Shirley Kerr (24 page)

Behind them the rooftop door opened, spilling light. A footman in Grisham’s livery appeared, balancing a tray in one hand and a lantern in the other. He set the tray on the table near Lord Grisham’s telescope, bowed, and left again as quickly as he’d arrived, leaving everyone in darkness once more.

“Anyone care for a bite to eat?” Lord Grisham opened the lantern shutter just enough to illuminate the plate of cakes and a full decanter with seven glasses.

The other couples drifted toward the table.

Alistair took her hand and led the way back toward the group.

“You’re just in time if you want to see M45,” Mr. Clarke said as they approached the refreshment table. “Hurry up, though, or it will be out of the viewfinder range and we’ll have to move the telescope again.”

Alistair squeezed her hand where it rested on his forearm. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. We looked at the Pleiades earlier.”

Sir Dorian moved into the circle of light cast by the lantern. “Moncreiffe giving you a proper guided tour of the stars, Miss Parnell?” He popped a cake in his mouth.

She was thankful the darkness hid her blush. “He’s been showing me quite a few stars, actually, as well as nebulae.” She looked up at Alistair. “What was the name of the kite constellation again?”

“Delphinus.”

She nodded, even though she knew Dorian could not
see her. “Yes, it’s been a very educational evening.”

Alistair made a strangled sound, and covered it with a cough.

After experiencing such a life-altering encounter only minutes before, the next half hour or so seemed surreal, spent in meaningless polite conversation with the other astronomers, eating bite-sized pastries, and observing the sky.

She saw several more meteors, though it all paled after the explosive ecstasy she’d experienced at Alistair’s touch. He continued to take every opportunity to touch her, but now there was different quality to his contact—more possessive and reassuring, rather than seductive.

Soon Mrs. Lumby announced she was getting cold, and the others decided it was time to head back down to the ball. Their private star party was at an end.

Alistair made certain they were the last to enter the lit hallway, to make sure they had put everything to right before they were seen in public. He took the blanket that had been around her shoulders and tossed it onto the chair, then slipped her sleeves a little higher on her shoulders.

She straightened the folds of his cravat. “Think we’ll pass muster?” She stared at his full lips, still reddened from their kisses. She couldn’t look at his hands without blushing anew, heat curling through her insides.

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Try not to let your aunt get a good look at you. She probably wouldn’t mind too much, under the circumstances, but there’s no sense taking unnecessary risk.”

He was determined to win her over, but wouldn’t stoop
to taking the decision away from her. Her heart swelled. All adversaries should fight with such fairness.

One last thing—she dug into his coat pocket and retrieved her gloves. He still hadn’t put his back on. She couldn’t help staring at his fingers, especially those of his left hand.

Heat stole across her cheeks again at the remembered intimacy of where that hand had been, what he’d done to her. What he’d whispered in her ear as he did such marvelous things.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

Guiltily, she glanced up. Seeing the sparkle in his eyes, she smiled. “Like what?” She batted her lashes for good measure.

“Are you intentionally trying to make it impossible for me to go back to the ball room?”

“I offered—”

“I say, did you two get lost?” Mrs. Lumby called.

Alistair rolled his eyes heavenward, then leaned over the stairwell. “Coming!”

“As I was saying…” Charlotte whispered.

“Hush.” He gave her a gentle push toward the stairs, and they soon joined the group, and the dancing. They’d returned just in time for the last waltz of the evening.

Reluctantly, Alistair pulled his gloves on just before they entered the brightly lit ballroom. Much as he wanted to keep touching Charlotte, he didn’t dare allow any skin-to-skin contact while his control was still so tenuous.

He’d had the best of intentions, the most innocent of intentions, when he’d taken her up to the roof.

He had to touch her, make sure she was beside him in the dark, make sure she really was safe. He’d woken up last night in a cold sweat, his heart in his throat, having dreamt that the pistol shot that wounded Charlotte’s dignity had been fatal.

