Chapter 20
The nerve of the man.
Evelyn sipped her champagne as the colorful swirl of dancers whirled past on the dance floor. After Jack had arrogantly strode off, she had been determined to ignore him. She had taken advantage of her full dance cardâwhere she was anonymously listed as Lady Cleopatraâand had danced most of the evening until she was breathless and her feet ached. Her partners consisted of a diverse group, from an army captain on leave from Brighton wearing his own uniform, to the son of an earl dressed as Genghis Khan.
Only when the long-case clock in the corner of the ballroom struck one in the morning did she stop for another glass of champagne and to chat with Georgina and friends. She was most proud of her valiant efforts not to think of Jack or what, if anything, he had learned about the viscount. And yet, despite herself, she glanced at the entrance to the card room.
A flash of black at the corner of her eye was all it took.
She spotted Jack saunter to the back of the room, whiskey in hand, and join a group of gentlemen. Although all wore masks, she recognized Anthony Stevens from his height and the breadth of his shoulders, and Brent Stone from his chiseled chin and swath of golden hair. A third man with dark hair and an easy smile was among the group, the remaining barrister in Jack's chambers, she assumed.
After a full minute, she looked away, lest she be caught staring.
What did you discover about the viscount, Jack? And why the change in attitude?
They were supposed to be partners. Investigate the suspects together. But Evelyn knew a part of her was angry that he so easily dismissed her after she had taken great pains with her appearance. She wanted him to notice her, society be damned. Instead,
he
had reminded
her
about propriety, for goodness' sakes.
A sudden sense of insecurity seized her, and she was drawn back in time to the twelve-year-old girl again, desperately seeking to gain the attention of her father's newest pupil.
Lord, no.
She refused to think of herself in this manner. She was a woman full grown, a woman who had found her intellectual equal in Randolph Sheldonâa man who
sought
her attention. Taking a deep breath, she decided it was time to act like a mature adult, confront Jack in a businesslike manner, and find out what he had discovered.
But when she spun around, he was gone.
“If you're seeking your pirate, he went toward the terrace. Perhaps you can both take advantage of some fresh air,” Georgina drawled.
Evelyn didn't bother to argue with Georgina. She excused herself and headed for the open French doors leading onto the terrace.
As she wove through the crowd, it was impossible not to notice that many of the guests were intoxicated, deep into their cups, at the late hour. Eyes glittered through masks and women trilled with high laughter. A portly man dressed as a medieval jester reached out for her. Deftly, she evaded his grasp, her gaze never wavering from the French doors.
She didn't dare look away for fear of Jack walking out and disappearing in the crowd.
Stepping onto the terrace, she stood a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the change in lighting. Lit torches lined the terrace; a full moon hung low in the sky like a giant pearl. She moved to the balustrade and glanced at the meticulously kept gardens below. The scent of roses and other flowering shrubs wafted to her. A cool breeze blew loose tendrils of hair at her nape. Coming from the hot, brightly lit and noisy ballroom, the terrace was a refreshing respite.
“Mr. Harding,” she called out.
No answer.
The terrace was empty save for two gentlemen in the far corner smoking. The red glow of their cheroots winked at her, like twinkling lights.
She looked for others, but saw no one. Could Georgina have been mistaken? Perhaps she saw another darkly clad man of Jack's height venture outside.
Leaning over the balustrade, she studied the gardens below. Had she not been eyeing the view so carefully, she would have missed the shadow.
There. Just behind the rosebushes, skirting the maze. A black-dressed figure moved stealthily, not at all like that of a guest taking a garden stroll.
She leaned forward as far as she could without falling over the balustrade, until the shadow passed by.
It was Jack. She was certain.
So what was he up to?
Deciding to follow, she rushed down the stone steps leading to the gardens. She knew her costume offered little concealment, like a white flag waving in a breeze, but thankfully, the soft soles of her sandals were silent on the path. She fell as far back as she dared without losing complete sight of him. She prayed he wouldn't look back.
She trailed him to the back of the mansion. The gardens sloped upward here, and stone a shade lighter than the rest of the home's façade revealed a newer addition. The architect had cleverly included French doors leading from several of the rear rooms that opened to the gardens.
But the farther Jack moved away from the terrace, the less illumination the torches provided, and at one point she was afraid she had lost him. Then, hearing a door handle rattle, she darted behind a statue, and from there watched Jack open a set of glass doors and slip inside. Seconds later, a match flared and a lamp glowed dimly.
What on earth was he doing?
Suddenly Jack's face appeared behind the glass and heavy drapes were pulled over the doors, obstructing any view of the interior.
She crept up on the doors and tried to peek through a crack in the drapes, but the dark interior revealed nothing.
Frustration roiled inside her. Frustration and annoyance at his secretive activities.
She turned the door handle and pushed it open soundlessly.
The moment she stepped inside, a strong hand clamped over her mouth and gripped her from behind. He kicked the door shut with a boot.
The lighting was dim, but she didn't panic or struggle. His scent, his touch, his strength were by now imprinted in her mind.
“Don't make a sound,” he whispered in her ear.
His warm breath sent a shiver down her spine. She nodded to let him know she understood. He released her and took a step back.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, his tone harsh.
“What are
you
doing here?” she countered.
“I plan on searching Hamilton's private library.”
