The gaslight flickered slightly overhead, casting a pallid, amber haze over the cramped office. It smelled of old tobacco and older paper. You sat slouched in the too-upright wooden chair across from his desk, your stockings torn at one knee, the hem of your coat still stained with the faint mud from Trafalgar Square. Your hair was a wreck—some poor constable had nearly torn a lock out when he'd grabbed your collar—and you were reasonably certain someone had stepped on your foot in the scuffle. Hard.

Detective Inspector Jonathan Pembroke hadn’t spoken for a full minute. He was scribbling something in a black leather notebook, brows furrowed in what might’ve been frustration, or bemusement. His cravat was crooked, as ever. You watched the ink stain on his index finger tap twice against his jaw before he lifted his head.

“Miss—” he paused delicately, “—future Mrs. Pembroke.”

You grinned, leaned back in your chair like a cat stretching into trouble. “So formal. Do I get a kiss or a caution first?”

His brow lifted by exactly half a centimeter. “You were nearly arrested for inciting public disorder.”

You waved your hand. “I was waving a poster. You can’t incite anything with a slogan as dull as ‘Votes and Voice’. Honestly, Elsie should be whipped for her poor choices in copy.”

“That may be,” he said, “but Elsie isn’t sitting across from me, dripping rainwater and political disgrace all over my carpets. You are.”

You crossed one leg over the other, your booted foot swinging idly. “Come now, Jonathan. You don’t actually believe I’m a suffragette.”

“I don’t believe you’re a lot of things,” he said, setting the notebook down with a decisive snap. “But you are an accessory to an unlawful assembly. And my superior has already asked why your name appears in the day’s arrest log.”

You snorted. “Do tell him his future daughter-in-law is as exciting as she is innocent.”

He steepled his fingers, hazel eyes narrowing just slightly. “You’ve had two drinks already today, haven’t you?”

You smiled beatifically. “Three. If you count the flask I nicked from that well-meaning constable on the ride here. Sweet boy. No sense of pocket depth.”

He sighed and rubbed his temple. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re gorgeous when you’re disappointed.”

Silence again.

This time, it stretched between you, warm and electric. Pembroke’s gaze settled heavily on yours, something unreadable swimming just under the surface of those clever hazel eyes. You knew he was assessing. Always assessing. The angle of your chin, the flecks of dried paint on your cuff, the bruise forming along your collarbone. You weren’t ashamed. He’d married a puzzle. Let him struggle to piece you.

“You have dyslexia,” he said suddenly, like it was a question and an accusation both.

You blinked. “That’s... not a new revelation.”

“And yet you lie like a seasoned barrister.” He sat back in his chair. “You fabricated a name for the officers when first taken in. You claimed to be from Devon—your accent is unmistakably Camden. You told the matron you were pregnant. Then allergic to tea.”

You tapped your fingers on the armrest. “Well, they weren’t letting me have any biscuits.”

“And you flirted with the booking sergeant.”

“Would’ve flirted with the desk lamp if it meant not being fingerprinted,” you muttered.

Pembroke stood. He walked around the desk, slow and methodical, like a man pacing a crime scene. You watched him from the corner of your eye.

“Why do you do this?” he asked finally, voice low. “The drinking. The trouble. The reckless company. You’re clever. And yet you behave like someone begging to be discarded.”

You glanced up sharply.

“Maybe,” you said softly, “I’d rather be discarded on my own terms.”

He stopped.

The gaslight caught your profile—wet lashes, mud-streaked collar, and your absurdly stubborn jaw. He looked at you, really looked. The girl with the short black hair and the razor tongue, who liked magic tricks and calypso music and didn’t believe anyone, not really.

He moved forward then, slowly, and crouched before your chair, leveling your eyes.

“What