He’d tried to reassure himself of her safety by remembering the night they spent together after he tended her wound. Tending that had required touching. He’d done his damnedest to be a gentleman, to not take advantage of her moment of vulnerability, but visions of her naked flesh, the remembered feel of her soft skin, tortured him. Kept him awake long into the night, yearning for release.

Her breathless excitement at recognizing the object in the sky had been his undoing. He might still have resisted temptation, had she not requested the taste of licorice.

One kiss in the dark, and he was lost.

He needed to kiss her, to mark her as his own. Feeling the bandage around her hip brought him to his senses, to a degree. The first time they made love would be after their wedding, on a soft, comfortable bed, her injury fully healed. His own satisfaction could wait until then. But tonight…he needed to hear her sigh, gasp, pant and moan.

And she’d done all of that. Because of him. Because of the pleasure he’d given her.

He was not above reminding her of that, should the need arise.

Most women would not need coaxing to become his bride. But if he’d wanted most women, he could have wed years ago.

He wanted Charlotte.

He would make certain she wanted him.

Charlotte floated through the rest of the evening, barely noticing Miss Hewitt’s dagger-like stare or Lord Durrell’s lisping commentary on the other dancers as they moved through the minuet together. Most of the time she remembered to hide her cat-in-the-cream-pot smile, but it slipped free almost every time she locked gazes with Alistair.

She drifted to sleep that night still feeling the ghost of his touch, and awoke in the morning trying to grasp the tendrils of dreams that left her yearning for more.

Reality reasserted itself when she faced herself in the mirror, brushing out her hair. There could be no repeat of last night, at least not with Alistair. She had less than two weeks before Nick would return. He wouldn’t intentionally rat her out, but Steven would undoubtedly press him for details about the night she’d spent on the
Wind Dancer
with Alistair.

She needed to have the snuffbox and be off working on her first solo assignment from Lord Q long before then.

After they ended their fake engagement, Alistair would be free to pursue whatever liaisons he felt so inclined. Plenty of women would be ecstatic to take her place in his arms.

As an independent woman, she could engage in similar discreet encounters with other men if she wanted, or perhaps even as part of her spy work.

She didn’t feel the thrill of anticipation at the prospect that she expected.

Perhaps she just needed a good meal.

She had just sat down to breakfast when the front door opened and closed. Moments later Steven swept in and kissed her on the cheek, his expression somber. That was not unusual in and of itself, but he also lingered to squeeze her shoulders and pat the top of her head.

“What was that for?” She wrinkled her nose. He looked and smelled even worse than yesterday. “Find anything useful or interesting at Toussaint’s?”

He sat down and ran his fingers through his hair, which was an improvement on its disheveled state. “Damnable business we’re in.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Is Gauthier all right?”

“Oh, he’s fine. Probably in better shape than I am, the old frog.” He leaned back in his chair, his expression still serious.

“Steven, do not keep me in suspense like this.”

“Sorry.” He gave a rueful shake of his head. “We searched every inch of the town house last night. Found plenty that could make Toussaint swing at Tyburn, but no sign of the box we’re after, so we went down to have another go at the gaming hell. There was a fight in the alley.”

“And? There are lots of fights in the alleys in that neighborhood.”

He let out a gusty sigh. “A man was stabbed to death.”

She took a long drink of tea and said a quick prayer for the man’s family. “That’s terrible, but that sort of thing happens down there on a regular basis. Why is this one in particular bothering you?”

He wouldn’t meet her eyes for a moment. “The victim,
Kolenka, was identified by a man claiming to be his friend. We think Kolenka was one of the Darconian emissaries sent to retrieve the snuffbox.”

Charlotte sucked in a breath. “Do you think he’s the same man who broke into Toussaint’s study? That would be too coincidental to simply be a coincidence.”

“You mean him being killed so near Toussaint’s establishment, just two nights after breaking into Toussaint’s study? No, I don’t believe it’s a coincidence, either.” Steven leaned forward and clasped Charlotte’s forearm, his blue-gray eyes intent. “How well did you see the intruder the other night? Do you think you’d be able to recognize him?”

