The Trouble With Moonlight (15 page)

Of course, his frustrated manhood was not interested in logic. He glanced to where Lusinda batted her skirts to shake out the creases formed by their interlude, and felt his shaft ready to finish what had been interrupted. Bloody hell! Keep your wits about you, he lectured himself. They had best recover that list soon before the delectable Miss Havershaw became too much of a distraction. He picked himself off the floor and stepped to the window. The overcast skies darkened the room as if it were already twilight. A tingling sensation high in the bridge of his nose alerted him the moment she stepped behind him. It was as if she had imbedded a piece of herself within his body to signal whenever she drew near.

“Like a bell on a brooch,” he murmured under his breath, fisting his hands in the pockets of his jacket to keep them from pulling Lusinda into another kiss.

“There won’t be much moonlight tonight,” she observed. If he wasn’t mistaken, she sounded relieved.

“Yes, I suppose that means I shan’t use your assistance tonight.”

“Tonight? You can’t seriously contemplate going about in that.” She nodded toward the window that tapped with the first raindrops of a hard storm.

He turned, schooling his features to hide the powerful urge to pull her into his arms. “The weather does not reduce the imperative for information.” He turned back to the window, her close proximity almost too much to bear. “I’ll just continue without benefit of your assistance as if we had never met.”

Had never met.
Was there such a time? She occupied so much of his thoughts these days, it was hard to remember. Or perhaps it was just easier to forget those long days of solitude, days without a shared conversation, days without laughter. His fingers brushed against the hard lump of his pocket watch and he removed it from its resting place. This watch had brought them together that first night in this very room. His groin tightened.

“But you said you had a plan and I had assumed I was to be part of it.”

“And you shall, but not tonight.” Was that disappointment in her voice? He had thought she felt more the unwilling partner in their espionage. When had that changed? “I will share the details later, but now I must go.”
To clear my head.
“Pickering will see to your needs.”

He turned to leave, but she placed her hand on his arm. He paused.

“What am I to do until you return?”

He turned his gaze to her and at once regretted it. Her blue eyes looked luminous in the dimmed light, wide and beseeching. She moistened soft lips, and he thought she might initiate another kiss. Lord help him, he wanted that kiss and much more. He squeezed his pocket watch to the point of pain. With effort, he lifted his gaze from her lips to the safe behind her.

“Practice.”

PRACTICE! THAT INFURIATING, INSUFFERABLE MAN. HOW dare he leave her alone in this stranger’s house while he went off to do who knows what. She had half a notion to seek an umbrella and follow him out in the rain. Of course, after she had followed him the last time, she had agreed to trust him, or at least, to try to trust him.

“He doesn’t make that a simple matter,” she muttered, stepping to the window to see if she could catch a glimpse of his broad shoulders huddled against the driving rain. He hadn’t seemed to be in such a great hurry when she had arrived earlier today. He hadn’t been in the best of moods either, but that had changed. She smiled. Indeed, that had changed. Who would have thought her impulsive experiment to sample a simple kiss would have left her tingling and breathless? Did this happen with every kiss? With every man? Or was this a quality unique to Locke?

She suspected the latter. He was so talented and competent in other areas, why not in the art of the kiss as well? How she wished her mother were still alive so she could ask. As much as she loved Aunt Eugenia, this wasn’t something she was comfortable discussing. Her never-distant grief for the loss of both parents drained some of the sparkle from the memories of Locke’s kiss.

With a sigh, she looked about the room. Locke was correct. She did need to practice if she was to be any assistance to him. She started to retrieve some matches to light the gas lamps and offset the gloom from the storm, but then hesitated.

Perhaps she should practice in the dark. After all, she was certain the room would not be well lit when Locke required her to check a safe. Without Locke’s scent, or voice, or constant pacing, perhaps she’d be able to concentrate and manage that final tumbler. With a renewed sense of purpose, she seated herself in the chair before the dreaded Milner safe and began to work.

THE SOFT KNOCK AT THE DOOR TOSSED HER INTO GIDDY exhultation. He was back! Locke had returned!

