Sarah hadn’t been able to sleep that night. Indeed, it had been almost a week since she had slept a full night through. For all of her recent conversion to keeping less extreme hours, those
hours that she would have spent enjoying slumber were instead spent here, at her dressing table, trying to think through the recent twists and turns in her life. The usual aspects of femininity had been swept aside—instead her dressing table had become more of a desk: spread out before her, again, as they had been every single night since those fateful few minutes in a theatre cupboard, were the contents of the little packet that had been thrust into her hand.
A tin compass, with an equation scratched on the back.
A map, the shoreline she thought she had figured out by now.
A black feather.
It was as she was contemplating these objects—these tiny things that had disrupted her sleep—that the larger object that had constantly disrupted her sleep appeared at her balcony doors.
At first she thought it was the wind, he moved so silently, the only thing she had heard was the creak of the door hinge. When she turned, and her eyes finally found his in the dark, she couldn’t help jumping a bit, and giving a small sound of exclamation.
Oh, all right. She yelped.
“Shh!” came the desperate whisper from the man—the Blue Raven!—at her balcony door.
“I … I’m sorry,” she whispered back, shock coursing through her veins. “But you surprised me.”
“Did I?” he replied, his voice gruff, as he kept to the shadows. “I had thought you might be expecting me.”
Sarah blushed, and felt her entire body go up in heat. She
had
been expecting him. For the last week, she had been on the lookout for him. She thought she saw him in the face and jawline of every man she danced with, hoped for him every time she stepped out onto her balcony at night, wondering just where in the world he was, and when he would find her—as he said he would—to collect the articles he had entrusted to her care.
She had even kept her balcony door unlocked, just in case he…
She blushed even harder at that thought.
While she had been contemplating her unlocked door, she
hadn’t noticed that he moved silently from his spot near said door, and over to…
The bed.
Oh my goodness.
He moved with grace and elegance—she could see just how well muscled he was by the cut of his trousers. Indeed, he seemed much more comfortable this time. More at his leisure. Like a great black cat.
She watched, silently, as his hand ran over the surface of the bed, the soft linens of her sheets, the feather-down pillows, and finally coming to rest on the silky robe she had left there.
And then he tossed it at her.
She caught it, surprised out of her stupor from his presence.
“What are you—”
“You should put that on,” he said, before she could finish. His voice was gruff, a deep scratch scoring the potent air between them. “You’ll be … warmer.”
The way her body was heating up at the thought of his hand on her bed, she had absolutely no need to be
warmer
, she thought grimly. Indeed, how would he know if she were too warm or too cold? He wasn’t even looking at her.
Her eyes naturally flicked down to her over-warm body. And saw what he saw. The drop of her shoulder. The thin material of her nightdress.
Her face went up in flames as she hastily wrapped the robe around herself.
But underneath the embarrassment, the mortification, was a spark of realization. She affected him. She must, else she would have been able to stand stark naked in front of him without him batting an eye.
Is it possible I affect him the way he affects me?
The thought was dangerous … powerful. Out of all the men in London that she had brought to states of dizzying adoration, she could not imagine a single one that she wanted to have that dominion over. Except him.
When the robe was around her shoulders, the belt tightly knotted, she stood from her place at her dressing table, and tiptoed across to him.
“I’m warmer now,” she whispered in his ear, and was gratified
by seeing him jump. Almost imperceptibly, but jump, he did.
“Good,” he said when his voice finally came back to him. A little higher this time, she noticed. But then it was back to its normal, gruff depth. “I … trust you’ve been well.”
Sarah almost laughed, but knew that it was not the time. There was too much energy in the air, like the minutes before a lightning storm over the ocean. “I have. Although I had begun to wonder if I would ever see you again,” she whispered.
He nodded, and leaned in a little bit. It was then that Sarah noticed that when she had sneaked up on him, he had not backed away as she had expected him to. He stood his ground, tantalizingly close. Giving her no quarter.
