I scanned a few more files, finding they all resembled our cook’s.

On a hunch, I dug around in the drawer until I found another servant who’d been dismissed for no better reason than having stayed with our family more than a month. Her file looked precisely like Miss Nichols’s, confirming my suspicion that Father must clean out the majority of their information once they were no longer employed.

I closed the folders, taking pains to place everything back exactly where I’d found it.

Cursing my father for keeping pointless records, I wished I could set the whole mess of papers ablaze.

As I slid the last file into place, a familiar name caught my attention. I hesitated briefly before removing the folder and flipping it open. It contained a lone newspaper clipping. A brutal coldness enveloped me where I sat.

Why did Father have an article on Miss Emma Elizabeth Smith’s murder?

EIGHT

BRING OUT YOUR NEARLY DEAD

GREAT WESTERN ROYAL HOTEL,

PADDINGTON STATION

11 SEPTEMBER 1888

The tearoom in the Great Western Royal Hotel was unbearably warm.

Or perhaps it was simply the fiery rage burning inside me. Sitting with my hands folded politely in my lap, I prayed for the strength I’d need to stop myself from reaching across the table and wrapping my fingers around a neck instead of cucumber sandwiches and petits fours. “You look as if you’ve not slept, Mr. Cresswell.”

“Who said I did, Miss Wadsworth?”

I raised my brows. “Doing subversive things at indecent hours?”

“Would it offend you if I were?” Thomas smiled at the waiter and leaned in, whispering in his ear. The waiter nodded, then marched off.

Once we were alone, he turned his steady focus on me, calculating a thousand things simultaneously. I lifted the porcelain cup to my lips, forcing a sip of tea down.

I’d agreed to meet him here only to go over case details. Now he was doing that infuriating thing where he’d inevitably guess my secret plans, and I’d have to murder him. In front of all these witnesses, no less. What a pity.

“Sir.” The waiter came back to the table, presenting Thomas with three things: a silver ashtray laid out with cigarettes, matches he produced from his black trousers, and an orchid. Thomas handed the flower to me then plucked a smoke from the tray, allowing the waiter to light the end. A gray cloud puffed into the air between us. I purposely coughed, batting the smoke back toward his side of the table.

“I cannot believe you’d buy me a beautiful flower only to ruin it with smoking,” I said, scowling. “How incredibly rude.”

Smoking in front of a girl without her permission was against social mores, but Thomas didn’t seem to care for that rule one bit. I set the orchid down, staring at him through a fringe of slitted lashes, but he only took another drag, slowly letting the toxic air out before dismissing the waiter.

He reminded me of the caterpillar from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, sitting upon his giant mushroom, lazing about without a care in the world. If only he were small enough to squish beneath my boots.

“That’s a disgusting habit.”

“So is dissecting the dead prior to breakfast. But I don’t scorn you for that unseemly habit. In fact”—he leaned closer, dropping his voice into a conspiratorial whisper—“it’s rather endearing seeing you up to your elbows in viscera each morning. Also, you’re quite welcome for the flower. Do place it on your nightstand and think of me while dressing for bed.”

I dropped my finger sandwich onto my plate, shoving it away with as much vehemence as I could muster. Thomas pulled in another lungful of smoke, meeting my gaze with a flash of defiance and something else I couldn’t quite read.

“Well, then. I see there’s nothing more to say. Good day, Mr. Cresswell.” Before I stood, Thomas’s hand shot out, gently circling my wrist. I gasped, drawing my hand back, and glanced around. Thankfully, no one had seen his indiscretion. I swatted away his second attempt to hold me, though I didn’t exactly mind his touch. “I see your addiction has addled that brain of yours.”

“On the contrary, dear Wadsworth,” he said between puffs, “I find nicotine gives me an added boost of clarity. You ought to try it.”

He flipped the awful thing around, offering it to me, but there were limits I’d set for myself as far as amateur sleuthing was concerned. Smoking was one of them. He shrugged, returning to his nicotine intake.

“Suit yourself,” he said. “Now, then, I’m coming with you.”

I looked him squarely in the eye. Thomas was no longer showering me with cool indifference; he was warm as an August afternoon, his lips turned up at the corners.

A flame flared across my body when I realized I was studying the shape of his mouth, the way his bottom lip was slightly fuller and all too inviting for a girl without a chaperone to take notice of.

