” If Cooke was surprised to see Mr. Ryder in my office, he did a good job hiding it. There was a brief head bob between the men, the barest of acknowledgements, and then Cooke took his seat.

I wrapped my hands around my cup, eyeing the two men in front of me. The moralist and the crime lord. I took a sip to hide my smile. I did lead a most interesting life.

“What brings you here, Mr. Cooke?” I asked.

He smoothed his hand down his waistcoat, the fabric a purple so dark it almost matched his black coat. “I came to see how you fared after the incident the other night. No lasting injuries, I hope.”

Ryder’s cup clacked onto its saucer. “What incident? What trouble did you get her into, Cooke?”

Cooke’s black eyebrows winged up. “I’m afraid the trouble was all of Lady Mary’s own making.” He turned his devilish blue eyes on me. “I’m sorry to say it, but it’s true. Traipsing about atop carriages is hardly conducive to one’s health.”

Ryder’s normally pleasant baritone deepened to a bass. “Atop a carriage?”

My pulse quickened. “I wasn’t traipsing. And besides, the injury didn’t occur while I was standing on my carriage’s roof. A hackney coach almost ran me down in the street.”

“That is so reassuring,” Ryder said dryly, his lips tight.

I tapped my thumb on the rim of my cup. “Aside from a bruise or two, I am unharmed. Thank you for your concern.” I dipped my head to Cooke. I didn’t believe it. Believe him. Cooke didn’t strike me as the kind of man who called to check on one’s welfare. I just didn’t know what he could possibly want.

“Might one ask why you were standing atop your carriage?” Ryder smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“One might.” I shifted in my seat. “It was convenient for me at the time.”