There Is No Mystery to Us

This was not a new experience for her. Her life was nothing but problems, considering she made a entire career out of finding them and solving them. Some of those dearest to her – perhaps all – might say she herself was a problem (but they would say thus in only the most affectionate manner, with a wry smile perhaps, or even a chuckle. A problem only in the most positive sense, to be sure.)

(These loved ones might discreetly roll their eyes at such a notion when Eliza was not looking.)

But this problem was utterly novel. And it was driving her to distraction, which was not ideal since she was currently embroiled in an intense case with a tight deadline. Ah, the reader might have inferred that this particular problem was in fact not a case itself. Eliza wished it were otherwise. Cases were delightful puzzles, which she could piece together, and delight in her own cleverness upon completion of the picture.

But she did not feel clever now. She felt completely at odds with herself. She felt….foolish. Unmoored. But – and this was the strangest part of all – this feeling was itself not unwelcome. She was not frustrated. She was, instead, rather fascinated.

The problem sat directly across from her, at his own desk in the now-cramped office that once belonged to her father. The room just barely fit the two desks, along with an expansive chalkboard, and piles of documents stacked knee-high all across the floor. No less than six lamps had been brought in to guarantee good lighting in the evening, a necessity with so much paperwork to sort through and examine in fine detail.

Eliza’s eyes had begun to cross with fatigue a good half hour ago. But she was not one to admit defeat aloud, especially since Patrick Nash was still clearly absorbed in his own files, lightning-quick glances taking in the small print articles and grainy photocopies, pen in hand, scribbling little notes here and there.

Eliza had found nothing worth writing down for at least the past hour. Their main suspect was a notorious lothario, and digging through years of society pages gossip, court records, and police reports (cuckolded husbands did so enjoy a duel, or at least the threat of one) had proven to be a herculean task.

Patrick was still engaged. Eliza was decidedly not.

It was their suspect’s fault then, she supposed. He was the reason behind her current….problem.

Oh, and Patrick. He was to blame as well. But such was often the case.

The lamplight flickered softly along the walls as a sudden draught swept through. But Eliza was not cold. On the contrary, her body was annoyingly warm, to the point she felt almost flushed.

Again, Patrick’s fault.

Just then, he looked up – a flick of his dark, twinkling eyes before they dropped again to his desk.

“You’ve given up?” he asked in a murmur.

“No,” came her quick, sure reply. Even she could hear how defensive it sounded.

One corner of his mouth lifted. “The exploits of a Don Juan can be surprisingly dull, I’m finding.”

Eliza slumped. “It’s all the same tale, over and over. I don’t know how he does it. Where does one even find the time for so many love affairs? It’s all so exhausting just reading about it, I can’t imagine living it.”

“I think anyone would say the same of us.”

That sent a shock down Eliza’s back. “Beg pardon?”

Now scratching out yet another note, Patrick said absently, “We work like dogs, Eliza. Neither of us are hardly home to take a proper meal most days.”

At his elaboration, she deflated once more. “Oh.”

Her tone caused him to pause in his writing and squint at her in the low light. “Hmm?”

“Nothing.” Eliza picked up her pen as though she had something to jot down.

“No. What did you think I meant?”

“Nothing,” she said again, more forcefully. She started to copy down a list of names she’d already copied on a different sheet of paper.

She didn’t look, but she could absolutely feel the sly grin on his face.

“Eliza, I didn’t…I certainly wasn’t implying-“

“Well you’d be on a short list of people, then.”

She saw, out of the corner of her vision, his shoulders drop. Her pen kept moving. She studiously ignored his stare and felt her cheeks grow still warmer.

“Does that really bother you so much? The way people talk about us?”

“It,” she said with a deep sigh, now underlining a paragraph she’d already underlined, “is an insult to my professionalism, and yours.”

“It’s just talk. Though I am sorry for it.”

“No matter. We knew the risks when we decided to partner up.”

“Indeed. And ‘Scarlet and Nash’ has such a ring to it,” he said dreamily. He leaned back in his chair, and Eliza finally looked up to see him gazing at the ceiling, or perhaps beyond it, as though the name of their new joint venture was painted across the stars.

“It does,” she agreed with a small smile. “And we have been thriving. I simply wish it was due to our brilliant work rather than to the gossip we’ve attracted.”

“Oh it is, it is,” Patrick said, and he waved his hand as though waving away the matter entirely. “Though you might have done yourself a favor in keeping your inspector around.”

This last part was said almost as an aside. So casually. Too casually. It alerted Eliza immediately. She set down her pen.

“What.”

Patrick had gone back to taking notes. His brow was furrowed, the picture of serious study. “You know,” he murmured, again with deliberate calm. “Wellington.”

“I should have ‘kept him around’?” she murmured back, and this time it was her deliberate calm that prickled Patrick’s awareness. His pen paused, hovering just above the paper. “Whatever do you mean, Patrick.”

He took in a deep breath and cleared his throat. Then, he flashed her a tight, cheery smile, the one he always used when he was slightly annoyed or chagrined and trying to move past it. “Just would have been a nice ace in our sleeve, that’s all. A friendly face on the police force. And if you’d…you know, uh,” he danced his fingers in the air as though to summon the words, “made something….made things more official, your reputation would not be as….well. Precarious as it has been.”

“My reputation is suddenly a concern to you?”

Patrick stiffened. “Eliza! How can you think it’s ever been otherwise?”

She rested her chin on one hand. “Well, there’s the two of us, often alone together, out at all hours, usually in places of ill repute. I don’t know that my ‘keeping’ the inspector would have made much difference in people’s opinions of my behavior. And I had no wish to keep him. Not like that.”

She shut her mouth abruptly. She hadn’t meant to say that last part, nor for it to sound so bitter.

Judging by the look in Patrick’s eye, he knew it.

She flipped her file closed and pulled out another at random from the pile on her desk.

“I don’t believe you.”

Eliza almost choked on a startled laugh. She stared at him with open amazement. “Excuse me?”

(It sounded more like, “how dare you.”)

Patrick shrugged. “I don’t believe you. Anyone who saw the two of you together could see there was….something.”

“Something,” she repeated with a scoff. “My, I never figured you for a gossiping matron.”

He squinted and frowned. “No, that actually sounds very much like me, Eliza, you know I love gossip.”

She had to admit it was true.

“Further,” he continued, “it is a requirement of our job to read people, and to read them well. We’ve never had much difficulty sussing each other out, now have we? Besides maybe a little-“ he fluttered the fingers of one hand in the air –“kerfuffle in the beginning of our relationship. I know you, Eliza. There was indeed ‘something.’”

Suddenly, the sharp turn their conversation had taken overwhelmed her. She shook her head tiredly. She did not want to talk about William. She most certainly didn’t want to talk about him with Patrick. And why was Patrick so interested anyway? They’d never discussed William before. It was none of his business. “This is ridiculous,” she said. She gestured at the mess of papers on her desk. “I’m going to get some actual work done. You might try the same.”

“You were staring at the same sheet of paper for almost ten minutes straight,” Patrick answered before she had time to even reach for her pen. She gaped at him. He winked.

“Alright! I’m tired! This is….boring and it’s late and we’ve been at this for hours! Don’t tell me your leg hasn’t already gone numb.”

Patrick glanced down thoughtfully. “It has, actually.”

She threw up her hands as if to say, See?

Patrick climbed to his feet, chair scraping back noisily, and gave his right thigh a few thumps. “Now what we need, Eliza, is a refreshing turn about the room. Get the blood flowing. Come on, up, up.”

He limped toward her desk and gestured for her to stand. She rolled her eyes. But her rump had gone numb as well, and she knew he was right, so she stood without further fuss and came around the desk. They stood in front of each other. Patrick glanced around at the maze of stacked files. Eliza waited, arms crossed.

“Not much room, is there,” he eventually said, fingers tapping against the sides of his legs.

“Mm,” Eliza replied, eyebrows arched with barely concealed mirth.

He flicked a glance up at her. A small smile worked its way across his mouth. “Jumping jacks?”

She couldn’t help letting out a sharp laugh. “You go first.”

He threw his head back with a sniff and a nod. “Right. Well, any good exercise requires proper hydration.” He spun around and snatched up the decanter of whiskey from his desk. Eliza laughed again, her earlier pique entirely forgotten.

“Oh no,” she suddenly said, looking around the room. “I think Ivy took the glasses this morning to wash and I forgot to bring them back.”

“No matter,” Patrick replied easily. “No one’s here to see us act completely uncivilized.” He removed the topper and offered her the decanter. She raised a brow at it.

“Are you serious?” She took it from him all the same. She took a delicate swig, then smacked her lips. It did feel rather barbaric.

Patrick raised a brow right back at her as she returned the whiskey to him. “Some risks we simply must take.” He took his own swig, and almost seemed pained as he swallowed. “Seems an insult to the drink. Ah, well. Needs must. Now, tell me where you are with our Mr. Wickham.”

They stretched their legs as much as possible in their tight confines and swapped information and insights along with the whiskey for a good quarter hour. By the time Eliza took her seat again, she indeed felt refreshed, and so did Patrick it seemed.

They worked in silence. Or, Eliza tried to. But The Problem soon reared its head once again, this time made worse by the whiskey she’d consumed (straight from the decanter, oh Ivy would have a fit).

The Problem himself was utterly oblivious to her distraction now, since his focus on the case had been properly reinvigorated by their short break – as hers should have been.

Eliza fumed at herself. This was not like her. She could only blame the monotony of their work. Or the whiskey. Or her fatigue, or the long hours spent in close company with Patrick or whatever combination of factors would absolve her of responsibility. She sighed heavily, then cursed herself, for the sigh drew Patrick’s attention.