“Miss?” A stern and grim Pickering looked down his rather long nose at her from the doorway. “Why are the lamps not lit? What are you doing in here?”

She swallowed the bulk of her enthusiasm. “Locke has returned?”

Pickering squinted into the room. “No. His business often requires that he be detained throughout the evening. He insisted that I provide refreshment if he hadn’t returned at a reasonable hour.”

Her hope faded. What good was her achievement if she couldn’t share it with the only one who appreciated the difficulty involved? Her news that she had picked the lock not once but three separate times, all in the dark, might have to wait until tomorrow. She stood, arching her back slightly to ease the ache in her lower spine. Though she would have thought it impossible, Pickering’s frown deepened.

“Thank you,” she said, though the prospect of eating alone was less than satisfying. She’d had enough loneliness for one evening. However, the only other person in the house was the disagreeable Pickering. Perhaps if she knew a bit more about him, she could affect his manner toward her. Maybe he would even regard her with the same respect he showed Locke. That alone would make her stay at Kensington more comfortable. “I believe I would like a bite to eat, but only if you’ll join me.”

“I have already eaten, miss,” he groused while blatantly looking in front and behind her. She had the distinct impression that he thought she was pilfering the room’s valuables and was disappointed to see she was not. Given Locke’s profession, she wondered if he inspected all of Locke’s guests in this manner.

“Follow me,” he said, turning back to the hallway.

He led her to the breakfast room where a lone plate and accompanying silverware were placed at the table. A number of covered dishes lined the sideboard. Though the room was uncomfortably warm, a shiver slipped down her spine. Hugging her arms, she wondered if waves of Pickering’s cold displeasure had given her a chill, or was it the emptiness of the room that left her feeling abandoned and unwelcome? Pickering turned to leave.

“Please stay,” she said, placing a hand on his arm. “I don’t wish to be alone.” He appeared to hesitate. “I’m sure Locke would insist,” she added, remembering a bond existed between the two men.

He accepted with a nod before she filled her plate from the dishes. He pulled her chair out as a proper servant, then stood at stiff attention by the door.

“Please sit with me.” Lusinda indicated a chair to her right. “We’ve not had an opportunity to become acquainted.”

“I see no need, miss. Women of your station do not stay long.”

“My station?”

“In my time we called them ‘camp followers.’ ” He looked her straight in the eye. “Mr. Locke may think he’s fooled the housekeeper, but I know that you are not his cousin, nor his sister, nor his aunt. Only one sort of woman would stay in such intimate surroundings at the house of a bachelor without a chaperone.”

Lusinda felt heat rise in her face. She had suspected Locke’s ruse would fool no one, yet she hadn’t expected to be confronted face-to-face with vile accusations.

“Mr. Locke has asked for my assistance with . . . recovery efforts, and has insisted I reside here.”

“Interesting. Yet he is out on just such a mission and you remain here. Exactly what kind of assistance do you offer,

Miss Havershaw?” The tone of his voice suggested he believed he already knew the answer.

She couldn’t tell him the truth. Indeed, she was the one who insisted Locke not tell anyone the real reason she was there. She would have to stomach Pickering’s erroneous opinions, much as she had to stomach this tasteless turnip soup. She set her spoon alongside the bowl and pushed it aside.

“I assure you, things are not as they appear. That is all I can say of the matter at present.”

He harrumphed. “You wear a bell around your neck like a well-kept pet. It may flash sparkle, but you and I know what it means. You’re Locke’s pet, his unmarried pet, his companion on a leash.”

Heat flared anew in her cheeks. Her hand immediately lifted to the brooch. She knew accepting the gift would earn a certain amount of disapproval from her aunt, but she hadn’t anticipated censure from the likes of Pickering. But then, how did he know that it was a gift? No. It was the bell that made him curl his lip.

Could it be true? Did Locke consider her his property much like one would consider a pet? Her eyes narrowed.

Under Pickering’s glare, she carefully unfastened the trinket and set it beside the plate. She cleared her throat. “I assure you I am no man’s pet.”

