Selina jerked away from him. “You don’t know me at all. It’s been eighteen years since you saw me last. You know nothing, and don’t pretend you do.”
He dropped his hand to his side, his eyes darkening. “Maybe I don’t. But I made you a promise that I would take care of you. I still take that seriously.”
Selina’s chest constricted, but she forced herself to breathe. “I release you from that promise. The only person I expect to take care of me is me.” Except the idea of Harry caring for her stole into her mind along with a flash of joy. She put on her bonnet and picked up the portmanteau before departing through the back door and making her way to Newgate, where she caught a hack.
She didn’t need anybody. She hadn’t needed anybody for a very long time. For the first time—with Harry—she wanted somebody. But want was not the same as need, and she would make sure they never were.
Chapter 16
“You look rather pleased with yourself,” Remy noted as Harry joined him and Dearborn at a table at the Brown Bear on Monday afternoon.
“Do I?” Harry didn’t bother suppressing his smile. He couldn’t seem to stop his joy from leaking out.
Twice more, he and Selina had stolen away since he’d gone to her house on Thursday evening. He’d gone to her house again on Friday night, and then she’d come to his on Saturday afternoon. He could hardly wait to see her again, especially since they hadn’t seen each other yesterday. Perhaps tonight…
“Why is that?” Dearborn asked before taking a long drink of ale.
The serving maid brought a tankard for Harry, but didn’t linger.
“No particular reason,” Harry lied. He had no intention of sharing his affair with anyone, least of all Remy and Dearborn. It was bad enough that he’d all but told Jeremy. But then, who else would Harry tell? “When I came in, it looked like you two were deep in discussion,” Harry said, diverting the conversation. “Working on something?”
“Yes, actually,” Dearborn said with a gleam of anticipation in his eyes. “There’s been a string of robberies in Mayfair. Prominent households. I was just assigned the case.”
Harry could see the young man’s eagerness and recalled when he’d started as a constable four years before. “I haven’t heard about these thefts.”
Remy snorted. “You think you should have because you come from a prominent family?”
Harry gave him a sardonic smile. He was used to being teased about his station. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. You know I’m not one for gossip. Who are the victims?”
Dearborn pulled out a small notebook and read from it. “Mapleton-Lowther, Whitney, Tilden, Balcombe.”
All those names were familiar to Harry. They were friends of his parents. “What’s gone missing?”
“Jewelry.” Dearborn returned the notebook to his pocket.
Harry thought of the bracelet theft at Spring Hollow. To his knowledge, it had never been found. He wondered if Bowles had given the victim its replacement cost.
Dearborn continued, “It looks like nearly all the robberies are happening while events are going on at the victims’ houses—during a rout or a ball.”
“An excellent time to steal something—when everyone is occupied.” Harry took a drink of ale. “But you said nearly all?”
“One was in the middle of the day,” Dearborn said. “Last Friday.”
“A guest could be the culprit,” Remy said, cocking his head to the side in contemplation. “Though that would be strange. Presumably, any guest to an event like that wouldn’t need to steal things.”
“Perhaps need isn’t part of it.” A few years back, Harry had caught a young woman stealing in a shop. She’d tucked a pair of gloves into her reticule. When Harry had taken her aside, she’d been surprised because she hadn’t even realized she’d taken them. Her genuine puzzlement—and alarm—had quite convinced Harry that she hadn’t been lying. He’d let her go on the promise she’d pay more attention and never to do it again.
“Greed, then,” Remy said with a slight sneer. “That wouldn’t surprise me.” He inclined his head toward Harry. “No offense to you and your kind.”
Harry clenched his teeth before taking a drink of ale. He might be used to taunts, but that didn’t mean they didn’t irritate him from time to time.
“Any news of the Vicar?” Dearborn asked.
Remy swallowed a drink of ale. “I heard a rumor he’s no longer going to lend money.”
Harry frowned into his tankard before setting it down. “I suppose he’ll fade away again, and we’ll never catch him.”
Remy blew out a breath as he tapped his fingertips on the table briefly. “That happens sometimes.”
“It’s still wrong,” Harry said. “He should pay for his crimes.”
Dearborn looked between Harry and Remy. “But we don’t really know if he’s responsible for that fire. Wasn’t there another man you were looking into?”
Harry nodded as he leaned back, one hand curled around the base of his tankard. “Frost. I spoke with Thorpe at Hatton Garden, and he confirmed Frost is in charge in Saffron Hill.”
“I did the same,” Remy said with a short laugh. “But not with Thorpe. It seems Frost is less of a menace than Partridge was. He doesn’t own any flash houses, just receiver shops. And he doesn’t press children into his gang. Though he makes it enticing to work for him. He’s quite magnanimous, from what I hear.”
“Still a criminal,” Harry said brusquely.
“Definitely.”
“Do you think he’s the one who started the fire?” Dearborn asked. “Instead of the Vicar, I mean.”
Harry exhaled. “It’s possible. I want to talk to him. He should be easier to find than the Vicar, eh?”
“One would think,” Remy agreed. “I’ll try to find him too. One of us will run him to ground.”
Harry picked up his tankard. “Bring him to Bow Street.”
“Will do,” Remy said, clacking his ale against Harry’s.
Dearborn rushed to add his to the toast, then they all drank.
Harry dropped his mug to the table. “How are Alice and the children, Remy?”
“Loud.” Remy chuckled. “How is your family? Any new women they’re hoping to match you with?” He sniggered.
“Yes, but I think I’ve set them straight. Again.”
Dearborn ran a hand through his hair. “My mother does the same thing. Lately, she keeps trying to pair me off with the girl down the lane.” He shook his head. “It’s so bad, I don’t want to go round there!”
“Harry’s a glutton,” Remy said. “He still goes to his parents’ for dinner every week.”
“Not quite every week.”
“Who’s the young lady this time?” Remy asked. “Another chit whose father is too high in the instep to see her wed to a Runner, even if he is the son of an earl?”
Harry pulled out his pocket watch in an effort to avoid this conversation. “I need to be going.”