“Alright?” he asked, looking up from his files.

“Fine,” she replied through gritted teeth, not meeting his eye.

She felt his gaze on her. She waited him out.

“You sure?” he eventually asked, as she knew he would, and the predictability only irritated her further.

“I’m perfectly fine, would you just-“

She sighed again. This was ridiculous. But it was his fault, really, wasn’t it? How could she be blamed for her distraction when it was his behavior that caused it?

She gestured vaguely in his direction.

“Roll your sleeves down,” she muttered, and then picked up a sheaf of papers to diligently flip through.

“What?” came Patrick’s flummoxed reply.

“You heard me.” June 13th news article, June 22nd article, August 3rd warrant issued… She realized she’d already sorted this pile by date. Oh well, it couldn’t hurt to be thorough. August 5th transfer record, August 6th bail hearing….

“No, I don’t think I did.”

“Your shirt sleeves.” Aha! A bank statement dated June 10th. Eliza slipped it into its proper place at the bottom of the stack.

“What about them?”

She darted a glance up at him. “Fix them.”

He looked down at his arms – at his exposed forearms. Three hours ago, he’d loosened his collar and rolled up his sleeves, an action so indecent for someone as impeccably straight-laced as Patrick Nash that Eliza’s eyes had nearly bugged out of her head.

But he’d done so whilst completely absorbed in his research. And Eliza realized that at the time he’d probably entirely forgotten she was even in the room.

And ever since, she’d been stealing glances at him – at all that skin – and chiding herself for her lack of restraint. She wasn’t a schoolgirl, for heaven’s sake. She’d seen far more of the male body through the years, especially on her trips to the morgue.

But the cold flesh of a corpse, or the bare chest of an underground boxer, or the ripped trousers of a homeless drunkard was nothing in comparison to this.

This was….well, this was Patrick.

And there were his hands, of course, yes, but there were now his wrists, and his forearms – thick, sinewy, dusted with dark hair. And it all made the rest of him strange. His shoulders seemed broader. His chest, wider. His jaw, stronger now in profile , a well-defined angle leading up to the curve of his ear. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like how solid he now seemed, how his presence in the room felt larger, like he was squeezed up against her even as he sat by the opposite wall.

Patrick was her business partner, her friend. He wasn’t a man. Not in the sense that… Not in a way that made her feel like a woman.

But she could hardly tear her eyes away. Passing the whiskey back and forth with him earlier, she’d felt the most painful surges in her fingers every time they brushed against his. Her heart had stuttered. And it had felt so wild and tantalizing that she’d barely been able to keep up with his theorizing about their client. Only professional pride had allowed her to brace up.

And now she just felt angry, because of course he’d notice something was off about her, and of course he’d dig and needle her until he found out what it was. So she decided to head him off. She was an adult. She could address the matter straightforwardly.

Patrick was still staring at his arms. She kept an eye on him from her peripheral vision as she sorted through the next pile of papers to make sure they were in correct order.

“Oh.”

Patrick flicked his gaze back and forth between her and his sleeves, once, twice, then a few times with more rapidity, and Eliza was dreadfully certain he was drawing conclusions that were, of course, entirely incorrect.

“I don’t say it to embarrass you,” she said, all graciousness, all blessed innocence. “But for someone so concerned with my reputation, you really ought to be more careful.”

She smiled beatifically. He jerked his head in an awkward, belated nod, and then slowly, methodically, attended to his sleeves.

“Forgive me.”

“Forgiven,” she chirped. She was not further distracted by the sight of him buttoning his cuffs. She was not.

“Though I have to say-“

“Do you really.”

“-I never thought you to be prudish.”

“I am not-“ Eliza straightened up in her chair and narrowed her eyes. “I am not prudish. You know very well I am not. I simply….prefer at least a veneer of professionalism in my office.”

Patrick’s eyes were once more fixed on his paperwork, though she knew his attention was not. She worried her lip, then stopped herself. She had no need to defend herself, and no need to be nervous. She was in the right. Any person who might have walked in would have been utterly scandalized at Patrick’s state of deshabille, and in the presence of a woman at that. Nevermind it was 10 o’clock at night. In their line of business, a client could come crashing in at any hour.

And, with his sleeves restored to their rightful position, Eliza felt she could at last breathe easier. Well done.

They worked in silence for a long stretch of time, Eliza with more determination than ever. She was exhausted, but they had to make more headway. Mr. Wickham was always on the move, and they needed to establish a pattern of behavior, quickly.

But as the minutes ticked by, and pages were flipped over and tucked away, Eliza began to feel the first stirrings of embarrassment. Patrick hadn’t said another word to her since her prim admonishment. Had she overreacted? Perhaps. She didn’t want to examine why the sight of so much of his bare skin had bothered her to such an extent, but the fluttering in the pit of her stomach refused to go away, and it never pleased her to be angry with Patrick. It so rarely happened, actually, which, for the first time since their meeting she realized was an extraordinary aberration. Eliza was always at odds with people. It was her nature, to poke and prod and flare until her conscience and her curiosity were both satisfied. But if she was bull-headed (which Ivy was forever insisting was true) then Patrick, somehow, was an expert matador. He never stood in her way. As a matter of fact, he was often steaming ahead right alongside her, though often with a great deal more circumspection than she could ever be bothered with.

Now she felt like a bit of a nag. Patrick had every right to make himself at home in their shared office. The main building of Scarlet and Nash, which had formerly been the office of Nash and Sons, was their usual place of business. But for long, finicky cases such as Mr. Wickham’s, they often retreated to her father’s office where they could work in greater peace and in more direct communication, without the distraction of busy staff and callers and other casefiles. It also helped to have a secondary location to greet skittish clients or informants.

Patrick belonged here just as much as she did. He ought to feel at ease in this space. So why had she allowed herself to be so….ugh, prudish?

“Aha!” Patrick suddenly exclaimed, and held up what looked to be a letter in Mr. Wickham’s handwriting. “I might have found us a lead.”

Eliza stood and went to his desk, delighted at both the distraction from her thoughts and at a possible breakthrough. She took the letter from Patrick and skimmed through it.

“Our loverboy seems to have a port of call in Dover,” Patrick said, practically crowing.

Eliza found the section he referred to. “The Ramshead? Is that an inn, a pub?”

“Not sure. But you see how he mentioned it, as though his friend Mr. Dobbs would know it well. Likely his local whenever he finds himself in Dover.”

“Well spotted! We can leave first thing in the morning.”

“We?”

Eliza tossed the letter back onto Patrick’s desk. “Yes, of course. We. If he’s often in Dover we ought to try out a few more likely haunts, ask around. Unless you mean to send some of our men.”

Patrick’s eyes glittered darkly in the lamp glow as he stared up at her. “Well, we do pay them for a reason.”

“No,” Eliza said with a sharp shake of her head. “We’ve been working this hard ourselves, we know it best. We know him best. I want to make sure this gets done right. If we make enough headway tomorrow, we can reconsider leaving matters with our men.”

Patrick nodded, then leaned back in his chair. He picked up the letter and glanced over it before his eyes flicked up to hers again. “Might not be a nice part of town.”

Eliza knit her brows. Since when had that ever been an issue for her?

Patrick smirked. “I’d hate for your delicate sensibilities to be offended. Since you are such a stickler for propriety.”

Eliza scoffed and slapped her palms down on his desk. “Don’t laugh at me. We can’t have total disregard for propriety, not if I’m to keep the gossipmongers away from my door. It’s bad for business. And just think what Ivy would have done had she walked in here.”

“Do you think she would have minded? She’s worked at Scotland Yard for nearly a year now. She’s seen far worse.”

“She would have thrown you out on your ear.”

Patrick hummed in agreement. “Her opinion of me is low enough as it is.”

Eliza frowned, straightening up and crossing her arms. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“It’s not low enough?”

“Patrick. Ivy likes you.”

He seemed genuinely taken aback. “No, she doesn’t.”

“She does! You’re very charming, you know.”

“I know,” he acknowledged with a tip of his head. “But she believes me to be a terrible influence on you. I encourage your worst behaviors.”

“I could not possibly be worse than I already am. She knows the job comes first, always. She accepted that long ago. Besides, I think her work at the Yard has expanded her horizons a great deal.”

“Are you saying she’s gotten used to so much riffraff that I seem tame in comparison?”

“Precisely,” Eliza said with a grin. He grinned back at her.

“Well, I suppose that’s a comfort.”

“So. Off to Dover tomorrow?”

Patrick nodded and stood. His frame again seemed to take up too much space for some reason, and Eliza barely managed to stop herself from taking a step back. That would have most certainly alerted him that something was amiss. “I’ll take care of the cab hire first thing. Do you think we’ve earned a break, then?”

He let out a deep breath, and the smell of whiskey wafted over her, warm and smoky. Her hand found the decanter and tilted it toward him.

“I think so. Drink?”

He took it from her while holding her gaze. It was another peculiar habit of his, the way he was hardly ever afraid to stare her down, never intimidated by her as so many others could be. Sometimes it was merely his curious nature, much the same as her own, that caused him to observe others so intently. Sometimes it felt confrontational, as though he were daring her to be the first to look away. This moment was the latter. She didn’t know why. She didn’t like it. And she also wouldn’t back down, no matter how much her stomach still twisted at his proximity.

(Perhaps she should ask Ivy for a remedy? There surely must be a tincture or something to help calm a sudden and ridiculous flight of fancy.)

Patrick’s eyes twinkled with amusement as he took a deep swig of whisky. He handed it to her, and without breaking his gaze, she took her own swig.

“What’s going on with you?” he asked quietly, taking the decanter back.