And then he looked down at her—his eyes black, shining pools, peering out from beneath a mask and a hood.
She sucked in her breath. For the first time since … since the Event, since she transformed herself into the Golden Lady, Sarah feared she might be outmatched. He didn’t cower before her.
And she didn’t want him to.
“It’s been a mere few days, Miss Forrester,” his head tilted to the side, regarding her, making her skin go warm … everywhere.
“It has been well over a week, nearly two! I’m used to men being far more…”
“Eager?” the masked man supplied.
“Punctual.” She retorted. Where she found the wherewithal to be playful with him, she did not know. Last time she had been shocked into a tongue-tied state. One would assume that when a man burst in through your bedroom window, such loquaciousness would be beyond one’s abilities!
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I’ve been busy.”
“So I’ve read,” she replied.
“Have you?” he looked at her queerly.
“According to the papers—there was a masked man who foiled a robbery the night of the opera, and ever since then, a masked man has popped up in the newspaper stories almost daily.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and harrumphed in
amusement. “I’ll be damned,” he whispered to himself. When her brow rose in reply, he answered the unspoken question. “I always thought the papers fabricated some of the B—er,
my
adventures. Now I know it’s true.”
“Or you have someone out there who’s pretending to be you,” she replied smartly, dancing away from him. “In which case, how do I know you are the same man who I met before?”
He took two steps toward her, closing the gap between them. She felt the blood rush to her heart, her core, as he took her hand, and brought it to his lips. “You know.”
Oh my goodness
.
“I … ah, I kept your packet safe for you,” she blurted. Then she turned to her dressing table and felt her face flame up anew.
Her dressing table. Her silly, childish dressing table, covered in ridiculous carvings and cherubs. How mortifying! The Blue Raven was known to have sneaked into palaces and the bedchambers of the most elegant women in Europe, and here she was, the Golden Lady, with this utterly ridiculous piece of furniture.
But she tamped down her humiliation, and trotted over to the table, retrieving the objects, as well as the oilskin they had been wrapped in.
“You went through them,” he stated.
“Yes,” she replied baldly. “I’m not about to keep anything for anyone and not know what it is. For heaven’s sake it could have been a murder weapon or stolen gems.”
She tried to offer the items to him, but curiously, he crossed his arms over his chest again.
“I … ah, I have to admit to a certain curiosity, and you cannot blame me for wanting to know just what manner of objects I secreted away for you,” she finally managed to say. “The map is obviously the northern Spanish shoreline—”
“It is?” he asked abruptly.
“Yes—or at least, I thought so…” She gently unfolded the map. “Isn’t this the inlet for the Ria de Villaviciosa?”
He took the map from her and scrutinized it. “I suppose it is…” he mumbled under his breath.
“It took me a long time with my father’s atlas to figure that out,” she preened. “But we had no idea what the mathematical
equation was meant to decipher. We thought perhaps it was meant to give latitude and longitude, to be used in correspondence with the compass, but—”
“We?” he interrupted her—again. She looked up from the compass in her hand, only to see him looming above her. Close. So very, very close.
“My sister,” she blurted. “She helped me. Bridget’s always been better at maths than anyone.”
“You involved your sister?” he asked quietly.
“I … I didn’t tell her about you, of course.” Her eyes shot to his face, desperately trying to reassure him. “I wouldn’t do that to you … but she’s actually quite brilliant … when she’s not mad at me … and it was actually quite useful to have someone to talk to about this.”
It
had
been good to have someone to talk to—to have had Bridget. Especially since Phillippa had been out of town for so long. It was as if she and Bridget, while working toward a common goal, had called a détente. Of course, they spoke nothing about anything having to do with the Season—no matter how much Sarah wished she could council her sister on how to turn her failures into successes. But instead, they would discuss, of all things, maths. Music. Proportion. The balance of numbers and harmonies that Bridget understood in a way that Sarah never would.
