Page 8 of The Marriage Method

It was the latter possibility that alarmed Nell the most.

She turned toward the door. “I must go.”

“If you insist,” Miles said. “I’ll see you back to Mr. and Mrs. Royce’s house myself.”

“I’m not staying with Mr. and Mrs. Royce.”

His brows knit. “I thought—”

“I had planned to, but they were called to Paris unexpectedly. Mrs. Royce’s former employer, Madame Dalhousie, is ailing and she asked for Mrs. Royce particularly. They won’t be back until Friday.”

Miles didn’t appear to care about the Royces’ whereabouts, or about the precarious health of Madame Dalhousie. “Then where—”

“At a ladies’ hotel in Commercial Street.”

His dark gaze sharpened to attention. She may as well have informed him that she’d taken lodgings on the moon. “The East End? Are you out of your senses?”

“Not at all. I have business there.” Had business, Nell silently amended. Given what had just occurred, she could no longer reasonably hope to complete her assignment.

“I am not escorting you to one of the worst slums in London,” Miles said.

“Forgive me, but I don’t recall asking you to.” Yanking her veil back down over her face, Nell crossed to the office door.

Mr. Higgins moved aside, allowing her to pass through it.

She didn’t look back.

• • • • •

Miles stared after Miss Trewlove for a moment, before rallying himself. “Higgins—”

“Shall I send one of the lads ahead to fetch your carriage, sir?” Higgins asked.

“Sharpish,” Miles said. “And bring me my hat and coat.”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” Higgins dashed off at a trot.

Miles exited his office, shutting the door after him.

Bob Flack, Higgins’s junior, hovered nearby. He was gawking at Miles, jaw slackened, as though he’d just made the jarring discovery that his esteemed editor in chief was not the highly principled man he’d believed him to be.

Miles’s conscience twinged. But there was no time to correct Flack’s misapprehensions. Ignoring the man’s air of disappointment, Miles looked him straight in the eye. “See that this door remains closed, and the cat left undisturbed,” he commanded. “I’ll be back within the hour.” With that, he stalked down the hall after the swiftly disappearing figure of Miss Trewlove.

More was at stake than her reputation. Miles had his own to think about.

He had come to the Courant over a decade ago as a junior reporter. He’d worked his way through the ranks, toiling night and day without complaint—diligent, relentless, reliable—first advancing to a position as an investigative journalist, then a foreign correspondent, then an assistant editor, then a city editor, all the way up to the position he occupied today as editor in chief.

His staff looked up to him. They believed in him. He was seen by them, just as Higgins had described him, as a gentleman of the utmost integrity.

As of now, only Higgins and Flack were aware of Miles’s apparent misconduct. Miles didn’t like to think how the rest of the paper would react on hearing that he’d been discovered in a compromising position with a source for one of his stories. And in his office, no less, during the height of the business day.

It didn’t matter that Miles could explain it all. Middle-class morality demanded more than excuses and apologies. It was an exacting arbiter, defined by suffocating conventionality and a hidebound adherence to proper behavior. A workingman—a self-made man—had little else but his good name to recommend him. To lose that was to lose everything.

Higgins caught up with Miles in seconds. “Your hat, coat, and gloves, sir,” he said, passing the items to him.

Miles took them. He shrugged on his coat as he walked. His gloves came next, obscuring the evidence of where Shadow had bitten him. He made a mental note to apply a poultice to the wound at the first opportunity—whenever that might be.

Higgins hurried along at his side, matching every one of Miles’s long strides with two of his own. “And here’s that package that was delivered for you.” He extended a small box, wrapped in brown paper and twine.