She stared at Pickering, waiting for another riposte, but he chewed on his lower lip and refused to meet her gaze. His discomfort emboldened her and she thought to try once again to know him better. “Perhaps we can start this conversation anew under more civil terms. You’ve been with Mr. Locke a number of years, have you not?”

He nodded.

“I can tell because he puts so must trust in you.”

He grunted.

Prying the lid off this uncooperative vessel was proving to be a bit of work. But having just experienced victory over her last difficult assignment, she was determined to persevere with this one. “I can tell by your commanding posture that you must have been a military man. Is that where you made Mr. Locke’s acquaintance?”

He glanced at her askance and grimaced as if he recognized her determination. “We were part of the Royal Hussars stationed in India.”

“I bet Mr. Locke was a marvelous soldier, remarkably disciplined and focused, perfectly suited for the rigors of a military life.”

Pickering snorted. “He was a young hellion, fresh from London. He was so cock sure of himself he probably would have landed in Newgate Prison if he hadn’t gone to the military. ”

His face softened in the memory, “But you helped him, didn’t you?” She asked, guessing that Locke wouldn’t have kept him on if Pickering hadn’t assisted him in some manner.

“He had potential. I could see that. Quick as the lash of a whip, he was. Smart too, but without the airs of an officer. I helped him over the rough patches, as it were.”

She stared for a moment, wondering at the disparities between Pickering’s description and the refined gentleman she knew as James Locke. Perhaps even more curious how this judgmental manservant could have affected a change. “You must have been a wonderful teacher,” she said, hoping that she could win his favor with the compliment. “To see him today, one would not suspect that Mr. Locke came from the streets of London by way of an orphanage.”

His gaze snapped to hers. “He told you that, did he?”

“Is it not true?”

“Yes but he shouldn’t have let it be known. I spent years teaching him how to pass for a gentleman so he could move in the necessary circles without suspicion.” He narrowed his gaze. “I won’t have years of work destroyed by a trollop who cares little for his reputation.”

His
reputation! It was not Locke’s reputation that was being boiled and mashed like the cold lump of potatoes on her abandoned plate. She took a deep breath to calm the retort waiting on her tongue. Correcting the man’s misunderstanding would only raise questions and eliminate what little progress she had earned thus far.

“He trusts me to keep his secrets.” She didn’t add that Locke held her secrets too, though she doubted anyone questioned his propriety in doing so. “Perhaps you could find it possible to trust me as well?”

“Trust you, miss?” He looked incredulous and barked a laugh that had nothing to do with humor. “I’ll be counting the silver as soon as you finish your meal.”

She sighed. Did every conversation lead to the same path? “Do you have a family, Pickering?”

He seemed a bit taken aback. “My wife and daughter died in India. There’s just me now. Me and Mr. Locke.” He pointed his finger at her. “And we don’t need a fancy-dress harlot to complete our work.”

Ah, he was threatened that she’d take his place as Locke’s confidante. Suddenly his insults lost a bit of their bite—not all, but some.

“I understand. I miss my family as well.” She softly smiled. “I suppose we have that in common.” She patted her lips with her napkin. “As it appears Mr. Locke will be returning late, I believe I shall retire.” Just to clear any misunderstanding, she added, “To my own room and only my room.”

She imagined that if she waited for Pickering to assist her in moving the chair back, Locke would find both of them asleep at the table. She rose unassisted.

“Thank you for graciously keeping me company, Pickering. ” She nodded her head. “I assure you that I’m not a camp follower, though I suspect my term of assistance will be limited just the same. When his mission has been accomplished, I’ll be happy to return to my family, and you and Mr. Locke may continue as before.”

His eyes widened and his mouth dropped as if she had just phased in front of him.

“If you ever wish to tell me about your family,” she said, “you’ll find I have a companionable ear. Good night, Pickering. ” She picked up a heavy silver candelabra from the table to light her way upstairs, but paused in the doorway.

“No need to count this as missing. I’ll be sure to return it in the morning.”