Brass Carriages and Glass Heart - Nancy Campbell Allen Page 0,3

eyes to the world outside. The crowd’s noise faded as they drove away, and soon the only sounds were the mechanics of the carriage. Her anger had gone from a bubbling inferno to a slow burn. “You have no idea what that man is trying to do.”

“I know that man a sight better than you do, so do not lecture me. Furthermore, regardless of what he is trying to do, you cannot accost him in his carriage or do damage to government property. I should think you would know that by now!” His shout echoed through the vehicle. “How were you even privy to details about a clandestine government meeting?”

“I have a confidential informant.”

He gaped. “You have a confidential informant? On the inside?”

She lifted her chin, defensive. “You do! You have an entire network of informants all over the city.”

“Lady, I am a detective!”

“You have no heart! You are . . . you are heartless, Detective. You are a heartless detective with no concept of the suffering—”

She gestured angrily, and his gaze narrowed on her hand. His nostrils flared as he reached into his pocket. He withdrew a handkerchief and thrust it at her. “Your hand is bleeding.”

She paused in her tirade and looked at her hand, which was smeared red. She frowned. “Tomato?” No. Once she forced herself to take a breath, she felt the pain in her palm and along the side of her hand where she’d pounded on Bryce Randolph’s carriage window. She wanted to refuse Reed’s offer, but the blood steadily dripped, so she snatched the cloth from his fingers and wrapped her hand with it.

Something caught on the fabric, and she sucked in a breath as another sharp pain pierced her hand. Unwinding the cloth, she saw a shard of glass imbedded in her skin. She pulled it out with shaking fingers, her energy wearing down to numb shock as the carriage rolled along the streets.

She sniffed in satisfaction. “I did break the glass.”

She didn’t look at the detective but imagined she could hear his teeth grinding. The sound of a ringing bell came from the bag she still had slung across her body, but when she reached for the opening, the detective lunged forward.

“What are you doing?”

“My telescriber,” she enunciated as though he were a child. “I am going to see who has sent me a message. Perhaps it is news of the fete from which we bolted.”

He leaned back in his seat but watched her, unsmiling, unsympathetic.

She reached again for her bag and slowly withdrew the handheld messaging device, holding it up dramatically. “May I check for messages?”

He eyed her evenly and eventually looked out the window. She glanced down at the device, intending to skim the message, then put it away for later perusal in private, but one line caught her eye. Her breath stuck in her throat, and she stared.

Her hands shook as she opened the scriber and pushed a button to scroll to the message, which was brief:

Miss O’Shea, pursuant to your recent interview with Signore Giancarlo, the International Shifter Rights Organization is pleased to offer you the position of Spokeswoman. We look forward to further discussion. Signore Giancarlo will arrive in London next week and shall contact you then. Congratulations! Please respond to acknowledge receipt of message . . .

She lifted a trembling hand to her mouth. She had interviewed for the Spokeswoman position, hoping so much to be hired that she’d hardly allowed herself to think about it. Were it not for the night’s events, she’d probably have been sitting at home, staring at the device, willing it to ding.

I did it. I did it! Her eyes filmed over, and she quickly blinked back tears she refused to shed in the presence of That Man. That she was receiving the most glorious news of her life whilst riding in a carriage with Detective-Inspector Reed on her way to a jail cell was a cruel twist of fate, but she refused to allow the moment to be tarnished.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

She looked up at him, searching for signs of mockery. He did not look pleased, or even friendly, but neither did he seem flippant. The tone seemed genuine enough.

“Nothing is wrong.” She cleared her throat. “I’ve received good news.”

The silence stretched between them. He was not about to ask for details, and she was not about to offer them. Her problem, however, was that she was bursting with excitement, fairly bouncing in her seat with it. After a