Eliza nearly choked. “Nothing,” she answered, proud of how steady her voice sounded despite the burn of the whisky at the back of her throat. “Nothing besides the usual that everyone thinks is wrong with me, that is.”

Patrick laughed heartily, and she couldn’t help smiling back. He still seemed too close, his body too….too much. It was stifling, and heady, and Eliza began to think she should call it a night. She fingered the files scattered along the edge of his desk.

She didn’t want to go.

She struggled to find something to say to fill the silence, but Patrick began to walk around the side of the desk, coming to stand beside her. He offered the whisky once more. For lack of anything else to do, she took it, and drank more deeply than she intended. To her utter humiliation, she accidentally pulled the decanter away from her mouth too quickly and had to use her sleeve to wipe at her chin. Patrick pulled out a handkerchief, which she took with a too-casual shrug.

“I’m starting to think you could go toe-to-toe with me at the bar, Eliza.”

“You make it sound impressive.”

“I am Irish.”

She laughed, and thrust the decanter toward him. “Show me what you’re made of.”

He raised a brow, and gave the liquor an appraising look. “What are you getting me into, Miss Scarlet?”

“Nothing you’re not willing to get me into.”

Oh, damnation.

Eliza blushed furiously at the blatant flirtation in her tone. She hoped with everything she had that Patrick couldn’t see it. Her tongue seemed to have decided to run away from her. Along with her heart, and her nerves, and her stomach. What on earth was wrong with her? She usually never drank such a quantity of alcohol, but she had been under the impression her tolerance was up to the task.

Patrick – damnable man – took a step closer. He cocked his hip against the desk and, holding her eye the entire time, took a long, deep swallow of whisky. Her eye was immediately drawn to the motion of his throat, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed and settled. He held out the decanter. This was clearly a gauntlet thrown.

Eliza never backed down from a challenge. It was simply beyond her capabilities. She met his stare without flinching. And took another drink.

This is a tremendously bad idea, Lizzy. Ivy might as well have been standing in the room, so clear was her voice in Eliza’s mind.

To her vague horror, a sputtering laugh spilled out of her.

Patrick chuckled, clearly amused and befuddled. Eliza shook her head. The room seemed to spin a little. “Just thinking of Ivy.” It was hardly an adequate explanation, but he seemed to understand her perfectly.

He looked at her from the side of his eye. “We are both already lost causes to her, I’m afraid. Do you think she’d be surprised if I told her you were the bad influence on me?”

Eliza grinned and shook her head, the room once more tilting sideways. “Not in the slightest.”

She gestured at the decanter. Your turn.

He gave a long-suffering sigh and had another swallow. “How did we get here?”

“It’s been a long night, and a long case, and we’re exhausted and we’ve finally snagged a promising lead. You’re the one always going on about celebrating the small victories.”

“This doesn’t feel like a celebration,” Patrick protested. “It feels like Russian roulette.”

That earned him another messy laugh, and for some reason – well, because they were nearly drunk - both of them were soon doubled over, wiping tears of mirth from their eyes.

“You’re a very strange woman, Eliza.”

“You’re the strangest man I’ve ever known, Patrick! How dare you.”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you still haven’t taken your turn.”

Eliza rolled her eyes – oops, there went the room again, topsy-turvy – and took a healthy swig. “Ugh.”

“Alright, I’d say you’ve proven your point.”

“I never had a point. I was simply having fun, like you always tell me to do.”

“You mean you actually listen to me? Eliza, I’m touched.”

“You are something.”

He grinned at her as if she’d given him the highest compliment, and sat back on the edge of the desk, arms crossed comfortably across his chest. He waggled his fingers at the whisky. She handed it over.

“I thought you said we’d had enough.”

“No, I said you’d had enough. I’m twice your size, Eliza.”

“And Irish.”

“And Irish,” he agreed solemnly. “Good thing this isn’t the expensive stuff.” He lifted the decanter to his mouth. She watched him, again. Followed the slide of his Adam’s apple with her eyes. Again.

She cleared her throat and angled away from him without actually stepping back. “How long will it take us to reach Dover?”

“Three hours at the most. I think the earliest departure is at 9. We should plan to stay overnight.”

She nodded, beginning to mentally plan what she needed to pack. Then she realized Patrick was smirking at her.

“What.”

“Oh,” he said with an airy shrug. “I’m merely wondering if we ought to bring a chaperone. Propriety is, after all, my uppermost concern.”

“Hush! Drink your whisky you abominable man!”

He did so, laughing, while Eliza found herself instinctively looking at his forearms. She blushed and turned away, hands on hips. She faced him again only after he prodded her leg with the toe of his boot.

“Don’t kick me. Honestly, I’ve known children with better manners.” She made a show of brushing off her skirt. It gave her time to steady herself enough to look at him. When she did, she saw his face had by now taken on a healthy flush from the alcohol. Hers probably looked the same.

“I’ll walk you home,” Patrick said, with another gentle nudge of his boot against her leg. She yanked her skirt away from him. “We need to pack and get some sleep. Tomorrow we have our work cut out for us. If there’s time, I’ll take you to the cliffs.”

“I’ve seen the cliffs,” she protested, despite her first instinct to be pleased at the thought. Patrick was always taking her to interesting places, insisting she take in new sights and new experiences to counteract her tendency toward single-minded focus on her work.

He held up a finger. “You saw them from the deck of a ship. Not the same.”

“Very well. But I do so hope we can find this awful man soon. If I never read another one of Mr. Wickham’s love letters it will be too soon.”

“You don’t find them romantic?”

Eliza rolled her eyes. “Incredible though it may seem, I have not swooned once.”

“Ah, you have not the soul of a poet. We must find you a lover.”

That startled a laugh out of her, while Patrick just nodded sagely.

“You say the most outrageous things,” Eliza said, turning to her desk to choose which files she felt she should have on hand in Dover.

“And it delights you so,” Patrick rejoined, standing up to do the same. They both had a sizable stack in their arms when they met at the door, Eliza having turned down the lamps and readied her key. Patrick offered with a gesture to take her files, and she handed them over.

The night air was cool and misty, a refreshing balm to her flushed skin. She breathed deeply, and was glad that the stink of the Thames was not so noticeable at this late hour.

They strolled at a leisurely pace, neither in a hurry. A few carriages and cabs clacked past, carrying who-knew-what to who-knew-where. Eliza imagined some passengers were on their way home, like herself. Others might be headed to a party, a salon, a card game.

One of them might even be dreaming of a letter they received from Mr. Wickham.

She laughed softly at the thought, drawing Patrick’s attention. He looked over at her, but stayed silent, waiting to see if she felt like explaining her private musings.

Eventually, she said, “You know the game we play, of choosing a stranger and trying to figure out the details of their life? It’s much harder to do when the stranger is hidden away in a carriage. But no less diverting.”

“The possibilities are more numerous and intriguing, are they not,” he said, showing he understood her meaning perfectly.

She nodded, a small smile still on her lips. Every now and then, her shoulder brushed against Patrick’s with the sway of their walk. The night felt easy, and somehow timeless. Still.

Tomorrow would be a good day. They’d make their way to Dover (in a first class compartment, no doubt, since Patrick was the one buying the tickets). They’d snoop and sneak around and dig ever closer to Mr. Wickham’s foxhole. They’d have dinner and drinks at whatever fancy place Patrick sniffed out. They would hike the cliffs. And they’d come back home, tired but satisfied, another case drawn to its conclusion – and payment.

“What a life,” Eliza mused. “The one I get to live.”

The nonsequitor did not faze Patrick.

“The life you made,” he corrected, with the same gentle pride that always colored his voice when he spoke of her decision to trailblaze as England's first female private detective.

She looked up at him. There was always that same look in his eye, too. Real, sincere admiration. She felt it like a glow upon her skin.

She bumped her shoulder against his, and they walked on.

At home, in bed, with only the faintest beam of moonlight washing over her room, Eliza felt her mouth becoming dry from all the whiskey, and her head still swimming, and her heart still wrapped up in knotted doubts over what exactly had come over her with Patrick. She didn’t want to examine it. She feared it would mean complications, or regrets, or confrontations. But there was an air of delicious mystery, of wonderment to it as well, and Eliza had never been able to resist a mystery.

She remembered the warmth of Patrick’s body next to hers on their walk home. The gleam in his eye when he grinned so slyly. The impeccable seriousness with which he could say the most absurd things.

And she remembered his damn sleeves, rolled up carelessly about his elbows. She remembered watching the muscles flex in his hands, his wrists, his forearms as he sorted through records and jotted down notes and rubbed at his temple or mustache, deep in thought.

She touched her lips, and remembered drinking from the same decanter as he, over and over.

He was her dearest friend, Patrick. And she feared that she had stumbled upon some terrible secret that would rend their friendship asunder. The very ground beneath her feet had shifted, with no warning.

This was nothing like her friendship with William. William had stood before her, solid as a mountain, and declared his love for her, and brought his mouth down upon hers. And he’d left. And now he lived thousands of miles away.

She missed him, but oh, she’d never felt this kind of electricity in his presence. What was so odd was she’d never felt this kind of electricity in Patrick’s presence either, until now. So what happened? Why was she suddenly tumbling head over heels at the mere thought of Patrick leaning down and bringing his mouth-

“Go to sleep, Eliza,” she muttered at herself. She squeezed her eyes shut. Now was not the time to be going insane. They were probably only a few days away from finding Mr. Wickham and concluding one of the most frustrating cases of her career.

