Page 62 of The Marriage Method

“No?” Miles’s mouth tipped in a humorless smile. “Perhaps my wife does have more power than yours.”

Gabriel’s pale gaze sparked with immediate interest. “You went inside?”

“I did.”

“To the manor house?”

“I was allowed no further than the gardens. It’s where I proposed.”

“With the charity school looming behind you? And Miss Corvus herself somewhere inside?” Gabriel gave a derisive snort. “I’m amazed you could maintain your focus on Miss Trewlove with an unfinished story to tempt you.”

“I told you, I’m not a slave to temptation.”

“There’s temptation and there’s temptation,” Gabriel said. “So long as you have your priorities straight.”

Miles’s smile took on an edge. “You’re lecturing me about priorities?”

“From a place of experience. Not three months ago, I was ready to sacrifice everything to solidify my position in the Rookery. And look at me now.”

Miles didn’t require a reminder. He’d witnessed his friend’s transformation firsthand. Gabriel had given up his underworld throne in order to marry the woman he loved. He no longer ran the Rookery, not in any official capacity. He now had a completely respectable position on the St. Giles District Board of Works. A wife, a home, a future in politics. A future, full stop. And all because he’d lost his heart to a complicated, vexing, and wholly unsuitable female.

“You can’t compare my marriage to yours,” Miles said. “You proposed to your wife out of love. I proposed to mine out of necessity.”

“Very gentlemanly of you, making such a sacrifice.”

“I was thinking of my reputation at the paper.”

“Naturally, you were.” Gabriel finished his drink. “What was Miss Trewlove thinking of, I wonder?”

“She was more reluctant to accept than I was to ask,” Miles answered him. “If that doesn’t explain our relationship, I don’t know what does.”

Gabriel’s mocking smile dimmed with understanding. “So, it’s like that, is it?”

Miles didn’t answer. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, weary of the conversation. “I must get back to the office. I’ve been out since Wednesday. It’s inexcusable at any time, let alone with a reporter just murdered.” Again, he turned to leave. This time, he didn’t stop until he reached the hall, and only then to retrieve his hat and coat from Kilby.

Gabriel followed Miles to the door. “Surely, the owners of the Courant make allowances for a honeymoon? You’re a newly married man.”

“And have spent all of yesterday exploring Whitechapel brothels with my new bride.” Miles settled his hat on his head. “The honeymoon is over. I’ve a paper to run.” He glanced back at Gabriel as Kilby opened the door for him. “See that my wife doesn’t venture into the slum without me, would you? And if you could exert yourself to finding Miss Brent before anyone else gets themselves killed?”

Gabriel bowed. “I shall do my utmost.”

16

“I blame myself,” Effie declared as she rummaged through the steamer trunk that sat on a bench at the end of her carved four-poster bed. “Come to London, I said. Go to the theater and the symphony. Visit the dressmaker. Kiss a handsome fellow.”

Nell was perched on the edge of Effie’s mattress, her cane lying on the embroidered coverlet next to her. She well recalled the advice Effie had issued several months ago. She’d urged Nell to see a little of the world, to experience something of life, before committing herself to the Academy for the remainder of her days.

“It wasn’t that,” Nell began.

“But Mr. Quincey of all men!” Effie uttered.

Nell winced. It was proving a greater challenge to assuage her friend’s outrage than she’d anticipated. Effie had been fuming since they’d entered the vast upstairs bedchamber. Her own, judging by her scattered luggage and the perfume bottles and plated hairbrush that sat on the dainty little silk-skirted dressing table. But not hers alone. There was evidence of her husband’s presence in the shaving implements on the washstand and the pocket watch and pair of onyx cuff links that lay atop the low mahogany bureau.

They shared a bedroom, Nell realized. Yet more proof of the closeness Effie enjoyed with her new husband. Was it any wonder she looked askance at Nell’s marriage to Mr. Quincey?

“Effie, really,” Nell said. “Mr. Quincey isn’t that bad.”

“Oh no. Only stern, disapproving, and completely lacking in sentiment. And he dislikes dogs, did I mention?”