Love Between the Lines (21 page)

No, n
o. He hadn’t left it alone, damn him.

She squeezed her hands tight into fists
. “I am quite well, Sir Gideon,” she said fiercely. She backed away from his desk. If she stayed too close he might reach out and touch her.

She paced a circle around
his dark, book-lined office, hoping to regain her sanity. “I think the article I wrote will not work for the
Clarion
and I promised Mr. Rupert I’d deliver it to
Milady’s Parlour
. Do I have your permission?”

He
sighed. Then lifted the article to read it through. Outside the room, a church tower rang a peal of bells. Inside, he read. The papers crackled and the leather chair squeaked as he impatiently shifted position.

After a couple of minutes
, he folded the pages. “It’s very good, for that sort of thing. It’s not what I envisioned. Vivid description, of course, but I thought you might offer a unique view. Something more pointed rather than this pleasant…” His words trailed off.

“
I can’t seem to be sharper, sir. I apologize.”

“
Why not? You’re good with an objective eye, but I don’t require you to hold back your opinions. Confess it, Miss Tildon, you do have strong ones. There was all that talk of candle prices last night—that could lead to something interesting. Why not tell us what you really think?”

Because I danced with you
,
she wanted to say,
and when I think of the ball, that is my strongest memory.
But she was so relieved that they seemed able to speak of work, she didn’t want to shrug off his words with something false. “I might be able to manage a different view of this world. I’ll try again to fulfill that assignment.”
As long as it’s removed from you
.

“
You’re right about this of course. Give this to Mr. Brewer.” He handed it back to her. “It’s certainly better than the usual drivel he gets. And. Just. Well.” He rubbed his forehead with his palm. “That madwoman. Do you think there’s a story there?” He was giving in, allowing her to do her work, and she was grateful enough to be honest.

“
I’m not certain. I mean, there is always a story, but will it fit the
Clarion
? And will I get to the bottom of it soon? I doubt it.” She rolled up the article and tucked it into her pocket.

“
What do you mean?”

She
hesitantly laid it out then. The anonymous note, the connection between Miss Miles, the dead girl, and the houses of ill repute.

When she finished
, she saw the gleam in his eyes. She recognized it as a familiar sort of light. Greed for a good story. Apparently the enthusiasm could be contagious, because her heartbeat increased as she watched him tap his desk with his fingers, thinking, planning.

“
Yes. You should work on that one. Find out who owns those houses, who uses them. Maybe you could interview some of the girls.”

The pieces of her life seemed to fall into the right slots again.
What a relief. He’d let her do her job, and exactly the way she wanted to. She smiled at him. If she could banish the fever, she might have it all work smoothly.

The
n she remembered the previous obligation. “Aren’t we supposed to meet at Lord Petersly’s house again?”

“
He is a pest.” He picked up a letter opener and gave the blotter a few idle jabs, leaving dimples in the blotting paper. “I’ll put off the visit for two days. I…I am busy.”

In other words
, he didn’t want to spend any more time in her company. She understood that.

“
Why do you think the earl so intent on this project of pushing me into society?”

Sir Gideon
gave the blotter one more jab, ripping the thick paper, then dropped the letter opener into a lacquered tray. “He’s always been a single-minded sort of chap. I suspect he’s bored and, of course, there’s you.”

She didn
’t bother pretending not to know what he meant. “I believe he wants to teach me some sort of lesson.”

“
Yes. Once again, I acknowledge it is none of my business, but let me repeat that you should flee from those lessons of his.”

She laughed
. “I don’t mean
that
. He’s annoyed with me for not admiring him enough. I’d wager he doesn’t want me for
that,
at least not really. It’s not always about
that
.”

“
I told you he admitted his attraction,” Gideon said.

“
But
that
? He’s not—”

He stood.
“Believe me, Miss Drury. Lizzy. For men, it is always about
that
. Even the sainted Brinker thinks about
that
. As for me, it informs every goddamn breath I take.”

They tread
ed in dangerous territory again. The awareness humming between them made the air too thick to breathe properly.
Work. Work. Stories,
she chanted silently to herself, but couldn’t for the life of her recall anything beyond the images they’d summoned with this talk. Her body entwined with another. Not Mr. Brinker. Not Lord Petersly.

Sir Gideon
—his mouth on hers. Those expressive eyes gleaming with another sort of enthusiasm.

She exhaled with a soft groan
, angry with them both. “I am able to conduct whole conversations without the mention of anything to do with kisses and so forth, even with Lord Petersly.” Was that true? She didn’t stop to consider it. “I have managed whole interviews with no mention of that sort of intercourse. I promise my life is not predicated on lust. Perhaps you’d like to come observe me at work?”

“
I didn’t mean to hurt your professional pride.”

She let herself give way to anger.
“You have done nothing else since I arrived here.”

For the first time
, he smiled at her. “That’s the ticket, Miss Drury, or should I say Miss Tildon.”

“
It would have been much easier if you’d just let me do my job. Why on earth did you hinder me?”

His
smile vanished. For a moment, he looked puzzled; then he understood her question. “It would be dreadful publicity for me if an American on my staff should meet with an accident.”

She didn
’t attempt to restrain her snort.

