“My apologies, ma’am,” I say when I reach them. “I realized I did not introduce myself. I am Mallory Mitchell, Dr. Gray’s assistant.”
Her gaze flicks to Gray, waiting for him to introduce her, as is proper. Instead, he stands there, with a look that wonders whether he can skip this part.
Just introduce us, Gray, and we can make our excuses?—
“This is Lady Patricia Inglis,” Gray says, and if I still had the port glass, I might have dropped it.
I school my features fast and give the slightest curtsy, hoping nothing in my face reveals my dismay.
There’s a reason Lady Inglis uses Gray’s first name and acts as if she knows him well. She does. In the biblical sense even.
When I first arrived in this time period, I found a letter in Catriona’s dresser. A letter from Lady Inglis to Gray, one that Catriona had apparently intercepted before he received it. She’d likely been looking for blackmail material, maybe suspecting it was from a lover. What she got was even better. Not a sweet love note from a paramour but a full-on intimate missive, in which Lady Inglis had tried to tempt Gray back to her bed by reminding him how much fun he’d had there. Super awkward, and as soon as I figured out what it was, I’d stopped reading.
Even more awkward? The fact that just last month I confessed to him about the letter. I’d felt honor-bound to tell him Catriona stole it, but it was a very uncomfortable conversation. He’d told me to destroy it, which I had.
So this beautiful and elegant woman is Lady Inglis? Of course she is, because that’s what I’ve pictured as the sort of woman Gray would be with. Mature, possibly even older, but gorgeous and refined, educated and charming. Okay, I haven’t seen the charming part yet, but I’m sure she is, when she’s not wondering what the hell her former lover is doing messing around with a girl barely out of her teens.
“Did you enjoy the performance, ma’am?” I ask.
“I did.” Her gaze goes to the book I’m still clutching. “Is that one of Mr. Dickens’s works?”
“Our Mutual Friend,” I say. “My favorite. I have never been to this sort of event, and I was hoping for a signature, but obviously, that is not done.” I give a rueful smile. “Dr. Gray? If you like, I could go join Mrs. Ballantyne and Mr. McCreadie.”
“Certainly not,” he says. “It is dark outside. I must accompany you.” He turns to Lady Inglis. “But Miss Mitchell is correct that my sister is waiting for us.” He tips his top hat. “Good evening to you, Lady Inglis.”
As we turn away, she says, “I could ask Mr. Dickens to sign that book for you, Miss Mitchell. He knows my parents from years back.”
I don’t hesitate. I know this for what it is—grabbing back Gray’s attention with an underhanded ploy. By the way Gray tenses, he also knows what it is. And yet...
The reason it’s truly underhanded? She’s not offering somethinghewants. She’s offering something his companion wants, and she must know Gray well enough to realize he can’t walk away from that.
“I’m fine,” I murmur under my breath. “I don’t need?—”
“I am sorry to interfere with your evening out,” Lady Inglis says. “But I have been wanting to talk to you, Duncan.”
His cheek twitches, but before he can comment, she hurries on with, “A business matter. I was trying to determine how best to bring it to your attention. I suspected a—” She clears her throat softly. “—a letter would not do. Nor a message asking to meet with you. Yet I did not wish to show up at your house.”
“If you need something, Lady Inglis,” he says coolly, “then I would appreciate you saying so and not tacking on an offer to help Miss Mitchell.”
“Icanhelp her, though. I can get that signature. As for what I need... I wish to hire you as a detective.”
A beat pause before Gray straightens. “Then you have come to the wrong person. I am a scientist. Any matter of detection would go to the police. I could ask Hugh to speak to you.”
Gray is being disingenuous here. He may not be a police detective, but he has come to call himself, only half-jokingly, a consulting detective. Yes, that’s my fault, and I owe Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for making the offhand reference that Gray liked enough to adopt.
Unlike Sherlock Holmes, though, Gray does not hire out his services. He only works for the police, specifically with McCreadie, and he takes no compensation. I could—and do—grumble at that, but I also know how little Victorian police officers make, and the department needs the money more than Gray does.
“I know you do more than work in your laboratory these days, Duncan,” Lady Inglis says.
“Does your case involve a dead body?”
“Heavens, no.”
“Then I cannot help you. Farewell, Lady?—”
“Duncan, please.” She reaches for his arm and then stops herself. “I understand you are suspicious of my motives, which is why I could not determine the best way to bring this to you. I made...”
Her gaze darts my way, and she clears her throat. “My previous attempts at communication were rebuffed, and I accepted that you did not wish to see me again. It is not as if I have hounded you, Duncan. I made two attempts, and then I stopped. Please do not insult me by presuming that is what I am doing. I think you know me better than that.”
