Lady Sophia's Lover (Bow Street Runners #2)(6)

“Oh, it must be wonderful to cook in here!”

Eliza made a face. “I can manage plain cooking, as my ma taught me. And I don’t mind going to market or tidying up. But I don’t like standing at the stove over pots and pans—it never seems to come out right.”

“Perhaps I could help,” Sophia said. “I like to cook.”

Eliza brightened at the information. “That would be lovely, miss!”

Sophia surveyed the kitchen dresser with its assortment of pots, pans, jugs, and utensils. A row of tarnished copper molds hung from hooks on the side—they clearly needed a good scrubbing. There were other items that needed attention as well. The pudding-cloths and jelly bags stacked on a dresser shelf were stained and required soaking. The sieves appeared to be dirty, and an unpleasant smell emanated from the drain-holes in the sink, which had to be scrubbed with large handfuls of soda.

“We all eat in the kitchen—master, servants, and constables alike,” Eliza said, indicating the wooden table that dwarfed much of the room. “There is no proper dining hall. Sir Ross takes his meals here or in his office.”

Sophia gazed at a dresser shelf that contained spices, tea, and a sack of coffee berries. She strove to sound detached as she asked, “Is Sir Ross a good master?”

“Oh, yes, miss!” the cook-maid said at once. “Though he can be a bit odd at times.”

“In what way?”

“Sir Ross will work for days without a proper meal. Sometimes he will even sleep at his desk, rather than go to his own bed for a decent night’s rest.”

“Why does he work so hard?”

“No one knows the answer to that, p’rhaps not even Sir Ross himself. They say he was different before his wife passed on. She died in childbirth, and since then Sir Ross has been…” Eliza paused to search for an appropriate word.

“Distant?” Sophia suggested.

“Aye, distant and cold-natured. He tolerates no weakness in himself, and takes no interest in anything other than his duties.”

“Perhaps he will marry again someday.”

Eliza shrugged and smiled. “Gor, there are many fine ladies who would have him! They come to his office to ask him to help with their charities, or to complain about pickpockets and such. But it’s plain they hope to catch his eye. And the less interest he shows, the more they pursue him.”

“Sir Ross is sometimes called the Monk of Bow Street,” Sophia murmured. “Does that mean he never…” She paused as a blush climbed her cheeks.

“Only he knows for certain,” Eliza said thoughtfully.“‘Twould be a pity, wouldn’t it? A waste of a good, healthy man.” Her crooked teeth flashed in a grin, and she winked at Sophia. “But I think someday the right woman will know how to tempt him, don’t you?”

Yes, Sophia thought with a swirl of satisfaction. She would be the one to end Sir Ross’s monkish ways. She would win his trust, perhaps even his love… and she would use it to destroy him.

As news traveled fast on Bow Street, Ross was unsurprised when a knock came on the door not a quarter hour after Sophia had left. One of the assistant magistrates, Sir Grant Morgan, entered the office. “Good morning, Cannon,” Grant Morgan said, his green eyes alight with good humor. No one could doubt that Morgan was enjoying his life as a newlywed. The other runners were both envious and entertained by the fact that the formerly stoic Morgan was so openly in love with his small, red-haired wife.

At a height of nearly six and a half feet, Grant Morgan was the only man Ross had to physically look up to. An orphan who had once worked at a Covent Garden fishmonger’s stall, Morgan had enlisted in the foot patrol at age eighteen and been rapidly promoted through the ranks until Ross had selected him to join the elite force of a half-dozen runners. Recently he had been appointed to serve as assistant magistrate. Morgan was a good man, steady and intelligent, and one of the few people in the world whom Ross trusted.

Pulling the visitor’s chair up to the desk, Morgan lowered his gigantic frame onto the leather seat. He gave Ross a speculative stare. “I caught a glimpse of Miss Sydney,” he remarked. “Vickery told me that she is your new assistant. Naturally I replied that he must have been mistaken.”

“Why?”

“Because hiring a woman for such a position would be impractical. Furthermore, enlisting a woman as comely as Miss Sydney to work at Bow Street would be damned foolish. And since I have never known you to be impractical or foolish, I told Vickery that he was wrong.”

“He’s right,” Ross muttered.

Leaning to the side, Morgan rested his chin in the bracket of his thumb and forefinger and contemplated the Chief Magistrate speculatively. “She’s going to be a clerk and file-keeper? And take depositions from footpads and highwaymen and buttock-and-file whores and—”

“Yes,” Ross snapped.

Morgan’s thick brows climbed halfway up his forehead. “To point out the obvious, every man who passes through this place—runners not excepted—is going to be on her like flies on a honeypot. She won’t be able to get a damned thing done. Miss Sydney is trouble, and you know it.” He paused and remarked idly, “What interests me is why you chose to hire her anyway.”

“It’s none of your business. Miss Sydney is my employee. I’ll hire anyone I damn well want to, and the men had better leave her alone or answer to me.”