Page 14 of The Marriage Method

He immediately reached inside his coat and withdrew the small, brown-papered box. Blood was slowly leaking through its wrappings.

Miles met Nell’s eyes. As if in silent agreement, they swiftly repaired behind the nearest potted palm. There, they sank down in unison on one of the lounge’s badly sprung sofas, so close to each other that Nell’s wide skirts bunched against his leg.

“Did someone send you a gift from the butcher?” she inquired quietly.

“I suspect not,” Miles said.

The Courant wasn’t above inspiring the basest of responses to some of its articles. During his time as editor in chief, he’d seen his share of dog excrement and rotting fish. Had he not been so preoccupied by this business with Nell, he’d have refrained from taking the package from Higgins in the first place. But, small as it was, it hadn’t occurred to Miles that it could be anything harmful.

He withdrew his handkerchief from his pocket. Shaking it open, he spread it over his knee. Setting the box upon it, he methodically untied the twine bindings and stripped away the bloodstained paper. He paused before opening the box itself to look at Nell. “It might be anything,” he warned her. “If you’d prefer—”

“I’m a teacher,” she replied. Her countenance was surprisingly businesslike. “I’ve seen all sorts of vile anonymous gifts. Nothing could possibly shock me.”

Miles gave a stiff nod. He opened the box. The item within was wrapped in a handkerchief of its own. The blood-soaked square of linen bore an elegant monogram that the anonymous sender had prominently displayed.

L. C.

“Lawrence Cowgill,” Miles murmured.

“Who is Lawrence Cowgill?” Nell asked.

“My missing gossip columnist.” Miles unwrapped the bloody handkerchief.

Nell sucked in a horrified breath. “Good lord. Is that—?”

“His tongue,” Miles said with a sinking sense of realization. It appeared to have been cut out, possibly with a razor. And not too long ago, judging by the still-seeping blood.

He swiftly closed the box, hiding the contents from her view. He stood. “Forgive me, I must return to my office at once.”

Nell rose. Her face was pale, but resolute. “Naturally, you must. But shouldn’t you first notify the police?”

“Quite,” Miles said. “I’ll be back as soon as I’m able.” He bowed to her, and turning on his heel, strode out of the hotel.

4

Miles stood beside Higgins outside the door of Lawrence Cowgill’s ground-floor flat in Carey Street. It was difficult to believe that, only a short time ago, he’d been on the verge of proposing marriage to a lady he’d compromised. And now here he was about to commit what was inarguably a crime.

Then again, Miles had always been good at compartmentalizing.

His life was organized into rigid boxes—work, friendships, women, cats. Everything orderly and methodical. Thus far, only the cats had managed to escape the confines of their category. Nothing else threatened to do so. Certainly not a lady who was still virtually a stranger to him.

A stranger whose stocking-clad limbs he’d been privileged to admire. One he’d held close against him, feeling the narrow, corseted curve of her waist in his hand and the soft fullness of her rounded bosom pressing to his chest.

Penelope Trewlove.

The recollections of her nagged at Miles, threatening to divert his attention.

He mentally consigned her to one of his many boxes. Not the cobweb-strewn one labeled Women. That derelict space had been empty for ages, and even before that, it had never been occupied for long, and never by anyone who truly mattered to him.

In any case, it wouldn’t do for her. She required a box of her own, one marked Nell. He would return to it and the inevitability of their engagement at a later time. For now, it was work that must take priority, just as it always did.

“I really do think we should have notified the police,” Higgins said for what had to be the hundredth time.

Miles gave his clerk a distracted glance. Higgins was young, but he was trustworthy. More importantly, he knew how to follow orders. Miles had returned to his office only long enough to fetch him—and to dispatch a reporter to track down Pettiman—before proceeding to Cowgill’s lodgings without further delay. They hadn’t taken Miles’s carriage. They’d used a series of hansom cabs to convey them as far as Portugal Street. The remainder of the way had been traversed on foot, much to Higgins’s consternation.

“We will,” Miles assured him. “But first—” He rattled the doorknob.

“There’s no one here, sir,” Higgins objected. “I came myself only yesterday, on your orders, and Bob the day before that. The flat was empty.”