Note: Hope everyone had a nice holiday! Here is chapter 10. I need your opinion when you get to the end...I tried to fade to black but I'm wondering if I'm walking the line between T and M a bit precariously. Please let me know your thoughts. Also, I've noticed myself drifting between Jack and Phryne's POVs a little more loosely (without dividing it into distinctive sections) and am curious to know if it's okay or if people find it distracting. If you have opinions on either of those issues please share them! Otherwise, thanks so much for reading!

Lula Thatcher tucked a honey-colored curl behind her ear as she prepared herself to move into the crowd. Lula didn't like crowds; in fact, she did not like strangers at all. She was always fearful of what they might say to her, especially groups of young men, who had a habit of blurting out the most offensive thing they could think of for the entertainment of their friends. To be the butt of a joke was one of Lula's deepest fears, second only to being trampled beneath the feet of a panicked crowd.

But she had promised her mother she would finish the shopping before returning home that evening, and it was her own fault for putting off the task until the busiest part of the day. She would have to swallow her discontent and finish the errand as quickly as possible—her poor mother deserved at least that much.

Bravely, Lula stepped from her hiding place in the alleyway and joined the flow of the sidewalk traffic. She breathed in the clamor of the horde, an aroma threaded with diesel fuel and the balmy whiff of fresh bread. She would take herself to the chemist's first. Lula's mother was getting headaches again and it would take a first rate powder to get Mrs. Thatcher back on her feet. With five other children after Lula one was required to be on one's feet quite a lot.

Lula never made it to the chemist's, though. A small, dark-haired man stopped her when she was halfway there. "Pardon me, Miss, I'm so sorry to disturb you, but I've lost my little girl. She was just holding my hand and got away from me somehow, I'm sure she can't have gone far...have you seen a child of about five wandering around? Here, I have a photo."

Lula studied the man as he rummaged in his pockets for his wallet. He was short with a neighborly sort of look to him. He had a European accent but he spoke English very well. And he seemed frantic with worry. A thin scar divided his upper lip, but Lula was a polite girl and did not let her gaze linger there.

"Here it is," he whimpered, passing her a photograph of a smiling, light-haired child with a trembling hand. "She's called Clémentine. My wee Clemmie. Oh, dear me, I think she must have gone in search of sweeties, I told her we would get some after our shopping but she's an impatient little thing, good gracious, what am I going to do? There are so many people…"

Lula's heart clenched in sympathy. She wasn't sure why the man had stopped her out of all the people in the street, but Lula was a God-fearing girl, and she thought God must want her to help this poor man find his daughter. Hadn't Lula's pastor told her just last week that she must strive to have a servant's heart?

"Don't fret, sir, I can help you look. Where did you last see her?"

"Oh, you are an angel! I think we should start at the park," he suggested, pointing the way through an empty alleyway that would lead them there. "She knows the way there well enough and she loves the duck pond."

Secretly relieved to escape from the crowd, and certain that being a Good Samaritan was more important than headache powders, Lula followed the man eagerly into the alleyway.

Inky blue was devouring a punch-pink sky on the other side of the enormous arched windows in Madame de Ligne's ballroom, where Jack had spent the last several hours interviewing each and every member of her male staff. The seeping darkness was an unpleasant reminder of the continued absence of Alfons Verlinden, who had not yet seen fit to reveal himself. Plagued by the fear that their killer might have been tipped off, might already be preparing to flee, it took all of his concentration to carry on with the interviews.

But carry on he did. He was exhausted and his nerves felt raw and frayed, but he had a duty to perform. He and Phryne had divided the staff by sexes, deciding that the men might be more forthcoming without Phryne present, and the women likewise, with Jack out of the room. She had thus positioned a string of maids outside the solarium at the back of the house, while Jack had dealt with the men who were already gathered in the ballroom.

He had considered giving her a list of necessary questions to ask, as it was less than orthodox to allow a civilian to question witnesses, but then thought better of it, knowing she would see it as an affront to her abilities and wouldn't be likely to use the list anyway. It was better to let Phryne manage Phryne, as she saw fit, and garner what he could from the results. Ultimately, he trusted her, and he could see in her eyes that she knew, and was pleased by the fact.

