With This Kiss (11 page)

Damn.
Morgan scanned his memory but could not recall a single instance when he had blundered so thoroughly. Had he thought the matter through, rather than reacting on emotion, he would have come to the same conclusion. Instead, his response had been both idiotic and embarrassing. But rather than admit that directly, he temporized. “Has it occurred to you that we may have driven Lazarus away by uniting openly? He had perceived you as a partner; our alliance may be seen by him as the ultimate treachery.”

A worried frown knit her brow. “Yes,” she conceded with a sigh. “I did consider that.” She paused, and then continued hesitantly. “But there was something in his communications, something that gave me confidence he would not do so. I may have read too much into them, but his letters seemed to indicate that he had formed a rather profound attachment toward me — an attachment he would not easily abandon.”

Morgan nodded. After viewing the man’s letters, he had reached the same conclusion.

Setting that issue aside for the moment, she continued. “It has occurred to me that Lazarus may not have been working alone. I thought our first step in uncovering his identity should be to determine exactly whose body was discovered among the ashes of Lord Webster’s fire. If the two men were working in conjunction, his corpse may very well lead us to the identity of Lazarus himself.”

“A laudable goal, but as no one was able to identify the man at the time, and two years have since passed, I would imagine those ashes have grown even cooler.”

“Very likely, yes. Nevertheless, I suggest we begin our search by eliminating the loose ends.” She retrieved a worn vellum notebook from the pocket of her skirt and flipped through the pages with a concentrated frown. “Yesterday I reviewed the notes I took at the time of Lord Webster’s fire, and—”

“You took notes?”

“I always take notes. In writing my column, it’s vital that I capture exactly what is said. A word or two repeated in error can change the entire nuance of a sentence. I was particularly careful in getting down all the details of the events described by Lord Webster’s servants, especially as they pertained to the night of the fire.”

“What did you discover?”

“At first glance nothing unusual,” she replied, her tone brisk and businesslike. “No strangers lurking about the grounds, no sudden dismissal of any of the servants, no unexpected visitors. Lord Webster was preparing to host a large party, hence the household was somewhat hectic, but there was nothing to indicate the disaster that was to come.”

Just as it had been at his own home, Morgan thought.

“It was how the servants reacted when they were questioned after the fire that caught my attention,” Julia continued.

“What do you mean?”

“They were uniformly distraught, naturally, having lost all their worldly goods as well as their source of income. But there was one woman who appeared more shaken than the rest — a Miss Sarah Montgomery. She had been employed as a housemaid at the time of the fire. I recall seeing her days afterward at a pub where Lord Webster’s servants frequently gathered. She was ashen and inconsolable, breaking into tears at the mere mention of the fire.”

“An understandable reaction, I would think.”

“Yes,” Julia agreed, but it was clear in her expression that she wasn’t quite convinced. Her next words confirmed it. “Something in her manner disturbed me,” she said. “Miss Montgomery wasn’t simply upset. She was nervous and frightened, as though she had a secret she was terrified might be found out. I had made a note to myself to question her later, but she left London before I had a chance. Apparently her sister had found her employment in Sussex.”

“What of Mr. Chivers at the Yard? Did he find her behavior suspicious?”

“Not at all. Aside from being so distraught, she was very cooperative. Like everyone else, she reported seeing nothing unusual the day of the fire, nor did she claim to know the identity of the man found among the ashes. Furthermore, she received a letter of high commendation from Lord Webster himself.”

Morgan shrugged. “I would think that would settle the matter.”

“Perhaps it might have, had Lazarus remained buried in the ashes of that fire. But as he has resurrected himself, I thought I ought to begin my search where I left off two years ago. Short of waiting for Lazarus to come to me — or worse, waiting until he sets another fire — it seemed the most prudent course of action.”

Logical enough, he supposed. Yet still… “You intend to travel to Sussex to question her?”

“Fortunately, there’s no need for that. Evidently Sussex was not to Miss Montgomery’s liking. She returned to the city after an absence of only seven months. She is presently working as a kitchenmaid in Lady Escher’s employ. I’ve done a bit of research into her habits and discovered a tea shop she frequents once her morning marketing is finished.”