I collected my thoughts like specimens to be dissected further. Clearly, I was experiencing some sort of degenerative medical condition if I was thinking such indecent thoughts about the scoundrel. He was likely goading me into a kiss.

“I’m going… home. You most certainly are not invited.” I dared to meet his gaze in spite of my momentary lapse in judgment. “Nathaniel won’t approve of finding a boy in our home, no matter how innocent our work situation may be.”

“Going home, are you?” Shaking his head, he tsked. “Let’s promise each other one thing.” He leaned across the table, reaching for my hands, which I quickly stuck under the table. “We always tell each other the truth. No matter how harsh it may be. That’s what partners do, Wadsworth. They don’t bother with preposterous lies.”

“I beg your pardon,” I whispered harshly, not particularly enjoying the casual use of my surname he kept tossing about, though I’d permitted it. “I didn’t lie—” Thomas held a hand up, shaking his head. Fine. “What makes you sure I even need a partner? I’m quite capable of doing things on my own.”

“Perhaps it’s not you who would benefit from our partnership,” he said quietly.

His response was so unexpected, I covered my mouth with the back of my gloved hand. The very idea he might need someone, and chose me out of everyone in London, sent foolish notions dancing through my head before I banished them.

I would not fancy Thomas Cresswell. I would not.

Watching him stub his cigarette out, a deep sigh worked its way out of me. “You ought to buy a ticket, then. We’ll be leaving for—”

Pulling a folded ticket from his jacket, he flashed a mischievous grin. My jaw practically hit the table. “How in the name of the queen did you know where we’d be going?”

Thomas folded the ticket up, securing it back in its safe place, his look smugger than a mutt stealing a Christmas goose. “That’s quite a simple question, Wadsworth. You’re wearing lace-up leather boots.”

“Indeed. So simple.” I rolled my eyes. “If I don’t murder you this afternoon, it’ll be a gift sent directly from God Himself, and I vow to attend services again,” I said, holding a hand against my heart.

“I knew I’d get you to church eventually.” He brushed the front of his suit down. “I’m impressed with how swiftly you’ve relented. Though, I am hard to resist.”

He sat straighter like a peacock showing off its colorful plumage. I imagined him preening himself as if he had a fan of bright feathers growing from his backside.

I motioned for him to get on with it. “You were saying.”

“On a normal day, you wear silk shoes. Leather is better suited for rain,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Since it’s not raining in London yet, and according to the paper, Reading has been pouring buckets all morning, it didn’t take much to deduce you’d be heading there.”

I so badly wanted to say something cutting, but Thomas wasn’t finished impressing me yet.

“When you first rushed through the lobby your attention shifted to the clock mounted on the wall; you hadn’t seen me standing near, waiting for you. Leading me to believe you were in a hurry.” He took a sip of tea. “A quick check of the departures board and I noted the next train leaving for Reading was at twelve noon. Quite easy, as it was also the only train leaving at that time.”

He sat back with a self-indulgent grin plastered across his face. “I paid the waiter to fetch me a ticket, ran to our table, then ordered our tea all before you had your duster checked.”

I closed my eyes. He really was an enormous test of my patience, but he might prove useful with my next task. If anyone would be able to read a situation, it’d be Thomas Cresswell. I wanted answers regarding Miss Emma Elizabeth Smith and her association with my family, and could think of only one person who might know about her. I stood, and Thomas joined me, eager to move onto our next mission.

“Hurry along, then,” I said, grabbing my orchid and securing it safely in my journal. “I want to sit by the window.”

“Hmm.”

“What now?” I asked, losing patience.

“I usually sit by the window. You may have to sit in my lap.”

Within ten minutes, we were standing below gigantic wrought iron arches that spanned Paddington Station like iron bones holding the glass flesh of the ceiling up in a show of man-made perfection. There was something thrilling about the cylindrical shape of the station as it teemed with people and huge steam-breathing machines.

Our train was already waiting on the tracks, so we climbed aboard and situated ourselves for the ride. Soon we were off. I watched the gray, fog-filled world blur by as we chugged our way out of London and across the English countryside, my thoughts consumed with a million questions.

The first being, Was I wasting my time? What if Thornley knew nothing? Perhaps we should have stayed in London and pored over more of Uncle’s notes. Though it was too late for turning back now.

Thomas, once he’d woken from a disturbed nap, fidgeted in his seat enough to draw my attention to him. He was like a child who’d eaten too many sweets and couldn’t sit still.