Page 27 of Where the Heart Leads
He walked beside her the few paces to the hackney, opened the carriage door, and offered her his hand.
She stared at it for a moment, then put her hand in his. Very aware of the fragility of the fingers he grasped, he helped her into the carriage. “What direction should I give?”
“The corner of Whitechapel and New Road.”
He conveyed the information to their driver, then joined her inside. The instant the door shut, the carriage jerked and started rolling.
She was seated opposite him; he couldn’t stop his gaze from resting on her. She didn’t fidget, as most did under his eye, but he noticed she was clutching the bag she’d placed in her lap rather tightly.
He forced himself to look away, but the façades slipping past couldn’t hold his attention. Or his gaze; it kept returning to her, until he knew if he didn’t say something, his steady regard would unnerve her.
All he could think of was, “I want to thank you for agreeing to help me.”
She looked at him, met his gaze squarely. “You’re trying to rescue four young boys, and possibly more besides. Of course I’ll help you—what sort of woman wouldn’t?”
What sort of woman had he expected her to be?
He hastened to reassure her. “I only meant that I was grateful.” He hesitated, then went on, “And if truth be told, not all women would be keen to get involved with the police.”
She studied him for a moment, then gave a soft sniff and looked away.
He felt fairly certain the dismissive sniff had been directed at women who wouldn’t get involved, not at him.
After further cogitation, he decided silence was the better part of valor. At least after their exchange, however brief, she was no longer clutching her bag quite so nervously.
As directed, the hackney halted at the corner of Whitechapel Road and New Road. Stokes descended first. Griselda found herself being handed down with the same care he’d used to help her into the carriage. It wasn’t a courtesy to which she was accustomed, but she rather thought she could get used to it.
Unlikely as that was to be; Stokes and she were here on business, nothing else.
He ordered the driver to wait for them. Dragging a breath into lungs that seemed suddenly tight—she must have laced her walking gown too tightly—she lifted her chin and waved down the street. “This way.”
During the drive she’d surreptitiously watched him, studying his dark-featured face for any sign of him turning up his nose as they’d penetrated deeper into the old neighborhoods. She wasn’t ashamed of her origins, but she knew well enough how the East End was viewed. But she’d detected no hint of contempt, no turning up of his arrogant, bladelike nose.
Then, as now, he looked about him with a certain detached interest. He strode easily, effortlessly, by her side, scanning the ramshackle houses pressed tight together, holding one another up. He saw all there was to see, but evinced no sign of passing judgment.
She felt just a little easier—less tense—as she led the way down Fieldgate Street, then took the second turning on the left, into familiar territory. She’d been born and raised in Myrdle Street. They drew level with her father’s house; she paused beside the single front step and met Stokes’s eyes. “I was born here. In this house.” Just so he’d know.
He nodded. She looked, closely, but saw nothing in his face or his changeable gray eyes but curiosity.
Feeling rather more confident as to how the next half hour would go, she raised a hand and tapped on the door—three sharp raps—then opened the door and went in.
“Grizzy-girl! That you?” Her father’s voice was scratchy with age.
“Yes, Da, it’s me. I’ve brought a visitor.” Setting down her bag in the tiny front room, she led the way into the room beyond.
Her father was propped up in his bed-cum-chair, an old ginger cat curled up in his lap, purring under his hand. He looked up as she entered, eyes brightening as they met hers, then widening as they moved on to fix on the presence at her back.
She was relieved to see that her father was wide awake, and also reasonably pain-free. “Did the doctor call this morning?”
“Aye.” Her father’s reply was absentminded. “Left another bottle of tonic.”
She saw the bottle on the scarred dresser.
“Who’s this?” Narrow-eyed, her father was studying Stokes.
Griselda sent Stokes a brief, warning look. “This is Mr. Stokes.” She drew a deep breath, then said, “Inspector Stokes—he’s an inspector from Scotland Yard.”
“A rozzer?” Her father’s tone made it clear that wasn’t an occupation he held in high regard.