He nodded, impressed. “You believe she’ll discuss the fire with you?”

“I have no idea.” She tucked her notebook inside her pocket, facing him with an air of breezy determination. “I won’t know until I try, will I?”

“You mean, until we try.”

She looked startled, then dismayed. “That’s very kind, but there’s no need for you to accompany me, I assure you. I’ve been making these forays to the East End for years and—”

“In search of a few choice morsels of gossip to sprinkle through your column,” he pointed out. “Not following the trail of a deadly arsonist who has apparently singled you out for his attention. Need I remind you that there is a difference?”

“Nevertheless, I would rather—”

“I insist.”

Their eyes met and held for a long moment. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say that might dissuade you?” she said at last.

“No.”

“I thought not.” She let out a soft sigh. “Very well.” She paused, eyeing him critically. “Do you have anything disreputable to wear?”

He arched one dark brow. “I thought my reputation was disreputable enough. I wasn’t aware my clothing needed to reinforce it.”

“For our purposes it does. There is a ragman who operates a cart not far from here. Perhaps you have a footman who might run an errand for me, were I to tell him what I want?”

Now it was his turn to look appalled. “You’re not suggesting—”

“A chimney sweep,” she announced definitively. “If your scars show, they will not be questioned. In fact, they should serve to add a bit of authenticity to your costume. Perhaps then no one will notice your face.”

“My face?” Morgan had not been aware there was a problem with his face. In fact, just the opposite was true. Through some absurd twist of fate, his face was one of the few areas on his person that hadn’t been scarred by the fire.

“You look” — she hesitated, as though searching for just the right word — “imperious. Aristocratic. As though you were used to giving orders rather than receiving them. If you speak, that will be even more evident. It might be best if you accompany me as a mute chimney sweep.”

Before he could reply to that preposterous statement, she turned her attention from him and removed her notebook from her pocket. She scribbled furiously for a moment, then tore off the page and passed it to him. “I believe that should suffice. Do ask your footman to hurry, however. And for heaven’s sake don’t dally in dressing. I should like to be under way within the hour.”

With that imperious announcement, she swept from the room, her drab brown skirts trailing in her wake. Morgan watched her leave, battling alternating surges of admiration and irritation. In the space of a single morning, she had thoroughly disrupted his routine, put him in the ridiculous position of bartering over his nuptial rights, directly challenged his domestic authority, and openly,
casually,
referred to his scars, something no one — no one — ever did. Now she expected him to trail after her in the ridiculous guise of a mute chimney sweep.

Again, an inauspicious beginning. When Julia Prentisse had come to him with the extraordinary proposition that they wed, capturing Lazarus had been paramount in his mind. But as usual, hindsight provided the better view of events. As he stood alone in the breakfast parlor, the list of ragged clothing dangling from his fingertips, it occurred to Morgan that he ought to have spent more time getting to know his new bride.

Julia stood in the main foyer, tapping her fingernails impatiently along the smooth oak balustrade as she waited for Morgan to make his appearance downstairs. She glanced at the set of matching settees that had been upholstered in a rich midnight blue brocade, but was too restless to sit. The footman had returned some minutes ago with the bundle of charred rags she had requested. After considerable reluctance on his part, Morgan had at last relented to what he termed her ridiculous whim and retreated to his chamber to don the apparel.

At the sound of a footfall above her, she turned her attention to her husband as he descended the stairs. He wore a pair of threadbare pants, torn and sloppily patched at the knees, and a collarless jacket that was badly stained with soot. His wrinkled shirt, perhaps white originally, was now a dull mushroom gray. A dirty hounds tooth cap crowned his head. His shoes didn’t quite reach the point where his pants abruptly stopped. He wore no stockings on his feet, resulting in the prominent display of his bare ankles.

Julia eyed him critically as he approached, looking for glaring imperfections that might give his costume away. Finding nothing amiss, she nodded slowly. “Yes, I think so,” she said. “It suits you.”