Evelyn looked around and noticed that they were indeed in a library. Rows of leather-bound books lined the walls. A desk and a leather chair sat in front of a bay window, and combined with the glass doors, she could picture Hamilton conducting business here with plenty of natural light.
“You were going to search without me?” she asked.
Jack's eyes narrowed. “Quite frankly, yes. I was fortunate enough to find this garden entrance without having to wander through the main part of the house. So if you will just step outside and return to the festivities, I will continue with my endeavors.”
“No.”
He cocked a dark eyebrow. “Pardon?”
“Why didn't you tell me of your plans? I can assist. Two people can search twice as fast as one.”
“That's precisely why I failed to mention it. It's risky, Evie.” His eyes darted to the glass doors through which she had just entered, and then to a solid door that led to the main part of the house. “There're two entrances to the library; a servant or Hamilton could walk through either one at any moment.”
“I'm willing to assume the risk.”
“Don't be daft. Be gone, woman.”
Her chin jutted forward. “Is this why you insisted we go our separate ways tonight? You hadn't the slightest concern for your reputation or mine for that matter?”
“I knew that you would be just as stubborn about this as everything else.”
“We are supposed to be partners.”
“Has your safety ever entered your brain?”
“We're wasting time. I assume you plan on starting with Hamilton's desk.”
He hesitated, and she felt a twinge of fear that he would physically oust her from the room. But then, carting her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes would draw significant attention.
“You search his desk,” Jack said tersely. “I'll start with the bookshelves. Keep an eye out for small secret compartmentsâanywhere a diary may be hidden.”
Evelyn quickly stepped to the desk. She didn't say a word, lest Jack change his mind and demand she leave. She searched quickly, her heart hammering, as she checked every drawer and glanced at every paper. Discovering a stack of bills, she skimmed each one. Her brow furrowed as she reached the middle of the stack, and she hesitated.
She looked to Jack who was balanced on a footstool, reaching up high, his fingers tracing the edge of the top bookshelf, no doubt searching for a hidden latch. From this angle, the muscles of his broad shoulders strained against his black shirt. She swallowed, her mouth gone dry. What would it feel like to touch his shoulders without the barrier of clothing?
He stepped down and turned around. Too late, she realized she stood still behind the desk, bills in hand, staring at him like an awestruck girl.
“What is it?” His gaze lowered to her hand. “What did you find?”
She blinked, clearing the enticing picture of him shirtless from her mind.
She raised the handful of bills. “There are invoices for jewelers, flower shops, and dressmakers. All are for delivery to Bess Whitfield's London address.”
“Let me have a look.” Stepping close, his fingers brushed hers as he took the stack from her.
He studied each bill carefully. “The last delivery from the dressmaker's was for the day before Bess was murdered.”
“Why would he have a gown made if he planned on killing her?”
“I don't think he planned it,” Jack said. “I think it was a crime of passion, carried out in the heat of the moment. The killer repeatedly and viciously stabbed the victim. There was no forced entry into her home. She let him inside. She knew him. The murder was personal.”
“Oh, my,” Evelyn whispered.
“I've found something as well.” Jack went back to the bookshelf and reached for a packet of papers he had left on a lower shelf. Turning around, he opened the packet to reveal a group of letters. He spread them across the desk, a dozen in all. “Love letters from Bess Whitfield to Maxwell Stanford, Viscount Hamilton.”
Evelyn's mind whirled as she skimmed the letters. All were written in a flowing script and scented with a cloying floral fragrance. It was clear that the couple had a love-hate relationship, for the contents of the letters varied from scalding anger to vivid descriptions of promised erotic acts. Evelyn's eyes widened at the scorching words.
Could a woman truly do such things to a man?
Would Jack like them?
her inner voice asked.
She inwardly cringed. It should be Randolph in her thoughts, not Jack.
“Here.” Jack pointed to the date in the right-hand corner of the last letter. “Bess saw Hamilton with another woman, other than his wife. She was furious. The letter coincides with the dressmaker's invoice. Hamilton had arranged to have a dress delivered as an apology gift.”
“Maybe she rejected his gift and refused to accept his apology,” Evelyn suggested.
“And he retaliated by stabbing her to death. It's a likely scenario. Strong attraction between the sexes is animalistic in nature and can stir up dangerous, sometimes deadly actions.”
Yes, my attraction to you is animalistic, without logic and entirely dangerous,
she thought.
“Either way,” Jack said, pointing to the letters spread out on the desk, “they are not Bess's missing diary.”
“Perhaps he never found it, or he was unaware of its existence,” she said.
“It's possible, but we don't have time to discuss that theory now. Put everything back exactly as you found it.” Jack gathered up the letters and moved to the bookshelves.
She sensed an urgency in him, and she made quick work of putting the bills back in the order she had found them and returning them to the drawer.
As she closed the drawer, a nagging thought pierced her brain. Her earlier confidence regarding their surreptitious search was suddenly shattered like broken glass.
“What about Georgina?” she whispered.
Jack stepped down from the stool and faced her. “What about her?”
A sudden knot rose in her throat. “I consider her my friend. What if we prove her father guilty of murdering Bess Whitfield? It would destroy not only Viscount Hamilton, but Georgina and her mother as well. The scandal would be horrendous, the gossips ruthless.”