Nevermind she’d be stuck in close quarters with Patrick for most of the next two days. Once the hunt was on, Eliza was confident her professionalism would overwhelm any other concern. Patrick was no different. They were both capable of total tunnel-vision when it came to solving a case. That damned Mr. Wickham and his hideous love letters. All those women must have lost their senses to fall for such a disgraceful man. Eliza was no such fool. She would never allow herself to be taken over by a few pretty words and a handsome face.

But that didn’t describe Patrick Nash. It didn’t nearly do him justice. And that frightened, and enthralled Eliza, because she knew she had somehow fallen headlong into a tendre for a most deserving man, indeed.

The knock on the door came at precisely 7:30. Eliza guzzled a glass of water – her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton – and abandoned her toast, untouched. Patrick would secure them a meal on the train, she was sure of it.

She flung open the door and was greeted by a bright, cool morning, and Patrick’s typical easy smile. He tipped his hat.

“Morning. How’s the head?”

Pounding, actually, and he knew that, and that’s why he asked, and that’s why Eliza would never in a thousand years admit it. She gave him a sunny smile.

“I’m perfectly well, thank you. Shall we?”

Patrick loaded her suitcase onto the waiting cab as she climbed inside. As soon as he settled in beside her, she felt her stomach drop. Blast. It felt much the same as last night. Too much, too close, as though her body had been turned into a beehive and every movement Patrick made beside her sent her entire being into a buzzing frenzy.

But it was also deliciously addictive. She leaned into him the barest inch. Her heart was already pounding, nearly as hard as her head. That damn whiskey. Those damned Irish.

“Traffic was steady on the way here,” Patrick noted, oblivious to her turmoil. “I think we’ll make good time.”

“Excellent,” she replied. She leaned into him a little more.

“Are you cold?”

“Hm? What?” She casually leaned toward the window on her side and hoped it hadn’t been too obvious a move. “I suppose it’s a little brisk.”

Stupid man.

“Yes, it is,” Patrick said with a nod. He flashed her a smile. “Winter is almost upon us.” And he pressed himself fully against her side, rubbing his hands together vigorously for effect.

Eliza felt her entire body slacken at the contact, as though it were melting into him, without her permission or conscious acceptance. Perhaps not so stupid.

The carriage ride lasted a half hour, and Eliza enjoyed every second.

Patrick, both hands weighed down with their luggage, led her to their train car, and they were settled and sharing a steaming carafe of coffee and a platter of breakfast sweets a good twenty minutes before the whistle blew. By the time the train began to pull away from the station, they both were elbow deep in case notes.

“First order of business,” Patrick announced, “is to find this Ramshead place.”

“Some of the station attendants may know of it,” Eliza suggested. She had Mr. Wickham’s arrest record in her lap and was trying to find any connection to Dover.

“Very good. From there we might split up, you can try a few of the daintier spots Mr. Wickham’s preferred type of lady might frequent, I’ll stick with the underbelly. We know he likes to gamble, I’m sure I can find a few hells, and no doubt some gentlemen he owes money to.” He paused, then sighed and shook his head.

“What?” Eliza asked.

Patrick snuck a look at her from under his lashes. “Nothing. I had an idea, but….you would more than likely not look upon it favorably.” A tiny, sheepish smile curled up one side of his mouth.

“Oh?”

He shook his head again and went back to his files. “It would be dreadfully convenient if I were to buy up some of Mr. Wickham’s debts myself. It certainly would give me more leverage down the road, and I could always petition our client to cover the cost.”

“Patrick!”

“Yes, yes, I know.”

“What, were you planning on hiring a bunch of knuckle-dragging thugs to hunt him down for us?”

“Debt collectors are very proficient.”

“And very violent!”

“Well. Yes. I would have kept them in line, I assure you.”

“Oh yes, those types of men are famous for their attentiveness to law and order. Not to mention how dangerous it is to associate yourself with them. One slip up and it would be you they set their sights on. Not to mention their fists.”

He breathed out sharply through his nose. “Like I said. You would not like it. So I did not suggest it.”

Eliza scoffed, but was secretly touched.

Patrick batted his eyelashes at her. “You make me a better man every day.”

She gave his shoulder a stiff shove. He grinned and turned back to his files, while she did the same.

The notion of splitting up was not immediately appealing to Eliza. But it was of course the most efficient course of action. Any other day, she would have been the first to suggest it.

But today was not any other day. Today was the day after Eliza had come to the terrifying realization that she liked her business partner and friend rather desperately, in a way that made her feel out of control of herself. In a way that felt needy. And girlish. And giddy. He hadn’t been entirely joking when he said she made him a better man. It was true, and the notion still sometimes surprised her, and she felt honored and proud and altogether carried away by the power she seemed to hold over him.

She might try to kiss him later.

She also might try to throw herself off the roof of their hotel to end this madness. She didn’t know herself at all right now. She just knew she didn’t want to be apart from Patrick for single second, which was ridiculous, and entirely unacceptable.

Mr. Wickham was their priority. Patrick would be so disappointed if he knew she was focused on anything but the case, especially if the source of her distraction was something so pedestrian as a crush.

(No he wouldn’t, Eliza corrected. He would think it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard and he’d never ever let me live it down.)

Eliza did her best to train her mind on the task at hand. Now that they knew Mr. Wickham frequented Dover, they found several more connections buried within his correspondence. These discoveries sparked Eliza’s hunting instinct, so that she was finally able to stop thinking about how good Patrick smelled or about how much she liked the way he said the word “carriage.” (A hint of his native brogue always peeked out with it for some reason. He would strenuously deny it if she told him.)

No, Eliza was at last fully immersed in the search for Mr. Reginald Wickham, so that she hardly hesitated at all when it was time to set out on her own. Patrick had found out from a porter at the Dover station where Ramshead was (a gambling den masquerading as a pub, close to the water) and was on his way there. Eliza had asked around and found out the locations of several high street shops and restaurants that would be worth snooping around. Mr. Wickham’s ladies did so love to spend their husbands’ money.

When it was time to meet Patrick at the hotel for dinner, Eliza was fully satisfied with what she’d accomplished, and eager to share her findings. She rushed through her preparations for dinner – her hair had become quite wild in the brisk sea air – but she stopped just before leaving, and gave herself a final once-over in the mirror. It was a stupid thing to do. Eliza looked as she always did – immaculately professional.

But she felt a strange longing for a bit of rouge, or some earrings. Something feminine.

“Get on with it, Eliza,” she scolded, and flung open the door.

There was a definite pep in her step as she approached the lobby. Patrick was already waiting there for her, and his eyes twinkled as he gave her an appraising look. “I think you’ve had a successful day.”

“You think correctly,” she said with a bright smile, and stretched out her arm. Patrick obliged, angling out his elbow for her to hold, and he escorted her into the dining hall.

He'd chosen a hotel for them that he’d stayed at once before, when he’d been more frequently traveling between London and Paris. It was one of the few in Dover that measured up to his standards. Thus Eliza was not surprised to find the dinner menu tantalizing, and the wine list impressive.

They discussed their progress over a bottle of Mâcon (“exquisite,” according to Patrick) and a main course of larded grouse with bread sauce. Ramshead had proven to be a goldmine of information, and through it Patrick had discovered Mr. Wickham’s other frequent haunts. Eliza, posing as one of the fortune hunter’s naïve, heartbroken lovers, had learned from various shopgirls a great deal of gossip about two other potential victims, ladies of good standing in the city who’d become entangled in Mr. Wickham’s ploy.

Over dessert, they planned their next day.

“If his pattern holds true, Mr. Wickham should be running back to Dover any day now,” Patrick surmised. “The funds from his latest con should be in the bank soon, if they’re not already. He’ll be wanting to spend it in his favorite gambling dens.”

“Do you want to stay on until he arrives?”

“No, no, that shouldn’t be necessary. We can post a few of our men here as lookouts. Higgins, I think, and maybe Scott. They’re more than capable of handling one indebted, promiscuous dandy. I’ll send a telegram tonight.”

Eliza smirked and took the last bite of her vanilla blancmange. “Well I’d say our work here is done. What time does the train leave tomorrow?”

“I beg your pardon.”

Eliza looked up from her plate. Patrick gave her a bewildered look.

“My dear Eliza, have you so soon forgotten? I promised I’d take you to the cliffs.”

“Oh! Right. Yes, of course, dear Patrick,” she cooed. “Do forgive me. My mind was rather preoccupied with a certain urgent task of doing our job.”

Patrick chuckled and shook his head. “You can’t keep crying off the small delights of life. It’s terrible for the soul. No, we’ll take our hike and you’ll be utterly delighted in the sights, the drama. The sea crashing against the tall shore. The stark white of the chalk cliffs against the luminous blue water….” He waved a hand across the table as though he were painting the landscape.

Eliza gave him an indulgent smile, then said, “I seem to recall the waters being quite calm at the cliffs.”

Patrick pursed his lips at her in mock irritation. “You are going to be very impressed.”

“I swear to you I will be,” she replied dutifully, holding one hand up in oath.

For the next half hour, they drank coffee and planned how they could best use the rather enormous fee that would come from Mr. Wickham’s capture. A group of candles in the middle of the table lent a fetching glow to Patrick’s face, darkening his already dark blue eyes, setting his cheekbones in sharp relief. Eliza found herself tracing each quirk of his brow, fascinated by the lightning-quick changes in his expression, from amused to serious to thoughtful.

It took her a moment to realize he had gone silent, and was watching her just as intently.

A flush swept across her face. She took a sip of coffee – long gone cold – and declared they ought to retire. “I must get my rest if I’m to fully appreciate the crashing seas and windswept vistas,” she teased.

He shook his head at her, smiling. “You may joke if you like. But I won’t have you missing out.”

“I know,” she said. “And I do appreciate it. Truly.”