It was a relief to have, at the very least, this part of her sister back.
But even as Sarah looked up, searching the darkness for those eyes that held her captive, to reassure him of her carefulness with his secrets, she decided she would not let him cow her into regretting her actions. No, she would not—
But then he brought his hand to her chin, delicately nudging her face up, aligning it with his.
“And you didn’t think it was better for your sister to be kept in the dark, to be kept safe?”
Her resolve faltered. “I … I did not think…” He moved forward and she stepped back with him, until the back of her legs hit the dressing table.
“If I had a family…”
“You have no family?” she asked, as he leaned forward, plucking the black feather and the oilcloth from the dressing
table, taking the map and compass from her and methodically wrapping them, his packet becoming intact once again.
“Not anymore.” He took two steps away from her.
“Friends?” She stood up, and closed the distance between them.
“Some,” he replied. And then, thoughtfully, “But as close as friends can be, it is no replacement for the real thing.”
Quiet enveloped them, and Sarah wished she had the bravery to reach out and take his hand. But for once, her bravery failed her. Instead, she whispered into the darkness. “I used to read about you, as a child. I followed your exploits in the war with bloodthirsty adoration.” He chuckled lightly at that.
“I used to think you the most dashing, daring, wonderful man on earth,” she continued. “But now I must think you the loneliest, too.”
He turned to her then, his hands found the way to her face, holding her, framing her. She knew that he would kiss her then … she
knew
it…
“Do not worry, sweet,” he breathed, and the last word made her glow with warmth at her very core. But instead of wrapping her in his arms, like every fiber of her being was
begging
him to do, he instead backed away, and pressed the packet into her hand. “These items do not matter any longer. I apologize for having to involve you in this way.”
“Oh,” was the only reply she could manage. She bit her lip. These things she had agonized over … no longer held any weight. It made her feel sad for these discarded scraps that she had spent so long trying to decipher. They were no longer useful. And because of that, her life would go from this exciting anticipation … back to normal.
“Can I keep them?” she asked suddenly.
Even though she could not see underneath the hood of his cloak, not to mention the half mask, she knew an eyebrow had risen in amusement.
“Why? They are worthless.”
“They are not worthless to me.” She glanced down at her toes. “I’d like something to remember … this … by,” she breathed, placing her free hand on his chest. She didn’t have to glance up to meet his eyes—the heavy rise and fall of his chest told her everything he was feeling.
But then her head came up.
“Wait,” she said sharply, all intimacy gone from her expression, replaced only by a puzzle to be solved. “If you don’t need the packet, then why are you here?”
He held still for a moment. Then, not moving a muscle, not advancing on her backing away, he stated plainly his purpose. “I must request a … favor.”
A slight thrill went through her. “From me?” she squeaked. She couldn’t believe it—she got to continue this adventure? Her life didn’t have to return to the normal that now had dulled edges.
“I need you … to exert your influence with the Comte de Le Bon.”
“The Comte?” Her brows came down. “Why?”
“He … he may have some information I require. But I need to get into his house. Which no one—at all—has been into.”
“How am I supposed to get you into his house?” Sarah asked. “As a single woman, I am not permitted in his residence—”
“You can if you convince him to throw a dinner party,” the Blue Raven replied. His voice had gone gruff again, but not in that seductive manner that cast a spell over the room. This was more severe, businesslike.
“You would attend a dinner party?” Hope ran through her.
“Not attend, no—but if the house is open to guests, it is much simpler for me to make an unseen entry,” he clarified.
“Oh.” She replied dumbly. The thought of the Blue Raven attending a dinner party was slightly laughable, but then again, thrilling. Simply because she would get to know … him. Who he was. Where he came from.
“Sarah,” he whispered. “It is well known that the Comte is under your sway…”
“I would not think so. At least not anymore,” she rushed to explain. “I have not been as attentive to the Comte, ever since…” The opera, she thought silently. Well, it was his own fault for not having a moustache, really.