What followed had been a seemingly endless procession of male servants, and now Jack found himself facing his final interview. His subject was a thin, sallow-faced young man, possibly fourteen but no older, sitting stationed on the ottoman opposite the canapé occupied by Jack. He had an ill, skittish look about him and he held himself so carefully that he swayed a bit, as if hoping to touch the silk upholstery of the ottoman with as little of his backside as possible. He reminded Jack a bit of a cold Chihuahua.

"Tell me your name, lad, and your occupation," Jack began. He was hoping against hope that, after a long line of oblivious employees, this final interrogation would yield something useful.

The boy was nervous, that was clear enough. He had a guilty expression that was not hard to spot for a seasoned policeman. Jack suspected such petty crimes as drinking from her Ladyship's liquor stores or pilfering silver from the china cabinet. "It's Walter Lipscomb. I'm the houseboy."

Noting Walter's surname and local accent, Jack asked, "I take it you did not make the trip from Brussels with your mistress?"

There was a shrug of bony shoulders. "No, sir. Born in Fitzroy. But I'm an orphan, now, sir. Mrs. Martin, the cook, was a friend of me mum's, God rest her soul. Got me the job here."

"That was kind of her. And do you enjoy working for Lady Océane?"

Walter supplied a diplomatic answer. Most of the staff, including Walter, had worked for the Lady no longer than a few weeks and did not have anything very useful to offer on the subject. Jack moved on to more pressing questions.

"And what about Alfons Verlinden, the Lady's bodyguard? Have you interacted much with him?"

A black look passed over Walter's face. His watery brown eyes shifted in their sockets, and all the listlessness was ironed from the boy's body as his muscles became rigid with the emotions inspired by Verlinden's name. "Enough," was all Jack got in reply.

He fixed the lad with a stern look. "I'm going to need more than that, my boy."

Walter shook his head, looking angry and, if Jack was not mistaken, rather frightened. "He's a bad man."

"Tell me, specifically, what he's done to make you say so."

Walter seemed to be debating with himself. He exhaled ponderously, and with the release of breath some of his inhibitions seemed to fall away. "He's evil," the boy muttered, his face twisting with revulsion. There was a long silence as Walter battled with his emotions, and Jack could see the boy gathering something in his mind. Whether it was his wits or a tall tale, Jack couldn't be sure. "He harasses the maids. I mean, really torments them. Pinches their bottoms and steals their nighties and other nasty things. When I told him to leave off one day he choked me. The girls pried him off, but later that night I found a dead rat, all chopped in pieces, scattered over my bed. Bloodied all the damn linens."

Jack scratched a few words into his notebook and waited for Walter to continue, his instincts telling him the boy had more to say. But Walter did not offer anything else.

Jack shifted on the canapé, leaning back and propping his ankle on the opposite knee. "Has he ever harmed any of the maids? Physically?" he prompted.

Walter shook his head. He began to rub knuckles of his knobby fists up and down his thighs in agitation. "I don't think so. I'm the only one he's ever laid hands on, that I know of."

Jack noted the increase in Walter's anxiety and decided it was time to change tacts. He didn't want to wear the boy out on the first go, especially if what he was withholding was something vital. He sensed that whatever it was, it would not be forced out, and therefore the boy must be given time to wrestle with his conscience. An easier question, then. "I don't suppose you could you tell me if Mr. Verlinden actually uses the room assigned to him in the servant's quarters?"

Walter's eyebrows gathered in confusion at the question and his hands grew still on his legs, the fingers loosening from their tight fists. "No, sir, I couldn't say. Don't see why he wouldn't, but I steer clear of him best I can...wouldn't know his sleeping habits, sir."

Jack nodded and flipped back over his notes to ensure there wasn't anything else that needed asking. Walter's unfavorable account of Verlinden was something to go on, at least. It was far from a smoking gun, but it bolstered his certainty that they had their man.

There was a creak of hinges behind them and Phryne's head peeked through the door. "Oops, pardon me! My apologies, Jack, I thought you were finished." But she did not retreat.

Jack raised a hand and gestured her into the room. "No, it's all right. Come in, we were just wrapping things up."

There was a rustle of motion on the ottoman. "Miss Fisher!" cried Walter, startling Jack by leaping to his feet. "What are you doing here?"