They stood up from the table and he took her hand to set it gently in the crook of his elbow. They were quiet as they mounted the stairs. Eliza was tired, yes, but she found herself very reluctant to go to her room.

What would it be like, she wondered, to share a room with him? To ready herself for bed while he did the same? Would they continue to talk of work, of current investigations? Would she be as comfortable and easy in his presence within the privacy of a bedroom as she was everywhere else?

They came to a stop in front of her door. He patted her hand and she drew away, as she ought.

“Goodnight, Eliza,” he said with his typical affectionate smile.

“Goodnight,” she murmured.

He opened the door to his room, next to hers, and disappeared inside.

Eliza stood in the hall, suddenly very weary. She wanted to go to him. She wanted to curl up in bed and fall deep into a dreamless, restful sleep. She wanted a line in the sand. She wanted every moment with Patrick to always be as fun and easy and natural as it had been practically from the beginning, and she felt certain it would be, because it was simply who they were.

She went inside and shut the door behind her and leaned against it in the dark, cold, unfamiliar room.

Honestly. She just wanted him.

Eliza felt a strange calm throughout the next day. She’d come to a decision without intending to – without even knowing there was any decision to be made. She had danced around her feelings for a man before, and it had been an exercise in frustration and futility. How much time and stress and heartache might she have saved had she simply been honest with William from the beginning?

She had never been anything but honest with Patrick from the moment they met.

How peculiar. The thought of hiding away from him seemed not only implausible, but downright unnatural. Either he would accept her, or he would gently let her down. And then what? It didn’t bear thinking about. The deed was done. Eliza had fallen for him, and their partnership would be altered no matter what. Ignoring her desires was a fool’s errand. And she didn’t want to ignore them. She wanted to share them with Patrick like she shared everything else. Besides, he knew her too well. There was no hope of pretending around him.

Half of Eliza’s mind ran through these arguments as she dressed for breakfast, while the other half just drifted in hazy pleasure at the thought of spending the day in his amiable company.

“Bonjour, Eliza,” Patrick greeted as she approached their breakfast table. She answered with a wide smile and took her seat, pleased to see he’d already ordered tea exactly as she liked: ceylon, and a small cup of milk to the side. “I hope you slept well?”

“Like a baby,” she replied as she poured hot water into her tea cup. The billowing steam was immediately redolent with citrus. “And you?”

“Just the same. I always do after a day of productive investigating.”

“Oh yes,” Eliza said with an airy laugh. “I know just what you mean. Now, are we to set off straight for the cliffs?”

“Down to business, as always, Eliza. Yes, we’ll set off straight. The afternoon London train departs at 2. We can be leisurely about it. As much as you’re capable of leisure.”

Eliza shared a smile with him over the rim of her teacup.

He was dressed impeccably, as always, with a waistcoat she secretly thought of as a favorite, an elegant swirl of paisley in golds and blues. It brought out the blue of his eyes. She sipped at her tea and watched him butter a slice of toast, place it on her plate without comment, and then butter a slice for himself. It was his habit whenever they breakfasted together. At dinners together, he always set aside a bite of his food for her to taste. Her wine glass never went empty so long as there was wine left to be had. It was a charming testament to his gentlemanly nature, all the more so because he did it seemingly without thought. He was a generous host to all, but Eliza liked to think there were a few small additional habits he’d developed solely for her sake.

He took a healthy bite of toast and flipped over the newspaper he’d been reading while waiting for her to come downstairs. Eliza knew she was staring rather openly at him, but he didn’t realize it yet, so she indulged herself for a moment longer, until the waiter arrived with a tray of bacon, sausages, and eggs.

Patrick informed her of the logistics of their trip to the cliffs as they ate, and she shared her first impressions of Dover from two years past, when she’d been bound for France in her pursuit of the conman Charles Percival.

Looking back, Eliza believed she’d felt the first stirring of real fondness for Patrick even then, so early on into their fraught relationship.

“What did you think of me, then?” she suddenly asked. Patrick squinted in confusion. “The Percival case. When we met at the St. Marcs hotel.”

“Ah.” He picked up his coffee cup, gestured widely with it, and said, “There she is. I should have known. And then, Damn it, she’ll find a way to sneak him out from under my nose.” He grinned as Eliza laughed. He raised his cup to her in a playful toast. “And I couldn’t have been more delighted.”

That was another thing she liked about Patrick. He was very good for her ego.

While waiting to flag down a cab, Eliza surprised Patrick by looping her arm around his and leaning against him. She felt the sudden stiffness in his body, and waited, carefully keeping her eyes on the road and the passing traffic, until he slowly relaxed. A moment later, he squeezed her arm the slightest bit closer to his side.

An empty cab drove past. He did not attempt to hail it. Eliza turned her head away to hide a smile.

She waved down the next cab herself. Patrick helped her in without comment, but when he climbed in after her, she saw his gaze was steady on her face, piercing, the way he would look at a particularly worrisome suspect. She met that intense gaze, and quirked an eyebrow.

He held her stare for a moment longer, then opened his mouth to speak.

But then he closed it, and gave his head a tiny shake.

They passed several minutes in a silence that was satisfying to Eliza, for it appeared she had successfully stupified the unflappable Patrick Nash.

He’d been right, of course. The view from the top of the cliffs was remarkable. The sea air was bracing and brightly scented with sunshine and salt. The sight of all the ships at the bustling port was fascinating from so high up. And the sea itself….

“Majestic, isn’t it,” Patrick murmured, half to himself. Eliza nodded, taking in the sparkling water, nearly turquoise where it contrasted with the stark white of the cliffs. The tall grass around them was still a healthy green despite the lateness of the year. All in all, Eliza was utterly charmed. She’d never been an avid nature lover, but she had to concede that Patrick had been right to cajole her into coming to the cliffs. It was well worth the steep climb.

He escorted her on the well-worn foot paths to the lighthouse, where she half-listened to him talk on about the history of the landmark, and the innovative use of new lenses and electricity to intensify the guiding lamps. She made the necessary noises to suggest her mild interest in the topic. Patrick soon caught on.

He put his hand over hers where it rested in the crook of his elbow. “I do hope you’re paying attention, Eliza. There’s a quiz at the end.”

“Oh. What happens if I fail?”

His eyes sparkled with a sudden dangerous glint, and she had the feeling he was about to say something outrageously flirtatious. But he seemed to change his mind, and only tsked her. She tried not to be disappointed. “I remember you telling me all those stories of what an awful student you were. For how intelligent you are, I never really believed them. But alas. Now all is revealed.”

“Indeed. I only ever cared when my father was teaching me. Mathematics was a chore. Latin: well, I suppose I didn’t do half bad. French, though…. you don’t need me to tell you.”

“No, I’ve heard you attempt to order a coffee in Paris. I nearly lost all respect for you then.”

Eliza spluttered out a laugh, a little too loudly for the echoing space. She covered her mouth quickly. “We can’t all be as perfect you, Patrick. Allow me one or two faults, please.”

“Only one or two,” he said gallantly, leading her outside and back into the sunlight to continue down the trail.

“And which would they be?”

“Oh dear,” he said. “This has turned into a trap, Eliza.”

She looked up at him expectantly. He raised a hand to shield his eyes and gazed out at the sea. “My, what a sight,” he said.

Eliza tugged at his arm and laughed. “Come on! I’m interested to know, if you could pinpoint my greatest faults, what would they be? I can already guess.”

“Well, then you don’t need me to tell you then, do you?”

“I have been told on many, many occasions that I am stubborn.”

“Stubborn? Oh, well, you’re a woman who knows her own mind. Who’s to call that stubbornness?”

She stared at his profile as he deliberately kept his gaze straight ahead, but she could see the wry twist of his mouth.

“Impetuous,” she continued.

“I’ve seen no proof of it.”

“Argumentative.”

“A gentlewoman such as yourself? Perish the thought.”

“I’m an absolute disaster in the kitchen.”

“I’ve not had the pleasure of tasting anything you’ve made.”

“There’s a good reason for that. Remember, you’re to allow me at least one fault.”

“I thought we decided your French is abysmal.”

“That’s all? That’s the worst you can think of?”

“Dear Eliza, I choose not to dwell on the imperfections of my fellow man. Woman. Whatever.”

“So there are imperfections.”

“You are determined to have me think ill of you.”

“Just so.”

“Hm.” He peered up thoughtfully at the clouds. A moment passed, then he closed his eyes and shook his head. “I refuse,” he gravely pronounced.

“Well you would be the first,” she said, surprising herself – and Patrick – with the amount of bitterness in her tone. She bumped against his shoulder in silent apology. “No one in my life besides my father has ever thought so highly of me as you, Patrick,” she continued, making an effort to sound more level. “And I don’t say enough how much I appreciate it.”

“You are more than welcome, of course, Eliza. But do you mean to say Ivy has not always showered you with compliments? Your inspector did not sing your praises?”

“Not my inspector,” she answered automatically. Patrick grunted in acknowledgment. They took a turn in the path that led them through a small copse. The temperature dropped noticeably in the deep shade. “Ivy has always been generous with her affection,” Eliza continued. “But, perhaps because she truly is a mother figure, she has also always been ready to point out my bad behavior. I’ve deserved it. Every time. And I’m thankful for it. But she just doesn’t hold my work in high esteem. I don’t mind. I understand it. To most normal people, what you and I do is a bit mad and incomprehensible.”

“Very true.”

“And as for the inspector…”

Her words trailed off, and she came to a stop in the path. Patrick looked over at her questioningly. She faced him. “You know, you talk about him far more than I do. Why is that?”

“I do? Nonsense.” He seemed genuinely taken aback.

