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Chapter Twenty-Three

Early the following morning, while the streets were still lit by guttering gaslights, Jasper led Leo out the back door of his house. They strolled toward Trafalgar Square, arm in arm, each of them quiet and contemplative.

His side ached, the pull of skin around the deep gouge carved by Brian Carter’s bullet more painful than he’d admitted to Leo the night before. Sutures would have been best, as she’d suggested, but no earthly power would have been able to drag him from his bedroom after Leo had come in, intending to see to his wound.

The soothing sounds of her breaths as she’d slept next to him, in his arms, and the perfect pressure of her body against his, had assuaged the pain of his bandaged side better than any salve could have, that was for certain. Nothing untoward had happened, as he’d promised her, and yet he couldn’t help but anticipate bringing Leo into his bed properly. Now that they were engaged to marry, that moment was closer than ever.

“I’ll be fine from here,” she said, attempting to stop at the intersection of Charing Cross Road.

“I will walk with you to Duke Street,” Jasper said. The night brume lingered, and the streets could be just as dangerous in the early morning hours as they were at midnight.

Astonishingly, Leo didn’t argue. She only fell back into step with him.

“Will you always be this compliant as my wife?” he asked in good humor.

“Absolutely not,” she replied.

For that, Jasper was grateful. He didn’t want her to change at all, even if their circumstances might. The idea of leaving London and Scotland Yard put a boulder in his gut, but the events of last night, in the crypt at St. Emmanuel’s, presented a heavier burden. He would be made to explain his actions there to Chief Inspector Coughlan. When the department learned he’d accepted a private inquiry from Andrew Carter, it would not reflect well on him or the Yard.

“How will you explain your absence overnight to Claude?” Jasper asked after they’d walked a little further.

With a burst of pleasure, he thought of how soon no excuses would be necessary. She would be his wife, and they would spend every night together.

“I’ll tell him the truth. My uncle can handle a little impropriety. Besides, he trusts me. And you,” she added.

As they came upon the entrance to Duke Street, he loosened his arm from hers. “Tell Mrs. Zhao there is no need for her to rush home. I’m going into the Yard early to write up my report for last night.”

Leo rose to the tips of her toes and kissed him; the kind of chaste kiss husbands and wives gave each other in greeting or before departing. Jasper looked forward to those kisses too.

“I will come by later,” he said. “I should pay a call on Flora—and probably ask Claude for permission to marry you.”

Leo’s soft laughter drifted through the quiet as she started away, glancing over her shoulder a few times. He waited in place until she’d reached her door and gone inside.

The fog had begun to lift, and the increasingly blue dawn brought out pedestrians, carts, and carriages, all starting the business of the coming day. He considered going straight to the Yard before the detective department filled. But he’d refused Leo when she’d risen from slumber, her first words a request to check his wound and change his bandage. Instead, he’d nuzzled her neck and distracted her from the task. As much as he hated to admit it, he did need to check his wound. A bath wouldn’t be amiss, either.

Arriving home, he went around to the back door again, expecting to find it locked, as he’d left it. But it wasn’t. Instead, the door was ajar by an inch.

Cautiously, Jasper stepped into the short, tiled vestibule at the back of the house, which led into the kitchen. He keenly felt the absence of his revolver and cursed himself for leaving it behind while walking Leo home. It wasn’t like him to let down his guard.

He strode slowly toward the kitchen, where lamplight sputtered. He had not lit a lamp before leaving; whoever had picked the lock was at least not lying in wait to ambush him. When he came fully into the kitchen, he found Andrew Carter seated at the table, a cup of tea in front of him.

“Helped myself,” he said, taking the porcelain handle and bringing the cup up for a sip. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Make yourself at home,” Jasper said with marked sarcasm. He swept a look around the rest of the kitchen. The two men his cousin usually traveled with weren’t present.

“I’m alone,” Andrew said.

“What do you want?” Jasper hadn’t thought he’d see his cousin so soon after last night.

He remained standing, refusing to take the chair across from Andrew, as if to break bread together.

“Brian’s dead,” he announced. “He was practically a goner anyway by the time I hauled him in front of Sean and told him what he’d done.”

“You didn’t come here to tell me that,” Jasper said, growing impatient. This man was a blight.

Andrew set down his teacup. “Sean was already suspicious of everyone and everything, but he’s gone half-mad now that he knows his own brother betrayed him. Killed his only son.” Andrew tapped his temple. “He’s not in a good way.”

“Tell me why I should care,” Jasper replied. From what Jasper could recall of his eldest cousin, Sean had always been a fiend. Violent, coarse, unpredictable. That he’d come unhinged after such a betrayal by his own brother didn’t seem far-fetched at all.