Recognition lit Phryne's face as she swayed over to the pair of them. She reached out and drew the boy warmly into an embrace. "Walter Lipscomb! Smashing good to see you, dear, are you working for the Lady de Ligne?" The lad was clumsy but pleased in her arms, and seemed to regret it when she pulled away. Jack knew the feeling all too well.

"I see the two of you are already acquainted," observed Jack, unsure of what to do besides point out the obvious. He swept his jacket back to prop a fist on his hip and fixed Phryne with an expression of raised eyebrows and pressed lips.

"Quite right, Inspector," Phryne agreed, taking the boy's hand in her gloved one and patting it affectionately. "Walter's father owns the garage where I take the Hispano for yearly service. He's a cracking young mechanic himself, you should see him. Installed new headlights for me during my last visit, all on his own."

Walter's thin shoulders slumped and he lowered himself back onto the ottoman, letting his hand slip from between Phryne's. "I'm a houseboy now, Miss. The drink took Dad a few months back, and influenza got Mum the year before that. The debt collectors claimed the garage, and everything in it."

Phryne settled beside Jack on the canapé and reached out to cup Walter's chin. "Oh, you poor dear! I had no idea. I'm glad to see you've found a place for yourself, despite it all. Though this business with Verlinden is unpleasant, I'm sure."

Walter looked between Phryne and Jack, the anxiety returning to his face and Jack felt again as if the boy had something further to impart.

"Walter, is there anything more you'd like to tell us?" he inquired gently, glancing over to Phryne for support. She took his hint at once.

"Yes, Walter, you know that you can tell us anything. We'll protect you. Even find you a new situation, if necessary. Now that I know you're all on your own I'll make sure you're looked after. Your father was always good to me."

Walter bit the inside of his cheek, his dark eyes still flicking back and forth between them, but in the end he shook his head. "No, Miss. Thank you, Miss. But there isn't anything else."

Jack let him go after that, watching the boy slink from the room like a dog who knew all too well what it was to be kicked.

"The lad knows something," Jack murmured to Phryne when the were alone. "He's holding something back."

"Did he give you anything useful at all?"

Jack relayed Walter's account of Verlinden, watching her face and wanting nothing more than to pull her close and luxuriate in her warmth.

"Odd. That he would be bothered enough to leave a dismembered rat on the bed of a harmless houseboy. You'd think he'd be too busy with murdering people."

"Yes, I thought that was strange as well. Did any of the maids mention Verlinden's unwelcome attentions?"

"Oh, yes. The housekeeper, Mrs. Trimmer, says she has a terrible time keeping him away from her maids. She double-bolts the entrance to the female servant's wing each night, for fear of him making unwanted nocturnal visits. He's a slimy fellow, Jack, of that I have nary a doubt. But I find it shocking that he has time to harass the maids and prey on little girls. He's a busy chap, this Alfons Verlinden."

A commanding knock at the door prevented Jack from responding. He called out for the knocker to enter, and Detective-Inspector Lenox stepped into the room. Jack was glad to see his colleague, who was both a decent man and decent detective. "I'm here to relieve you," the man commented, looking grave. "I've brought a fresh set of constables along, and Inspectors Yardman and Granger will join us momentarily. No sign of the bastard, then?"

"Neither hide nor hair," confirmed Jack, gathering his hat from the table and snugging it onto his head. "I think I'd like to stick around at least until midnight, in case he should appear."

"Go home, Jack," insisted the ruddy-faced Lenox, bracing a hand on Jack's shoulder. "We will telephone if he turns up. If he does not, there's no reason to deprive yourself of sleep. You'll be useless to everyone tomorrow, and if we have no culprit by then, that's when the real work will begin."

He felt Phryne's fingers, light but insistent on his forearm. "Yes, Jack, I should like to get back as well and make sure my household hasn't forgotten what I look like."

With of the two of them against him, aided by the fatigue eroding away at his resolve, Jack was forced to yield. At least it was Lenox they had sent to relieve him, one of the few fellow officers Jack knew he could trust blindly. He thanked his colleague, handing over his notes and quickly apprising Lenox of the afternoon's events.