Eliza shrugged. “It is so. I can’t remember the last time I mentioned his name. But you brought him up night before last. And again, when was it? Last month when we working the Longley case. You made some remark about his management of Scotland Yard. There have been other times. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Patrick’s frown had deepened as she spoke, and now he raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

Eliza leaned closer. “Are you….secretly in love with him?”

Patrick’s face cleared like the sun bursting forth from the clouds. His laugh came high and short. “Oh yes,” he said. “You’ve found me out.” He offered his arm, and she took it again as he led them out from under the trees.

“Now that you mention it,” he said haltingly, “I suppose a part of me has always feared he would eventually lure you away to New York.”

Eliza scoffed. “Me? Leave London? Leave everything I’ve worked so hard to build here? Never. My reputation is here. My friends, my… I wouldn’t necessarily be opposed to living somewhere else, but I’m not so naïve as to think I’d be accepted in a new city without having to prove myself all over again. The mere thought of it is exhausting.”

“So you have given it thought?”

She nodded. “When William first moved away. I did wonder what it might be like. I’ve heard the Americans are a more progressive bunch. But I was still building my career here, the timing was awful. Besides,” she added softly. “William and I wanted different things. It would never have worked. I loved him very much, as a friend, as family. We might have been more, in a different life. But I could not be what he wanted. And at the end, it was easy to let him go.”

Patrick absorbed this in silence as they walked on. Eliza wondered what he was thinking. This was the first time she’d spoken so plainly of her history with William, and now that she had she regretted not having done it sooner. But she was so used to keeping her own counsel when it came to matters of the heart. Patrick was often very open with his feelings. Just as she’d said earlier, he was effusive in his compliments to her. He had been from the very beginning, stating frankly that he admired her and wanted her to work for him.

Why had it taken her so long, then, to let him in with regard to William? She knew Patrick had been dreadfully curious. He'd stated his speculations outright at times. But it wasn’t until now that she confessed to the details. Now, when she’d finally realized how much he meant to her, how much she wanted him.

She peered up at him, and he glanced back at her. Soon, there came an impish smile. In reflex, her own lips turned up.

“Are you surprised by what I said?” she asked.

He slowly shook his head. “No. I’d had an inkling of the sort.”

“So why did you say you feared I would run off to New York?”

“Thinking is one thing. Knowing is another thing altogether.”

“Well, I hope I’ve put your mind at ease. You need never mention Inspector Wellington again.”

“He is still your friend, Eliza. Your family, as you said. I hope you never feel that you cannot speak of him to me.”

She smiled gently up at him. “Thank you. I don’t think of him often, truth be told. We exchange letters here and there. But our paths diverged long ago. I hope he is happy. I know he wants the same for me.”

“I’m sure he does,” Patrick agreed.

“So you see, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.” Eliza’s stomach lifted into her throat as she dared to add, “There’s nowhere I’d rather be than right here, working with you.”

Patrick blinked at her, an unfathomable look in his eyes that he quickly hid by turning his head to the side. “I am very pleased to hear it, Eliza,” he said. “I feel exactly the same.”

Eliza’s heart was full for the rest of their walk.

It was a quarter past one when they made it back to the train station after collecting their belongings from the hotel. On the way there, Eliza had been preoccupied with the thought of what she might say to Patrick to encourage a change to their relationship. Her earlier honesty about William had given her a taste of boldness. She wanted to maintain that momentum, and Patrick had done plenty to make her confident that a more intimate friendship would be most welcome to him. If it wasn’t…well, Eliza hadn’t thought that far ahead. But this was Patrick, and if any man would ensure a woman kept her dignity after rejecting her advances, it would be him. If running his business into the ground last year hadn’t ruined his opinion of her, a wanton declaration of passionate regard certainly wouldn’t either.

She was overthinking this. She knew it. It wasn’t like her to fuss and fret over another person’s feelings. Eliza had built an entire career out of recklessly chasing down what she wanted, and now she wanted Patrick. So she didn’t need a pep talk. She just needed to be clear, calm, and honest.

Easy enough.

Eliza thrust her second empty glass of wine at the attendant and said, “I’ll take a whiskey now, please.”

The attendant nodded blankly and swept away with her glass in hand. Patrick was staring at her openly.

“Are you quite alright?”

“Perfectly so,” Eliza answered into the napkin she pressed to her mouth. “I’ve worked up a thirst after our hike, that’s all.”

“One usually drinks water in such cases.”

She gave him a scathing look. “You’re one to talk.”

Patrick tilted his half-full glass of whiskey at her. “Touché.”

Eliza felt flushed both from the wine and from nerves. For the last half hour, she’d been caught between dragging Patrick’s face to hers directly, and claiming a sudden illness and locking herself in the water closet. Either option was most appealing.

But the alcohol was having it’s success in loosening her body and tongue. Twice now she’d almost managed to ask The Question, and twice now she’d just barely managed to mumble something inane instead. Patrick was clearly caught between amusement and worry.

The attendant arrived with her whiskey, and before the glass could even touch the tablecloth Eliza grabbed it up and swallowed it to the last drop.

Patrick gaped.

“Erm, Eliza…”

Eliza stared out the window at the blur of green forest and pasture. They’d be back in London in less than two hours. She had two hours to talk to Patrick and convince him to kiss her, or marry her, or – no, no, that’s not…marriage, good heavens above, it wasn’t about gold rings or sentiment, she just wanted him to wrap his arms around her and snog her silly-

“Patrick.”

Oh no, what was her mouth doing?

She frowned, and closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Maybe it would be easier if she didn’t look at him.

“Eliza,” he answered, sounding alarmed.

He put a hand on her knee, and the touch burned so hot it felt like he’d singed her skirt. She grabbed hold of his hand without thinking. He leaned closer then, and she was overwhelmed with the smell of him, the warmth of his body, orange and piney spice and the breadth of his chest-

She turned her head and opened her eyes and suddenly his face was not two inches from hers.

They said nothing. He was obviously concerned. The space between them was scandalously thin. But he did not move back.

Her eyes fell to his mouth, which was parted as if to say her name again. And then she couldn’t make her eyes move away. His mustache was perfect, precisely cut. His breath fell across her lips.

“Patrick,” she said, and was amazed to hear her voice was clear and firm. She felt her entire soul press up against her tongue. She could have sooner stopped the river Thames than stop her next words. “Kiss me. Now.”

He didn’t.

Patrick breathed, and stared, and she’d never seen his eyes so dark. He slid his hand out from under hers.

“What?” he said, so softly she might have only imagined it.

She didn’t know if she could say it again. So she tilted her head up, up. Every nerve in her body was thrumming. Her pulse was so strong it felt like her blood would jump right out from under her skin. There was a roaring noise in her ears, louder than the sea at the cliffs they’d hiked earlier.

“Eliza,” Patrick whispered. There was the strangest look in his eye.

Brow furrowed in confusion, she swept her gaze all across his face, trying to read him and understand what his hesitation meant. Then he leaned down, just the barest inch. His lips were so close she could feel the heat of them against her own.

Then, like a flash bulb going off, she understood.

Patrick was giving her control. He was leaving the decision in her hands, offering himself up to follow her lead as he’d done so many times in the past, confident she would take them to victory. He’d always believed in her.

She would not fail him now.

With trembling hands, she took hold of his jaw and brought his face lower until their lips finally, finally touched.

She pressed her mouth more firmly against his, feeling every dip and give in his soft lips. Then she felt him press back. And suddenly there was lightning in her belly.

Eliza had very limited experience with kissing, but this was like nothing else. Gunshots whizzing by her head could not have produced a more electric thrill. Her heart was in her ears, in her throat, in her mouth, pounding through her chest as though trying to reach out to meet his. His skin was soft and warm under her fingertips. Patrick slanted his mouth over hers and pulled her upper lip in between his own and she heard herself gasp, lost in the feel of his heat and flesh and the prickle of his mustache against her nose.

Without realizing it, she had fisted her hands in his coat lapels to pull him closer, and a little voice that sounded like Ivy warned her against damaging the fabric. But Patrick was working her lower lip between his own now, and the sensation was so heavenly that Eliza forgot to breathe, much less think. She was going to explode. She was going to cry.

Instead, she whimpered, and the sound shocked her back into her senses.

She pulled away from Patrick, mortified at her shameless display. She was gratified at least to see by his short, trembling breaths that he was clearly as affected as she.

They stared at each other, her eyes wide, his heavy-lidded. She swallowed thickly. And then his gaze dropped to her mouth, and she saw hunger there in his eyes. Eliza grabbed him by the back of the head and pressed her lips against his with the determination to make him feel as wildly undone as he was making her feel.

She succeeded.

Patrick’s arms came around her and crushed her to his chest. He tilted his head to better drink her in, and Eliza did her best to keep up, realizing with a quiet panic that Patrick was clearly far more experienced in this art than her. But despite her numerous academic and domestic failings, Eliza was a quick study when she wanted to be, and she very much wanted to be now.

The alcohol helped.

She melted into Patrick. His hands came up to cradle the back of her head, gently guiding her to shift this way or that as he pressed slow, tender kisses to her mouth, then her jaw, then to the bare sliver of skin exposed above her collar. He lingered there, breathing her in as she struggled to catch her own breath. The feel of his face tucked in close to the curve of her neck was intoxicating. She pressed her cheek to his hair to keep him in place.

When he eventually lifted his head she just barely allowed it, turning her face to slide her lips across his cheek. She was tempted to try to catch his mouth again, but Patrick took her face in his hands and pulled back far enough to look her in the eye.