He flinched as if she
’d struck him. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, never mind the why. I apologize and pray it is enough that I’ve already promised I won’t intrude, even if you do require some sort of keeper.” He shouted the last bit. Apparently she wasn’t the only one who found anger a welcome release.

S
he glanced toward the door. “Do you think raising your voice with me might change the odds of the betting pool?” she whispered. “And don’t forget, I do have protection. I have Oyster.”

He groaned and
rubbed his eyes. After a long pause, he said, “I will step back from your life and work. You may go wherever you wish, and I shall even go with you to speak to Petersly and tell him the project is over and to stop hounding you. I wish to speak to Petersly anyway. Might we go to see him together? Will time in your employer’s company be an intrusion into your professional life?”

She would ignore his sarcasm.
“I don’t usually mind what you do in my presence.” Drat, that didn’t sound at all right. “What I mean is it’s not as bad as what you’ve done behind my back.”

He sighed. “Come find me in two days, Miss Tildon. In the meantime…”

She waited. He rubbed his mouth with the palm of his hand. “Take care,” was all he said.

For the next two days, she did the sort of work she always had done. She had grown used to working with a map in her pocket and Oyster’s comforting presence at her side all day.  Exploring London with the intention of hunting down stories, proved an entrancing way to learn about the city. All those centuries of crimes—she considered writing a traveler’s guide as Sir Gideon had suggested, except with lower-class-criminal rather than haute-ton activities at its core.

She wrote simple pieces, one on the death of a retired actor and another about a scuffle near Fleet Street.
And she kept watch over the Maida Vale houses. In a city where she knew so few people, she was dismayed to realize she recognized several visitors to those houses.

As she watched or wrote, s
he didn’t think about Sir Gideon more than several times an hour. And sometimes those thoughts were even productive. The image of his scowl was enough to make her cross out several unnecessary adjectives in her piece on the actor.

Two days after her last visit, she again climbed the stairs to Sir Gideon’s lair in Langham House. Her heart beat fast as she knocked on his office door.

“Yes?”
he called.

She walked in to discover
that he stood very near the door, hat in hand, ready to go. He stood so near, she almost bumped into him.

“
Whoops,” she murmured and was at once distracted by his scent. It had changed slightly since New York, a new soap perhaps. But under that smell, she knew that consistent flavor she caught was pure Gideon Langham. She wanted to press her face to his back, push against the gray suit jacket, and draw in that scent.

“You
’re rather late,” he said. “Petersly won’t notice, but I do.”

He led her through the back of the building. Anyone they passed was too busy at work to notice them.
Downstairs near the press, the thunder of the press reached them and the air reeked of cat urine and sharp mud—the stench of ink.

As they clattered down the iron backstairs,
Oyster appeared and fell into step next to her. “All right?”

“
Yes, we’re off to Petersly’s. No need to come along.”

“
Got nothing better to do.” Oyster put a toothpick between his teeth. He handed over some papers. “This is what you had that night watcher do for you.”

“
Thank you.” She opened her reticule and pulled out her own list. She assembled the two sets of papers, then glanced down the names and descriptions Oyster had handed her.

“
Ah,” she said and stuffed the papers back into her bag. “Yes, I thought I saw him too. This confirms it.”

Gideon walked behind as they made their way down the steps. Something had disturbed Lizzy when she looked at the sheets of paper Oyster had handed to her.

They pushed through the side door into the sunlight
, which was gray and weak. A typical English spring day.

“
What did you just put in your bag?”

“
I’ve had someone watching the houses in Maida Vale. The ones with the painted doors.”

He
’d heard of the houses, of course. They were nicknamed the Three Graces.

Lizzy went on
. “I’ve been watching the place, and Oyster hired one of his printer friends to watch at night, when there is a great deal more action.”

“
May I see?” Gideon held out his hand.

She gave him a long look before opening her bag.
She handed over the papers with some appallingly bad handwriting. He stopped and squinted down at the words. “You’ve got a lot of descriptions and not many names.”

He smiled
at
large man with red nose shaped like Manhattan
. That had to be her contribution.

“
Of course, I don’t know many people in this country. And Benjamin, the printer, doesn’t mingle with the sort of men who go into that house.”

It was her turn to hold out a hand.
He pretended not to notice her silent request for the notes.

One name lay below the red-nosed one.
“Ernie?” he asked. “Whom do you know named Ernie?”

She actuall
y turned pink.

“
Come on.” He veered away from the crowd to stand under the awning of a meat market. Lizzy followed, and Oyster shuffled over to look in the window at the turkeys that hung upside down.

Gideon asked
, “Does this name refer to Lord Ernest, Lady Edith’s brother?”

Sh
e nodded. “Oyster and Benjamin don’t know him, but he arrived at the house when it was my watch.” She tapped the sheets. “Take a look at the list that Oyster just gave me. See that description? Came in a crested carriage, dark circles under eyes, repeat visitor.”

“
Petersly.”

She gave another shorter nod. Obviously this news upset her.

“The list has at least ten descriptions of gentlemen.” He paused and squinted at a word that might have been top hat or topaz. “Gentlemen might install a mistress in that neighborhood, but it is surprising that a brothel operates there. Are you going to ask Petersly if he’s a murderer or a defiler of insane young ladies?”