A study in scandal (13 page)

C
olin waited while Amelia escorted some of her guests to the door. Tonight had been an enormous success. Not only had he collected well over forty sets of fingerprints, but he’d had no fewer than five women ask about his services for potential hiring. He needed to thank Amelia and her friends for orchestrating it for him.

“Yes, she said that the author used that delectable Brindley as a model,” a woman’s voice said from behind him. Colin stilled and listened intently.

“But I must say,” she continued. “he’s much
more handsome in the flesh than I imagined Sherlock Holmes.”

“I agree. He’s positively dashing. What a thrill to meet the inspiration for the clever literary hero.”

Colin’s jaw clenched. So that had been her big secret. She’d lied to persuade the women to attend. She’d pawned him off as the real Sherlock Holmes. Now the pipe sitting on the table made perfect sense.

She had lied.

She had helped him, yes. But advancing his research at the expense of honesty—it wasn’t worth it. He tolerated a lot of peculiar behavior in people, but he would not tolerate lies. Especially not intentional lies. He was tempted to reveal her deception to her friends, and show them the fraud she was.

He’d trusted her, and she’d let him down. So rather than confronting her, he simply wanted to leave. She didn’t even deserve an explanation. But he’d told her he would stay after. Perhaps to some that meant nothing, but he kept his word. So he’d stay, answer her questions, then leave. He’d figure out something about their trip to Brighton when he got home, and then send her a message.

He didn’t have to wait long for the remainder of the guests to leave and for Amelia to return to the
parlor. He ignored her presence while he packed his belongings.

“That went rather well, didn’t you think?” she asked from behind him.

“Indeed.”

“You must be tired. Would you like some more tea?” she asked.

He turned to face her. “No.”

“Well, are you pleased with your results?” she asked. She smiled brightly. She honestly believed she’d fooled him. It was more than he could handle. He would confront her. He needed to know why she’d done it.

“I suppose I am.” He took a step toward her. “Tell me the truth, Amelia, did you not think I would discover your little deception?”

Her eyes went wide. “I beg your pardon. What deception?”

“Come, now. I will admit that it was a rather clever idea. But I’m surprised you followed through with it. No, I’m surprised you came up with it. Not that you’re not clever—you’re quite clever, actually—but I didn’t perceive you as a deceiver.”

She winced at his words and guilt pinched his gut. Why should he not feel anger? She’d deceived him. But worse than that, she’d used him as a cheap parlor trick. Had she feigned interest in
his research simply to host a fashionable party? Apparently she had decided that he and his research were not enough to draw out a crowd. So she’d taken it upon herself to make him a little more intriguing.

“Colin, what are you talking about? What deception?” she asked.

He took a deep breath. “I heard them. I heard your friends talking about how you told them I was the real man. The real Sherlock Holmes.”

“What?” She looked genuinely surprised.

“You can abandon the innocent act. I caught you. I knew you were bothersome with your incessant chatter and continual smiles—”

“Bothersome?” she interrupted. “You find my chatter bothersome?” she asked, clearly hurt.

“But I never thought you were dishonest,” he said, finishing his sentence. “I thought at least, that we had in common.”

“We do have that in common. I wasn’t dishonest.” She frowned and shook her head. “Honestly, I don’t know who you overheard talking, but I never told anyone you were the real Sherlock Holmes. But I can certainly guess who did.”

He searched her face, and she certainly looked as if she were telling the truth. But he’d thought
that up until tonight. He grabbed his bag and turned to go. She pulled at his sleeve.

“Wait one moment. What you think you know isn’t correct at all. And bothersome chatter or not, you will listen to what I have to say. Then you can make your own judgment,” she said.

He shouldn’t have said that about her chatter. Initially he had found that quality bothersome, and frankly it still was trying at times, but he’d said it to hurt her. Because her lying to him, well, he hated to admit it, but it had hurt him. She was the first friend he’d had in a long time, and to be betrayed by her—it was simply too much.