“Eliza,” he said very seriously. “I do not know what you intend, or why you’ve chosen today of all days, and in a train car no less, to do this. But I must tell you that I am determined. I will be your most devoted servant all the days of my life - and I do not say this lightly. You know I value partnership, and never submission. But Eliza, I will gladly fall at your feet, and work myself to the bone, I will go bankrupt buying all the alcohol in Europe, if getting you drunk convinces you to kiss me like that again.”

Eliza let out a full-throated laugh. Patrick’s eyes crinkled with his own smile, and he put a hand up to caress her cheek. She leaned into his touch.

“The alcohol was for courage, not inducement,” she assured him.

“Is that so? You’ve finally decided to find me irresistible?”

“Oh I had no choice.”

“My plans have at last come to fruition, then.”

“Your ‘plans’?”

He lifted one of her hands to his lips. “Oh, yes,” he murmured against her skin, and after pressing a kiss to it, he tucked her hand against his cheek. “I’ve plotted tirelessly to charm you, to lure you into my trap – this very first-class car, as it happens – where you would at last attack me with passionate abandon.”

“I did not attack you."

“You did indeed, Eliza. I was there, saw it with my own eyes.”

She laughed again, and stole her hand away from him so she could run her fingers across his brow, then, with a taunting smile, across his lips.

“You see?” Patrick captured her fingers and pressed a kiss to them. Eliza tracked the movement of his lips, and found she couldn’t look away. “Incontrovertible proof. You can’t keep your hands off me.”

“Or my mouth,” she muttered, before leaning in and kissing him with a languid sigh. “I can do this now,” she said softly. “Whenever I wish?"

“You can,” Patrick whispered. “And I encourage you to do so with frequency. Every day. Every minute if you like.”

“I do like,” she breathed against his mouth. Patrick, to her delighted satisfaction, groaned and closed his eyes and parted his lips to press them hotly against hers.

“Don’t stop,” she said without meaning to, and this time her surprise at her own wanton behavior was not enough to make her pull away.

Patrick obeyed.

“Were you serious?”

“Hm?”

Eliza adjusted her head where it lay against Patrick’s shoulder so she could tilt back and look up at him. His arm lay across her shoulder, holding her just tight enough to be comfortable without being too restrictive. “About…planning?”

He canted his head, thinking back. When he realized what she meant, he grinned sheepishly. “Mm. Yes, I, um…” He tapped the fingers of his free hand against his thigh in a nervous gesture she didn’t often see. “I’ve been hoping…I’ve been…”

He sighed. Then he finally looked down and met her eyes. “I’ve been mad for you for a very long time, Eliza.”

His gaze was gentle, a little embarrassed. She smiled softly up at him in wonderment, utterly relaxed and content as she’d never been before in her life. They held each other’s gaze for a drifting moment.

“How long?” she asked with a satisfied little smile, and Patrick rolled his eyes.

“You’re very smug, you know that? You’re a smug person. You gloat.”

“How long? Tell me!”

“From the moment I clapped eyes on you.”

She flailed her hand and managed to strike him in the chest despite her awkward angle. “Shut up! How long, and be serious.”

He relented, getting a far away look in his eye as he thought. “You know, I really can’t say. I was in the thick of it before I knew what happened. It’s been…oh, months, at least. A year perhaps.”

“A year!” Eliza sat up, causing Patrick’s arm to slide off her shoulder. She twisted around to face him more fully. “You can’t be serious!”

“You just told me to be serious! I always do what you say.”

“But that was…we had hardly built Nash and Sons back up after that…disastrous little interlude.”

“When you drove all my employees and clients away and nearly ruined me? Mm, yes, I remember. I thought you were terribly fetching as you brought me to the brink of bankruptcy.”

She pursed her lips in annoyance. “It wasn’t entirely my fault.”

“But it is your fault that you’re so beautiful.”

Eliza stared at him blankly. Patrick watched her, totally at ease as he sat sprawled against the bench cushions, the picture of masculine confidence.

“That was disgusting,” she said.

He dropped the pretense with a wink and an impish smile. “You weren’t charmed?”

“I was not.”

He pulled her to him suddenly, and Eliza let out a small cry of surprise as he tipped her off balance and caused her to fall against him.

“You haven’t told me, you know? How and when you came to develop this powerful lust for me.”

Eliza knew he was teasing, but there was an undeniable truth to his words: she did indeed feel a powerful lust, and the mention of it, so plainly stated, almost made her hide her face behind her hands in sheer embarrassment. Patrick wrapped her tighter in his arms. “Well? We have less than an hour until we arrive in London. I intend to have it out of you before then.”

“Oh you do, do you?”

“I’m quite persuasive. And a ruthless interrogator, when the need arises.” He lowered his head to press a kiss to her temple. Unfortunately, her heart gave a little thrill at the move.

“Unlike you,” she began, albeit stiffly, “I can point to the precise moment I began to...feel for you.”

“Oh?” Patrick was clearly intrigued.

“In fact, it was less than forty-eight hours ago.”

“Oh.” Patrick’s tone shifted to one of dismay. She covered his hands with hers.

“Remember, you asked about lust.”

She was met with silence, until Patrick finally understood her meaning.

“Oh,” he breathed. “So, your…more noble affections…”

“Have been long in the making, yes. Much like yours, I suppose, though it took me a long time to realize it.”

“And the ignoble ones?”

She leaned her head back to peer up at him through narrowed eyes. “In my office.”

He frowned. “In your office,” he repeated.

“Do you remember how you teased me for being prudish?”

His frown deepened. “Yes…”

She smirked.

He stared at her. Eventually, it dawned on him.

“My shirtsleeves.”

Eliza held up a finger in warning. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“My sleeves.”

“It was very scandalous,” she said firmly.

“Eliza, you were undone by my rolled-up shirt sleeves?”

“I’d never seen so much of you.”

“My arms? Incredible.” He still sounded flummoxed. Eliza sighed. She should never have told him.

“My bare arms,” he continued in amazement. “Of course. You were overcome by passion at the sight of my manly extremities. Eliza, I will never wear a shirt again-“

“Stop it-“ she said through a helpless laugh.

“You’re right, that’s ridiculous. I cannot go about town bare-chested. No, I will tear the sleeves off every shirt I own-“

Eliza crowed in false outrage and silenced him with a crushing kiss. She could feel his smile against her own. It was strange, and wonderful. He slowly pulled away.

“Eliza, I- “

Patrick’s gaze roamed over her face, taking in every detail, and she was surprised that the intense admiration in his eyes wasn’t making her feel self-conscious. “I love you,” he said.

Her heart stopped.

He must have felt her go still, and he must have seen something in her expression that made him shake his head and add with a tiny, knowing smile that stabbed her to the core, “Shh, don’t say anything. Say nothing at all. I understand.”

No, you don’t, she wanted to say.

But she couldn’t make her tongue work. She sat there, with her arms still wrapped around his neck, in stunned silence.

And Patrick... He was hiding it, his poker face as perfect as always, but she could see the hint of quiet resignation.

She shook her head as tears began to sting at her eyes. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She wasn’t supposed to feel her heart threatening to burst, or her breath burning painfully in her lungs. She was supposed to be normal about this. Mature. Dignified. Instead she was about to break into hysterical sobs. And all because of what? Three words? That look in Patrick’s eyes?

“Shh,” he said again. And the insufferable man pulled her into a hug.

Eliza broke down then, hot tears spilling onto his collar, and it took everything she had to stifle an audible sob. The worst part about it was she didn’t understand why she was reacting like this. Most women would be overjoyed to have a man like Patrick Nash declare his love. What was wrong with her?

Patrick tightened his hold and rested his head on her shoulder. Eliza clung to him, feeling like a child again, like she was crying into Ivy’s apron in the weeks after her mother’s death. Like she was crying alone at the kitchen table in the weeks after her father’s death.

And with that thought, she knew exactly what the problem was.

“Have I frightened you?” she heard Patrick whisper.

She shook her head and clung to him even more desperately, more tears welling up and burning in her eyes. “No,” she managed to say, though her voice came out as a pathetic, wet whimper. “No, no.”

He sighed and after a moment said, with great tenderness, “I can’t take it back.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. Another sob almost escaped her throat. “I d-don’t want you to.”

“No? Well. That’s a start.”

The touch of humor in his voice slowly loosened the vice that had gripped her chest. She felt her breathing finally begin to come under control. Her bones suddenly were as heavy as lead. She shifted to make herself more comfortable in Patrick’s embrace, and allowed herself to relax.

“What is it, Eliza?” he asked softly. “Can you tell me?”

“I-“ she started. Her voice came out as a croak. She swallowed, and tried again. “I don’t want to…” Her throat closed up. She waited, and a few more tears slipped down her cheeks and soaked into Patrick’s and coat. A minute passed. Patrick waited. Eliza was at last able to speak. “I can’t lose you.”

He said nothing. After a moment, she felt his arms tighten around her and then fall away. He gripped her gently by the shoulders and pushed her back so he could see her face. She kept her head bowed, ashamed of her tears and knowing that her face must be a sight.

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. She took it, turning away slightly so she could dab at her eyes and nose. Patrick kept a steadying hand on her back all the while.

When she was at last as composed as she could reasonably hope to be, Eliza crumpled his handkerchief in a tight grip and finally met his eyes. She saw such tenderness in their depths, and her heartache eased even more. She put a hand up to caress his cheek.

“I don’t know exactly what to say,” she said. “How to explain what I feel. But I…I am of course grateful for your…for you. You’re my dearest friend above all else, Patrick. But the people who love me have also left me. And I suppose…well, I don’t often hear it. That I’m loved. It’s very irrational and silly-“

“No, no, Eliza,” Patrick interrupted gently. “Wanting to be loved is the most rational desire any creature could have. It defines us. It rules us.” He quirked a smile. “I sometimes forget how English you are.”

