Page 34 of The Marriage Method

Miles’s blood warmed inexplicably as her eyes met his. How romantic, she’d muttered on the train. It had been the first she’d mentioned of romance. The first Miles had even thought of it. He’d been struck, in that moment, by what it meant—truly meant—to be married to her. She was no longer a problem to be solved, or an adversary to be bested. She was his wife.

“Actually,” he said, “I believe she’s rather a clever girl.”

Nell didn’t appear at all flattered by the compliment. “Rather a clever girl?” she repeated. “You are aware I’m not a child to be patted on the head and placated?”

His hand remained at the curve of her waist. Her incredibly shapely waist. Along with the delicate brush of her skirts on his leg and the faint fragrance of her perfume, it was a constant, aggravating reminder of just how womanly she was. “You may rest assured,” he said, “that the last thing I would ever mistake you for, Mrs. Quincey, is a child.”

A strange expression crossed Nell’s face.

Miles belatedly realized that it was the first time he’d addressed her by her married name. His name. The warmth in his veins ignited to a disconcerting simmer.

Judging by the color deepening in Nell’s cheeks, she felt it, too.

She slowed to a halt at the corner. They stood for a moment, eyes locked, before she finally spoke.

“If we’re to do this together,” she told him, “we must be equals.”

This.

She didn’t specify what. It could be their marriage. The search for Flora Brent. The investigation into Cowgill’s murder. Or possibly all three.

“But we’re not equals,” Miles pointed out. “Not in experience.”

“You have your experiences and I have mine,” she said. “Surely, we can defer to each other’s strengths without resorting to condescension.”

Miles hadn’t been aware that he had condescended to her. If so, he certainly hadn’t meant to. She was vexing, to be sure, and secretive, and inarguably inconvenient to his life, but he had no doubt that she had other qualities. Finer ones—and fiercer, too. He wasn’t repelled by her contradictory distinctions. It was the very quality he admired in cats. Their ferociousness, their daring, and their indomitable independence, all wrapped up with loyalty and affection bestowed on their chosen few.

As he gazed down at Nell, Miles wondered what it might be like to be one of her chosen few.

Or possibly her only.

“Partners, then,” he said gruffly.

Nell’s eyes brightened at the word. She smiled at him, revealing both her crooked tooth and her beguiling dimples. A brief, but achingly genuine expression, just as she’d given to Shadow in Miles’s office in those suspended moments before it had all turned to chaos. “Partners,” she agreed.

• • • • •

Nell took Miles’s arm for the remaining walk to Lost Hope Yard. This time, it wasn’t because she was unsteady on her leg, but because their acquaintance had progressed to a more equitable level. Indeed, as they navigated the narrow alleyways, sinking deeper into the dangerous heart of the slum, she felt rather in harmony with her new husband. And it had nothing to do with any attraction she might feel for him. It was because, she realized, she was beginning to like the dratted man.

Infuriatingly rational as he insisted on being, he wasn’t without sparks of kindness and humor. It was just that those characteristics rarely revealed themselves, competing as they did with all that grumpiness.

“You know your way around these parts quite well,” she said, as he led her down another short passage. “Have you written many stories about Whitechapel?”

“Several,” he said. “But none about the brothels.”

“About what, then?”

“Robberies. Murders. Rapes. The odd kidnapping.”

Nell blanched. “Heavens.”

“Neighborhoods like these aren’t generally known as safe places.” He drew her to a halt at the top of the next lane, his attention fixing on the filthy, sagging building that stood at the end of it. “There,” he said. “I suspect that’s it.”

Nell followed his gaze. Her pulse quickened. The place matched the description Miss Jean had given her—a crooked house, she’d said, with blackened windows, a newly built set of steps, and a recent coat of white paint to “freshen its face.”

Like the previous brothels they’d visited, it had no sign announcing its name. There was only a hulking figure of a man leaning against the door, a cap pulled low over his protruding brow. A bully boy, Nell had learned such men were called. Large, threatening, violent fellows employed to do the brothel keeper’s bidding. Down the way from him, a tattered band of ragged children played in the street. Their high-pitched shouts and laughter were an unsettling contrast to the sinister air of the house.

Nell regarded the place with growing apprehension. She didn’t have a reporter’s instincts. She did, however, possess a healthy amount of feminine intuition. And that intuition told her that this was the brothel they’d been looking for.