Not to mention the fact that he didn’t want her to see him as Sherlock Holmes. He wanted her to see him for who he was, not a poor imitation of her literary hero.

He crossed his arms across his chest. “Very well.”

“When the girls and I were planning this party, Meg had the idea that we could suggest to everyone that you were the real Sherlock Holmes. She thought that would produce enough curiosity that people would come to the party regardless of what the actual purpose was.

“But I told them no.” Her arms flew up. “Char
lotte thought it was a brilliant idea as well. Willow never said much, now that I think about it. But I told them no. I told them you would be no part of deception, that you would not look kindly on playing people falsely. Then they said you didn’t have to know. That the evening would run smoothly without you being the wiser.

“But I couldn’t do that. You’ve been so kind to me. I didn’t want to deceive you. I didn’t want to do something wrong, even if it was harmless, simply to make a party successful.”

She was sincere. Her stance, her demeanor, her words were all so earnest. She was telling the truth. So rather than Amelia deceiving him, her friends had deceived them both.

“Rather nasty of your friends, don’t you think?” he said.

“Nasty?” She frowned.

“Well, they lied to both of us.”

“They’re not calculating,” she said softly. “They only wanted to make this a success. Make you a success. Their intentions were well meant.”

She always had a kind word about everyone. Always gave people the benefit of the doubt. It was naïve of her, but it was behavior rooted in genuine kindness and he had to respect that. “I see,” he
said. “Who gave them the idea that I resembled Sherlock Holmes?”

She looked up, her bottom lip caught by her teeth. She worried it a bit before speaking. “I suppose that was me. I might have mentioned that once or twice after I first met you.”

It felt as if someone had kicked him. No wonder she had been so eager to work with him. It hadn’t been him at all, but rather a fantasy. He frowned. “You think of me as a fictional character?”

“Yes. No. Well, I did. But not any longer,” she said.

She began to pace around the room, her dress making a rhythmic swooshing noise as she moved. A fabric metronome—he found it rather annoying. Her insistence that she hadn’t deceived him should have dispelled his anger, yet it remained.

“I didn’t see it, not at first. But I was so worried for Papa. And then it hit me—the way you moved, the meter of your words and timbre of your voice. It was as if my hero had sprung to life. Every aspect I’d imagined. Every nuance I’d pictured was there, embodied in you. I was mesmerized.”

“But I am not Sherlock Holmes,” he said slowly.

“I know that.” She placed her hand on his. “At least I know that now.”

He wanted to know if that realization came with
disappointment, but he didn’t want to ask. He didn’t want to care if she was disappointed. He shouldn’t care. Why did it matter what Amelia Watersfield thought of him? But it did. Regardless of the reason, it did matter. And that made him anxious.

He didn’t have room in his life for these sorts of feelings. Opening oneself up to such things only led to trouble. He knew what happened to people who had great passion—they were capable of things that average people could not even fathom.

They had passion, the good sort, the kind that seared the flesh and brought great pleasure. But with that amount of passion came a darker side. A side that was capable of heinous acts that he’d seen one too many times. Like the husband he’d once arrested from Dempsey Street who had bashed in his wife’s head. He’d claimed he loved her.

It was a side that when triggered couldn’t be turned off easily.

Colin had that sort of passion in him. He could feel it. He’d felt it. It was his mother’s fault. She’d been a passionate soul. A lover of life with a restless spirit, and her selfish desires had nearly killed Colin’s father.

Colin had learned at an early age to control that part of himself, keep it hidden and locked away.
But in order to keep it there, he had to hide his physical desires as well. And Amelia tempted that part of him. Tempted him to let go, if only for a little while, to enjoy a sweeter side of life.

“You are so much more than him,” he heard her say.

“Him” being Sherlock. Colin found he had a distinct dislike for the fellow. No matter that he wasn’t even flesh and blood.

“I know that should have been obvious from the start since you in fact are real, and he is only a character,” she continued. “But it goes further than that. You have more contradictions than he does. You are clever just as he is, but you’re also shy and compassionate. You’re impatient yet organized. Originally it was you who resembled him.” She leaned against the piano, putting space between them. “Now, though, it is as if I knew you first, as if I created his image in my mind to mimic yours.”