She huffed a weak laugh. “What is that supposed to mean? Are the Irish a more feeling race?”

“Oh, yes. More expressive, more open to the joys and sorrows of life, more free in letting them sweep through our hearts. ‘Oh! love is frantic agony, and life one throb of pain; Yet I would bear its darkest woes to dream that dream again.’"

Patrick’s voice was warm as he recited lines that were completely unknown to her. “An Irish poet?” she guessed.

He nodded. She looked down at her hands, contemplating his words and the truth of them. Love had indeed brought a great deal of agony to her life. But she could never say that she regretted loving William, or dear Ivy, and even though she still ached to hear her father’s voice again, that ache was proof of the purest love between parent and child. There would never have been an easy way to part. She was so thankful for her memories of him.

“I think you’re right,” she whispered. She glanced up shyly. “I do not find it easy to say, or to hear. But I do love you, Patrick. I love you as a friend, as a partner. As…whatever we may be now.”

His face lit up, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a tender smile. “You’re willing to be courted by a romantic old Irishman? I may speak of my love for you at any hour of any day, with no warning.”

“I suppose I’ll have to allow it.”

“I might even steal a kiss from you in public.”

Eliza leaned in closer. “You don’t have to steal something when it’s freely given.”

He leaned in as well. “Then I’ll have you up against the wall of every alley in London.”

“Patrick!” Eliza’s scandalized outcry was silenced as he caught her mouth in a domineering kiss. She returned it with fervor, and even nipped at his bottom lip as punishment for his audacious statement. He groaned loudly in response.

“Do that again,” he pleaded. But Eliza blushed fiercely, overwhelmed by his response, and buried her face in his coat.

“You’re turning me into a harlot!” she said, her voice muffled but still clear enough for Patrick to hear.

He wrapped his arms around her, chuckling. “I could never turn you into anything you did not want to be, Eliza. If you’re driven to outrageous displays of passion, you have only yourself to blame. I, for one, welcome it.”

Despite his joking manner, Eliza felt a shiver run up her spine. She was starting to feel the danger of being too much alone with Patrick. How was she to keep her hands to herself these next few weeks, months, however long until…

She lifted her head in a sudden panic. “Patrick! Am I supposed to marry you?”

His eyes bulged. “Wha- Eliza…”

“We’ll have to! You can’t kiss me like that and expect me to…oh no, no we haven’t thought this through.”

She pushed away from him and stood up, swaying with the movement of the train. The sun was low in the sky, amber rays flickering through the trees and casting frantic shadows into their car. They would be in London soon. Their little private world would end. How was she to behave around him in public? At home, at the office? She could barely go five minutes without kissing him now. Everyone would find out that she and Patrick were now lovers, likely within a few days considering their inability to keep their hands off each other.

Then what? What about the business? Scarlet and Nash, would she have to change the name? Would she take Patrick’s name? Would people no longer recognize her as a detective in her own right, or would they assume she was merely Patrick’s assistant, the pretty bit of fluff he kept on his arm to be his secretary and bedwarmer?

“Eliza…”

But she would be his bedwarmer. She wanted to be, she ached to know him in the dark, to discover the landscape of his body, his heat, his love-

“Eliza.”

But she had to keep a level head. She had to get away from Patrick – ridiculous, stupidly attractive man – and regain her bearings so she could think through these logistics calmly and carefully. There was much to take into account. Ivy would help. She knew all about these things, but – oh, she didn’t know about bearing children, or about running a business with a partner, and how on earth could she keep investigating if she was pregnant? Ivy would forbid it outright, would Patrick? Would she let him forbid her? How many children should they have? She didn’t even like children. But oh, it would be the most precious thing in the world to see him raising a daughter-

“Eliza!”

Patrick was standing over her. He clasped her hands and gave them a firm shake. She started, wide eyes turning to his.

“You are positively frazzled,” he said. “Sit down. Tell me what horrors you’ve imagined.”

She let him lead her back to the bench. She sat, but kept a few inches between them. She folded her hands in her lap.

“Patrick,” she began.

He sighed. “Eliza.”

He looked frazzled, himself. Her eyes softened. She took a deep breath, and reached across to lay a hand over his. And suddenly she had no words. All her worries, anxieties, questions, fears – they vanished, and all that was left was the rhythmic clacking of the train, the glow of the setting sun. And him.

This was where she was meant to be. For the last two years, she’d had a home at his side, totally accepted, loved, desired for who she was and nothing more and nothing less. She’d never had to pretend with him. Never had to slow down to wait for him to catch up, never had to worry that he would leave her behind. He stayed in step with her, in mind and spirit and soul. With Patrick, she was free. He’d given her that respect since the moment they met. And he had shown by word and deed that he would fight to earn her good opinion and to keep it. Being with him was as natural and easy as breathing.

Eliza swallowed, and picked up his hand to press a kiss to it. He watched her, a cautious look in his eye. She would cure that momentarily. And then she would climb into his lap, and kiss him until the train pulled into the station.

“Patrick,” she said. “Let’s get married.”

He blinked. Several times. “Now you’re proposing.”

She nodded, then shrugged. “I don’t have a ring.”

“That’s fine. That’s fine. That’s…” He blinked again. He turned to stare blankly at the opposite wall. Then he turned back. “I can’t believe you just proposed to me.”

She laughed. “Can you really not?”

“Right,” he murmured. “You’ve never done anything by halves, Eliza.” He gazed at her thoughtfully. “Do you want a spring wedding?”

Her face fell. “It’s October.”

“Too soon?”

“No!” She hesitated, uncertain what he was thinking. She didn't have the courage to say outright that she was desperate to marry him quickly. “Are you intent on some dreadfully fashionable event?”

“Hmm. I was considering. Ivy would be thrilled.”

“This isn’t about Ivy.”

“No. It isn’t. It’s about my desire to do this right.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

He canted his head, contemplating. “I only mean it’s what you deserve. Something that communicates I haven’t just been lured into your bed and now must make amends. You know how people talk about us.”

“Ah.” He was right on that account, Eliza had to admit. A quick, private wedding, though her preference, would probably be hot fuel for the rumor mill. She was annoyed, but ultimately touched that her professional reputation was at the forefront of Patrick’s mind. “But still…the spring? I think a…two-month engagement is perfectly respectable.”

“Two months? That puts us at Christmas.”

“Just before, then. And then it’ll be perfect timing for a short honeymoon. You know how slow business gets in January.”

“Eliza, I never knew you were such a romantic.”

She gave his shoulder a shove. “December. Second week.”

“Are you asking or telling me?”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“Well….no.”

“Then telling.”

Suddenly they both felt the train hit its brakes, and a loud, piercing whistle sounded. They had arrived back in London. Eliza looked out the window, surprised she hadn’t noticed the change in scenery.

She looked back over at Patrick, one eyebrow quirked. “So.”

“So,” he replied. A small smile played about his lips. “Are we ready to tell everyone? Or shall we give ourselves a few days to settle in?”

She pondered the question. It would be nice to have some time without everyone’s eyes on them, without Basil Sinclair hanging about her front door or the men at the office sharing waggling eyebrows and just-out-of-earshot comments at her and Patrick’s expense.

“Maybe just Ivy and Mr. Potts?” she suggested. “Until the end of the week. We can let the staff know on Friday.”

He nodded. “Very well.” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “I’ve never planned a wedding before! I’m rather excited.”

“You’re planning it?”

He gave her a droll look. “Eliza, your appreciation for style has always been lacking. And you hate planning anything.”

She turned her nose up, but said nothing. He was very right.

The train finally came to a stop, and she and Patrick gathered their belongings and made their way down the narrow hall, into the crush of people in all their first-class finery trying to disembark.

After Patrick helped her down the steps, he did not let go of her hand. Eliza felt as though all the eyes of the world were upon them, but of course, that was a ridiculous notion. The hundreds of people moving about the platform were all within their own heads, with their own troubles and joys and concerns. She made an effort to relax into the idea that everyday would be like this – her and Patrick, openly together. Soon she would have a ring on her left hand marking her as belonging to a man, and the prospect still made her stomach twist with discomfort.

But Patrick belonged to her, as well. He would never, could never make her feel owned. She was enchanted anew at his confession that he'd long been in love with her. Silly man. Of course he'd done the noble thing and kept his feelings a secret out of respect for her own.

Eliza had never put much stock in the idea of soulmates before. But now, she had to admit there could be a slight possibility she’d found hers.

Patrick suddenly came to a stop and set his luggage down. He then pushed at her own case until she followed suit, setting it down with a bewildered look on her face. The crowds were still pressing around them, moving to and fro, and she was jostled by one gentleman in a particular rush.

“Patrick?”

He stared down at her. “Do you remember what I said? About declaring my love for you at any hour?”

She nodded, but was still confused. “Yes…but-“

“I love you, Eliza.”

His eyes were warm and dark, and full of joy. And something else…

“And I love you,” she murmured, with a shy glance at the people bustling around them.

“I believe I also warned you of something else I might do.”

Eliza huffed a laugh, then frowned, trying to think back to what he meant. It dawned on her, just as Patrick lifted her chin and brought their mouths together, right in the middle of a crowded London train platform.

She could have protested. But Eliza had always been secretly fond of Patrick’s bold nature, and since his lips were moving so sweetly upon her own, and because she was rather deeply in love with him, she shamelessly wrapped her arms about his neck and decided this was, for once, not a problem that needed solving.

Notes:

The poem Patrick quoted from is "Corrine's Last Love-Song," by Lady Wilde (Speranza)

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