Once he was caught up, the other inspector took himself out of the ballroom to coordinate the change of watch. Phryne and Jack were alone again.

"Shall we away?" murmured Phryne, fixing him with big, glassy eyes.

Recognizing Endymion, he responded in kind. "Let us rouse the steeds."

The journey home was carried out in silence, with both Jack and Phryne turning over the day's events carefully in their minds. Soon, however, Phryne's thoughts drifted to the separation that was about to befall the two of them when he dropped her off at her home. The more she thought about it, the more she grasped for ways to prevent it. The longer she pondered this, the more the tension between them seemed to swell, until she felt like they were a pair of conducting electrodes, shooting humming sparks of electricity at each other through the empty air.

Unable to keep from touching him any longer, Phryne reached over and took Jack's free hand into her lap, turning it palm side up and using her fingernail to draw a line around his mount of Venus. He sat up a little straighter. Encouraged, she cupped her hand around the back of his and used her thumb to lay his fingers flat, stroking over each one in turn as if trying to memorize every line and indentation. Then she drew designs on his skin, from fingertips to wrist, gently grazing him with her nails before turning his hand over and giving the same treatment to the back. By the time he pulled into her drive, his breath was coming more quickly and he fumbled quite a bit with the handle as he let himself out of the motorcar.

The silence persisted as they walked together to her front door. They stopped at the stoop, facing each other shyly. Phryne studied Jack's face in the harsh yellow glare of the porch lamps. She knew the look in his eyes. It was the look of a man who did not wish to be sent away. In any other man, the look would have made her smug and self-important. On Jack, it only made her feel giddy and needed and reckless with desire.

"It's getting late," she whispered, her breath catching on the splinters of lust that pierced her from throat to groin.

He let out a shaky breath as he shoved his hands into his pockets. His chin was dipped, but looked up at her through his lashes. "Nightcap?"

Without a word she unlocked the front door and pulled him inside by the hand, feeling as if she would never tire of the way his large fingers encompassed her own so completely.

It was dark in the house except for the small lamp Dot always left on in the foyer. Everyone was asleep.

Jack noticed, too. He reached out to slide a hand around Phryne's waist. She felt the heat of his skin through the silk of her scarf coat. His fingers gripped her, pulled her slowly and carefully into his body. She had to swallow hard to keep from panting over him like a puppy.

Their lips glided together, instinct taking over, and at first the kiss was soft, uncertain, electric. Every movement of his mouth was sweet anguish as her body craved, demanded more. She forgot she was the Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher, expert seductress and poised lady detective. She was a smitten maiden in his arms, desperately grasping at the lapels of his coat as she squirmed ever closer, curling her tongue against the roof of his mouth and thrilling at the rich groan it earned her.

Her heart trembled with her fingers as he sucked her lower lip between his and used his teeth to gently explore the sensitive flesh behind it. Her hands had parted his waistcoat and were exploring underneath, impatient with the cotton that kept her fingers from finding flesh.

His mouth was at her neck, insistent, softly sucking at her pulse before sliding torturously down, down to her collarbone.

It was all she could do not to start climbing his body like a tree. She kept her lips open as he kissed his way back up her neck, welcoming his tongue as it sunk hot and thick inside her mouth. A moan bubbled out of her throat and she pushed his hat carelessly to the floor, letting her fingers invade and ruin his sculpted hair.

His hands dropped to her bottom and he gripped her hard, lifting her firmly against him. Phryne's head felt light, but forfeiting a little oxygen for Jack's talented mouth was well worth it. They stumbled into the wall, Jack barely catching a framed picture they had dislodged before it crashed to the floor.

Phryne laughed a little at their near miss, then, feeling the intensity of his gaze on her, let her eyes flick up to meet his. The expression on his face drove a spear of lust through her. "Upstairs," he ground out, dropping the picture carelessly onto a side table.

Phryne found she rather liked the commanding tone he took, which was odd, as she couldn't stand that tone when they were working on a case. Cloaked in a thick layer of passion, however, the sound of his command was irresistible.

She had to make certain, though. She did not want him to do something he wasn't ready for. "Are you sure?" she whispered, feathering a finger over the shell of his ear.