“You mean, would I recognize his corpse?” She tightened her lips and tried to be logical about the matter.

Once she’d reached the balcony that night, she had taken a moment to rub her stinging hands after climbing the rough brick wall. She’d barely had time to register that there was a strange man in the room before the door to the study had been flung open. The only light was cast by the burning coals in the fireplace, but she’d been in the dark for the previous half hour or more, and her eyes had adjusted as well as they could.

“I only caught the briefest glimpse when Toussaint came in and the intruder turned toward me, before I leaned over the balcony to shout a warning to Alistair. Everything blurred a bit after that.” She took a shaky breath. “But, yes, I think I may have seen enough to be able to identify him.”

“That’s my girl.” Steven patted her arm.

Within the hour she was following her brother and
Gauthier down a dismal hallway in a nondescript building in the City that housed the coroner’s office. With no carpets or other furnishings to muffle the sounds, their footsteps rang out on the tiled floor and bounced off the walls. The walls might have been painted white at some point, but they were now a dingy, sooty gray.

She refused to allow the gloomy surroundings to affect her emotions. What she was about to do was part of the job. An unpleasant part, an occasion she hoped was rare, but something she had to be able to handle. Steven and Gauthier had always shielded her from some of the more gritty aspects of their work. This was her chance to prove her sensibilities weren’t the least bit delicate.

She pulled her gloves on tighter, glad she’d worn cotton instead of kidskin, as the fabric was better at absorbing the sweat from her palms.

The clerk leading the way opened an unmarked door, one among dozens they’d passed, and gestured them inside.

Charlotte took a fortifying breath, straightened her posture, and crossed the threshold.

Weak sunlight filtered in through the high windows, revealing several long, narrow tables, all but one of which was empty. A workbench beneath the window was cluttered with an array of jars whose contents she couldn’t identify and tools that looked like they belonged in a torture chamber.

Aware that her brother and Gauthier were watching her every move and flicker of expression, Charlotte determined she would show no emotion. After all, she’d seen countless dead bodies before. An entire field strewn
with dead soldiers of several nationalities, the aftermath of a battle they’d failed to prevent. Blood and mud had clung to her skirts in equal amounts. She hadn’t cast up her accounts then. She wouldn’t do so now.

The clerk pulled back the sheet covering the body, revealing Kolenka’s face and shoulders, his greasy black hair.

Charlotte’s heart stopped, then started again at double its usual pace.

There was a world of difference between seeing dozens of anonymous bodies and viewing up close the corpse of one man whose name she knew.

Her feet felt rooted to the spot. Her breakfast threatened to reappear.

Soldiers going into battle were trained to fight, were fully aware that they might die before the day was out.

Had Kolenka known yesterday that he might die? Was he aware that his life was in danger? Had he even realized he’d engaged in battle?

“Well, poppet? Is this the same man who was in Toussaint’s study?”

Charlotte forced air into her lungs and out again. She considered sitting down and putting her head between her knees, but refused to give in to the light-headedness. A few more deep breaths and she’d be fine. Even if the air in here was tainted with odors she didn’t want to think about. “Can…can you roll him onto his side? I saw him from a different angle than this.”

The clerk and Gauthier worked together to do as she asked, while Steven slung one arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. She half expected him to rub his
knuckles against her skull. The flash of memory from their shared childhood helped steady her.

She shrugged off her brother’s arm, moved over to get a better angle, and tilted her head. For a moment she squeezed her eyes closed, to compare this sight against the mental picture from two nights ago, then opened them to take another long look. “You can let him go now.”

Gauthier and the clerk let go, and the body rolled back onto the table with a dull thud.

One more thing, just to make certain. She leaned closer and took a tentative sniff of Kolenka’s coat, averting her eyes from his blood-soaked chest. Her heart sank as the now familiar sharp odor of tobacco assaulted her senses. It was unlike any British blend of tobacco she’d previously encountered, far different from the cheroots Sir Nigel tended to favor. “Yes. That’s him.” She stepped back, toward the door. “Kolenka is the same man Toussaint caught breaking into his study.”