Lynley didn’t like it. Malikov had been murdered for knowing things. Even his refusal to betray his fellow spies to the English had not saved him. Now Lynley had involved Emily in the case. Now Emily knew things she ought not to know.

“You’re frowning. What?” she asked.

He reached for her and pulled her onto his lap. He simply had to hold her for a few minutes. “I want you out of these clothes,” he said.

“Lynley!” She twisted to look at him, her elbow catching him in his bruised ribs. “I appreciate that we’ve had a trying afternoon, but there’s no reason to lose your head. We’re on Fleet Street in a moving carriage with a good part of the population of London passing by.”

He took hold of her dangerous elbows. As soon as he’d said it, he realized that he’d meant just what she thought, but it would not do to admit it.

“I meant,” he said, “that your skirts have been in contact with who knows what offensive, possibly poisonous substances. I think you should burn this dress.”

“Oh, of course. Good thought.” She softened and leaned against him. “I must thank you for coming into the cell at just that moment. I feared the guards would detain me. We make a good team.”