Jack was sure. He had never been more sure about anything. Speak low if you speak love, Shakespeare encouraged, and the Bard was never wrong when it came to such matters. Jack tried to adjust his voice to the perfect pitch. "I'm sure," he affirmed in gravelly tones. "Why should we wait, Phryne? We like each other immensely. I want you immensely. I need the comfort of your mouth and your body, or I won't get through the night. Please."

Phryne Fisher was not one to swoon, but her eyelids gave a telling dip at his words. "What girl could say no to that?" she responded weakly. "Upstairs it is."

They did their best to move silently to Phryne's bedroom, though Phryne was beyond caring whether they woke anyone up. To hell everyone and what they might think. Her mind and her heart were full of Jack, and nothing else mattered.

Closing the door quietly behind them, Jack trapped her wrists behind her and grasped the back of her head, urging her lips against his own so firmly she could feel the press of his teeth. She was jarringly reminded of the time he had "arrested" her, wrestling and warring with her until he had her clamped in irons. It was the one and only time had ever manhandled her. At the time she had been furious, not to mention terrified for Jane. She had sworn to never forgive him for it.

But when she reflected on the scene afterwards, independently of the circumstances, she recognized that there was something about the sheer physicality of his actions, something about the angry fire she had lit in him with that kick to the shin, a fire that had caused the kind and gentle Jack Robinson to pull and tug her about like that...it had suggested an intensely passionate nature hidden beneath all those layers of gallantry, and the whole thing had aroused her so profoundly that she had replayed the moment over and over in her fantasies ever since. It was so easy to picture the scene playing out in a bedroom, with the people she loved safe and Hugh Collins somewhere far, far away.

Yes. She would find a way to get Jack to lay hands on her like that again. Even if it meant another blow to the shin.

But she would save it for another night. Tonight was about giving Jack the comfort and intimacy he craved and making him forget the graphic images she knew had filled his mind since the discovery of Marjorie Hyde. If only for a little while.

She pulled back from him just long enough to strip off her clothes, returning to his arms warm and naked. It was dark in the room, but he could admire her bare flesh another time. Right now she just wanted him to feel her.

And feel her he did. He crushed her to his chest as he kissed her, his hands skidding madly over her skin as if to paint every inch of her with his touch. She loved the vulnerable sensation of her naked body rubbing against his still-clothed one, but she knew she would love the sensation of his bare flesh even better. He had already lost his jacket and waistcoat somewhere along the way, and it was nothing to tug his shirt out of his waistband and pry the buttons apart. She pushed his braces down his shoulders, which allowed his trousers to slide easily off his hips into a satisfying pool on the floor.

She moved then to his shorts, which were nothing at all to dismiss, and while she banished them he hauled his undershirt over his head. These were tossed away with the rest of their garments.

He gave her no time to explore his nakedness, pushing her backwards until they plunged onto the bed in a tangle of limbs. He moved over her with an expertise she had not anticipated, or perhaps he simply knew her well enough to guess where she needed to be touched. She was gasping and writhing before long, her hands hungrily exploring every dip and curve of his muscled back. The sight of him in his swimming costume had hinted that he was an athletically built man and now her grasping hands confirmed it. He was powerful and firm in all the right places. His weight on top of her was more of a luxury than anything she could ever buy with money.

"Jack," she whispered into his ear, her hand fisted in his hair. She inhaled the lingering scents of aftershave and castile soap on his skin. "You are magnificent."

"Not half so much as you are, Miss Fisher." He looked at her with a touch of apprehension in his eyes. "I fear I may not impress you with my stamina this first time around. You are the first woman I have touched in longer than I'd like to say."

Phryne shook her head and kissed him again and again. "I command you to snuff out any misdirected ideas you might have about performance requirements, Jack. Just being naked in this bed with you is powerful enough to make me forget every lover that came before. I don't have any expectations, Jack. I just want you."

He let her words soothe away his fears and scooped his hands beneath her to arrange her hips just so. With a single deft stroke they were joined, and all of his anxieties shivered into dust as he claimed her for his own. Just that quickly, he knew he was spoiled for any other woman. It was only Phryne, it would only ever be Phryne. If he were to die tonight, with her name on his lips, he would descend calmly into Hell, comforted by the knowledge that he had seen Heaven at least once.