CHAPTER NINE
Miss Webster sat opposite Lowry’s front desk, her hands clasped loosely in her lap and doing her best to appear invisible. Judging by the lack of attention of those traversing the busy area, she was doing a stellar job of being unnoticed.
He, though, always noticed her.
The morning sun picked out the gold in her hair and cast its gentle light along the curve of her cheek. Her downcast eyes hid the depth of her unusually brilliant green eyes, and the plain ribbon of her bonnet lined the shape of her jaw and drew his gaze to her wide, unpainted mouth. The sun shifted, and so did the shades in her hair. A hundred different versions of gold, cornsilk and flax and even strands of brown.
She was…lovely.
Nathaniel shook himself. How absurd. He had never in his life described someone as lovely. This was intolerable. Why was he so distracted by her? He was here to solve a murder, not to catalogue Miss Webster’s hair. She had fooled him with a false colour previously, it was true. Perhaps that’s why he studied her hair so well, even though that did not explain why he noticed the precise way strands fell from the knot at the base of her skull, to curl around her ear and brush against the collar of her gown.
Frowning, he forced such useless thoughts aside and approached her briskly. “Come, Miss Webster, we are today to York.”
She looked up, and he was struck again by her loveliness.
He frowned. This was not like him. He sometimes took female companionship when offered, though it was not as often as he knew some men did. He had never before been so consumed by thoughts of a woman, to the point where he…stumbled. It was unnerving and undesirable.
He straightened his cuffs.
She, in the meantime, had stood, her brows drawing. He would assert her brows drew in response to his words and not a useless endeavour such as observing a woman in wait. “York, sir?”
He cleared his throat. “Precisely. I have had information the Faringdon son has removed there.”
She made as if she would speak, but just as quickly seemed to think better of it. She nodded and gathered her satchel.
Clearly, she disagreed with his course of action and just as clearly would say nothing to protest. “Miss Webster? Do you disagree with my direction?”
“It is not my place to agree or disagree.”
“Nonetheless, I ask you: do you disagree with my direction?”
Again, she made to speak, and again seemed to think better of it.
He waited, but she remained silent. He exhaled impatiently. “Miss Webster, we are not made of time. If you have a thought, I give you leave to speak it without seeking permission.”
Her cheeks flushed. He told himself it did not make her even lovelier. “I…It is hard for me, sir.”
“Be that as it may, you may speak freely.”
“Perhaps…Sir, perhaps it might be wise to forgo journeying all the way to York in favour of more local inquiries.”
“Your meaning?”
“Lord Henry is due to return in four days. You may just as easily interview him then. Your time might be more judiciously utilised in eliminating possibilities.”
“What possibilities?”
“The constabulary is convinced a woman was the culprit due to the presence of poison. Though we believe their conclusion to be hastily drawn and false, perhaps you would do well to ensure their supposition is incorrect and based upon nothing more than conjecture. A categorical denial based upon evidence and fact can only bode well.” She lifted her chin, as she expected him to disagree.
He…did not. She was correct. He had assessed for himself the local law enforcement were imbeciles, assumed any conclusions they had drawn to be the work of lazy incompetence, and sought no further confirmation than that. She was correct o point out his assumptions were just that, and that logic, reason and fact were king in any investigation. “You are correct, Miss Webster. We should confirm for ourselves their suppositions are false.”
A hesitant smile drew her mouth, and she fairly glowed at his praise. And he. Did not. Notice.
“If it was a poison a woman may use, perhaps it behoves us to speak with Mrs Boothby,” she continued, that faint glow still casting her features. “She is a woman who provides herbal remedies and perhaps may have insight on Sir George’s death. It is possible the poison may even have been purchased from her, sir.”
“I agree. We will see her this day.” She was clever, Rose Webster. He had thought so when they were in Cambridge, and she proved his observation correct again now. “Miss Webster, you may call me Evans. I find ‘sir’ disconcerting.”
“Yes, s— Mr Evans.”
“Just Evans, Miss Webster.”
Her lips twitched. “And will you call me just Webster?”
He frowned. “My understanding is it is impolite to call a woman by her last name only.”
“I was jesting only, sir. I mean, Mr Evans. Evans.” She smiled ruefully, but it seemed any smile she gave him set his heart to race. “My apologies. It will take some getting used to. You may…if you wish, sir, you may call me Rose.” Colour riding high on her cheeks, she regarded him bright-eyed and apprehensive.
“If Evans is too cumbersome for you, you may call me Nathaniel,” he blurted.
Alarm drew her features. “Oh, no, sir, I couldn’t possibly—”
He was truly a mess. He had never in his life beseeched someone call him Nathaniel. Even Hiddleston referred to him by last name only. But…he wanted her to call him thus, for reasons he declined to examine. “If I am to be so honoured with your Christian name, than so too shall you.” He paused. “Rose.” Her name tasted sweet on his tongue.
Again she blushed. “I—Thank you.” Her chin firmed. “Nathaniel.”
And his name on hers was even sweeter.
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