His stomach clenched.

She met his gaze and held it. “Why, the other day I was reading the newest story and it was as if I could hear your voice in my head, see you walk through the story solving the case. Although I noticed a few areas where I thought you would have handled things differently.

“You are the tidiest man in all of London, yet you are very far from being a dandy. You have a quiet intensity about you, although you do not evoke the tiniest bit of fear.” She smiled. “Even when it is quite clear that you are angry. And you have these little lines right here”—she pointed to the sides of her mouth—“not quite dimples, but they are true revealers of your amusement.”

So she thought about him. He’d wondered about that, since she plagued his thoughts so much of the time now.

He loved how she’d noticed little things about him. The very things about himself that he’d always wanted someone to notice. Having someone notice the random little details about him was far more intimate than someone knowing all about the surface.

It meant more to have someone know how he preferred coffee to tea or how he always stood with his hands in his pockets when he was nervous. She’d seen such details. Noticed them. Remembered them.

It felt good to be noticed in such an intimate way.

He knew such things about her too. The precise sound of her giggle. The exact shade of her eyes. Her fondness for pretty gloves. Her proclivity for chocolate.

Without giving too much thought to his action,
he crossed to her and leaned into her, pressing her against the piano. He glanced down into her eyes and saw no fear or hesitancy, only surprise and a hint of longing. So without another pause, he lowered his mouth to hers.

He didn’t kiss her softly this time, didn’t take time to seduce her mouth. No, this time he took exactly what he wanted the precise moment he wanted it. He plunged his tongue deep into her mouth, the warm wetness enveloped him, and he groaned and pulled her closer.

She met his kiss with equal fervor. She was not shy with her own tongue and melded hers against his in a passionate dance.

God, he wanted her
. Now. On the floor. On this piano. Anywhere he could have her.

Her fingers slid up his chest in a slow tortuous move, up to his shoulders, around his neck, and finally rested in his hair. She released a distinctly feminine, distinctly erotic sound that sent blood surging to his groin.

He continued kissing her. His hand slid up the front of her gown, and he cupped her breast. She released a throaty moan. He wanted to touch her everywhere. See what other reactions he could pull from her.

He ran his fingers lightly across her collarbone,
then dipped them under the fabric of her dress. Her skin was soft and smooth and warm. Perfect.

Slowly, he worked his hand down into her bodice. Her breast filled his hand and she gasped in pleasure. Her nipple beaded against his palm and he desperately wanted to tear the dress from her body and kiss her from head to toe. Her hand slipped and banged against the piano keys, filling the room with dissonance.

He left her mouth then and trailed kisses down her cheek, across her jaw, down her neck, to the top of her breast, which rose swiftly with her jolted breath. She wanted him. Would no doubt allow him to do nearly anything he chose with her. The thought both exhilarated and terrified him. She should not trust him so implicitly. Especially since he clearly didn’t have her best interests at heart. Not at the moment.

No, now all he wanted to do was toss her skirts up and plunge himself deep inside her. Make her cry out his name and beg for more.

But he couldn’t do that. And unless he wanted to end up in such a position, he needed to stop. End their embrace now before they did something they both regretted.

He stepped away from her.

Her eyes fluttered open and she stared at him, mouth agape. “What is the matter? Did I do something wrong?”

He found his breath was labored. He licked his lips and tried to calm his body. “No. I did everything wrong. I should not take such liberties with you. My most sincere apologies.”

She gave him a shy smile. “But I enjoy you taking those liberties. I believe I could kiss you forever. It is a most enjoyable activity.”

He could not refuse her a smile in return. “In-deed it is. I will grant you that. But it is not the sort of activity in which we should be participating, and certainly not on such a regular basis.”

“Why is that? We both enjoy it.”

The desire to kiss her again stormed through him. He took a step backward. “Yes, but it is the sort of thing men do with women they have certain intentions toward.”