Before she made a reply, the carriage rumbled to a halt outside Coulter’s townhouse in Wilson Street. Beatrice surveyed the facade while pushing her fingers firmly into her gloves.
Bower climbed down from the box and opened the carriage door. “The gentleman in question is home, sir. According to Mr Cole, the suspect has a mop of orange hair, a mop that appeared at the upstairs window a moment ago.”
“Thank you, Bower. Wait with Sharp. We’ll call you if we need you.” Despite Daventry’s suggestion, Dante doubted they’d get past the threshold with a beast like Bower in tow.
Dante approached the house but did not need to raise the brass knocker. A pretty young woman opened the door, though she had the jaded eyes of one whose appetites were far removed from her wholesome demeanour.
“Good afternoon,” she said, acting like a maid or housekeeper, yet she surveyed Dante’s form as if he were a haunch of beef and she’d not eaten for a week. “May I help you?”
Dante reached into his coat pocket and removed the letter written by the magistrate, one they used as leverage on occasion to gain entrance where they might ordinarily be refused.
“We’re here on behalf of Sir Malcolm Langley, Chief Magistrate at Bow Street, and wish to speak to Mr Coulter.”
The woman took the letter and peeled back the folds, but it was obvious from the way her gaze flitted about the page that she couldn’t read.
“I know who they are, Miss Keane,” the deep voice rumbled from within. “Show them into the drawing room, and I shall attend them shortly.”
“Yes, Mr Coulter.” Her teasing tone said her duties amounted to more than keeping house.
They were shown into an overtly masculine room furnished with dark oak and forest-green velvet, the sumptuous surroundings reminiscent of the private rooms found in exclusive gentlemen’s clubs.
“Might I fetch refreshments?” Miss Keane said as if she’d repeated the question ten times in front of the looking glass this morning.
“I shall take tea,” Beatrice said.
“And I’ll have the same.”
Miss Keane gave a coy smile and left the room.
“Keen?” Beatrice whispered. “She has the look of a woman who enjoys frolicking in the broom cupboard. No doubt she’ll ask you to come and inspect her bristles.”
Dante laughed, more so because he detected a hint of jealousy in her tone. “The man keeps company with the demi-monde. I imagine Miss Keane fulfils various roles and has more than a healthy appetite for work.”
Beatrice snorted. “She seemed keen to strip you bare and devour every inch.”
“That task is yours, love, after you’ve dined with me tonight.”
“Perhaps we might skip dinner.”
A look of barely restrained lust passed between them. Had they been in the bedchamber of the hostelry, they’d be tugging at each other’s clothes, panting with need. And yet when she smiled, he felt something else—a tug of a different kind.
Coulter marched into the room, his copper-coloured hair capturing their attention. The dark circles beneath his eyes spoke of a life of dissipation. He came straight to the point. “Mr D’Angelo, what brings you to Wilson Street?”
The fact Coulter knew Dante’s name came as no surprise. “Allow me to introduce Miss Sands. She is conducting an investigation into the murder of Mr Babington, and I am merely her assistant.”
With an appraising eye, Coulter scanned Beatrice as if she were a rare artefact in a museum. “Her assistant? Lucky devil. Though I’m not sure why you think I know anything about the murder of a man I’ve met twice.”
Beatrice gestured to the plush velvet sofa. “May we sit?”
“By all means.”
A maid arrived and set down the tea tray. She curtseyed to her master and batted her lashes like a harlot at the Blue Jade. The gentleman’s gaze remained fixed on her plump posterior until she’d left the room.
“We seem to have come unstuck.” Coulter gestured to the silver teapot. “I’d have had Bridget pour, but she has a terrible case of the shakes when asked to perform in company.”
“I’m more than happy to serve tea while my colleague asks questions,” Dante said, aware that this reprobate would go to any lengths to tease them.
“Most gentlemen would refuse.”