“No need to be insulting.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or say something encouraging. Deciding that the latter was a more prudent course, she sent him a small, fleeting smile. “I realize the clothing is somewhat bizarre, but I find it’s the only way.” When that prompted no reply, she continued. “You’re being quite cooperative.”

A sardonic smile curved his lips. “Exactly what I’ve always aspired to be known as: cooperative.”

He leaned against the balustrade and folded his arms against his chest, regarding her with a look she couldn’t begin to interpret. That absence of understanding made her feel intensely awkward, for her mind instantly conjured a thousand possibilities of what he might be thinking — none of which was particularly flattering to her. Something about his gaze was unlike that of other men. She felt as though he could see right through her, unveiling her innermost thoughts and desires. The sensation was not a comfortable one.

Abruptly abandoning the subject of his clothing, she turned and gestured to the oil portraits that filled the hall, latching almost desperately onto the fresh topic. “I’ve been admiring your collection of portraits,” she lied, having given the oils nothing but a cursory glance. “Your ancestors, I assume.”

“Indeed.” He gave a brief nod, and then studied her with a look of mild curiosity. “Which do you like best?”

Surprised by the question, Julia returned her attention to the majestic paintings that towered above her. Judging by the style of dress and the way the subjects had been posed, the portraits went back in time at least ten generations. Although they were all fine works of art, only one painting truly caught and held her attention. Imperiously peering down at her was a dark-haired man dressed in sixteenth-century finery, an elaborate lace collar, and cuffs peeking out from beneath what appeared to be a velvet jacket.

Something in the man’s expression reminded her sharply of Morgan. His posture of stiff formality was softened by the subtle grin that curved his lips, as though he were aware of a secret no one else knew. He exuded an air of mastery, self-reliance, and self-control — coupled with just a hint of self-mockery, as though he was sharply aware of the humor in his posing for such a flamboyant portrait. Seated in a throne like chair before him was a lovely woman with chestnut hair and warm green eyes. Unlike the other women depicted in the various oils, she exuded an air of genuine happiness. In a gesture of intimacy not found in the other portraits, she held her husband’s hand in hers. Through a broad open window behind the pair could be seen a vista of the sea. A tall three-masted schooner floated in the calm azure waters.

“This one,” she said, not certain whether it was the subject’s resemblance to Morgan or the intimacy conveyed between the man and the woman that drew her to it. She knew only that the painting intrigued her far more than any of the others.

“Interesting choice.” He turned to the painting she had indicated and cocked one dark eyebrow. “My namesake, the original Morgan St. James. He was hanged for piracy six months after that portrait was finished.”

Julia studied the painting with renewed interest. “What happened to his wife?”

“I’m told she lived into old age in relative comfort. Her husband’s wealth might have been of rather dubious origin, but it was nevertheless quite securely invested. During the course of their marriage, she bore six children, only one of whom lived into adulthood.”

“How awful,” she murmured. “First to lose her husband, then to suffer the heartbreak of watching her children die.”

Morgan shrugged. “The St. James family is marked by a distinct propensity to die young. On the whole it’s rather a nuisance, but I suppose it rids us of the ghastly spectacle of squabbling among cousins over the rights of inheritance.”

She smiled. “I suppose so.”

“I might add that it also explains my urge to create an heir. I would hate for the entire line of noble scoundrels to come to an end at my door. I’ve beaten death once; I doubt I’ll be given a second chance.”

Julia’s smile abruptly faded. She wondered fleetingly if he was deliberately being perverse and attempting to make her feel guilty for temporarily denying him his conjugal rights. But somehow that didn’t seem like Morgan’s style. Even if it were the case, she decided, they had made a bargain and firmly settled the matter. There was no point in revisiting the issue.

That decided, she directed her reply to the subject of the artwork. Beyond the mere images of the men and women who were Morgan’s ancestors, several paintings featured a unique item that appeared significant to the couple portrayed. In one case it was a pair of dueling pistols, in another a magnificent piece of jewelry, in another an ancient map. “I notice that some of the paintings seem more like illustrations to a story than portraits,” she remarked.