“You keep odd hours, Miss Glade,” he said.
It dawned on her that she was staring at the deeply shadowed wedge of bare, masculine chest that was just visible between the edges of his open shirt.
Mortified, she pulled herself together with an act of sheer willpower, shoved her glasses firmly in place on her nose and reminded herself that she was on a mission.
“No odder than your own, sir,” she whispered. “What happened? Did you learn anything of interest?”
“I can’t be certain, but I strongly suspect that Mrs. Jervis is dead. There are signs of a violent struggle in her office. I found no files for you or for Bartlett.”
“Dear heaven.” A numb sensation seized her. She grasped the door frame to brace herself and focused on the most astonishing part of his dreadfully succinct report. “Mrs. Jervis is dead?”
“I have no proof of that yet. I will make inquiries tomorrow morning. But such news would not come as a surprise, given the fact that she may well have been involved with Alexander Larkin.”
“If you are right, it means that there have been three deaths thus far in this affair. Your client’s sister, Miss Bartlett and Mrs. Jervis.” She shuddered and tightened her grip on the lapels of her robe. “Larkin must consider my girls very valuable, indeed.”
“I agree.” He shoved his fingers through his hair in what struck her as an uncharacteristic gesture of restlessness. “Would you mind waiting a few minutes for the details?” he asked. “I would like to wash my face and hands and clean up a bit. The hansom in which I returned was not the cleanest.”
“What? Oh, yes, of course.” She stepped quickly back out of his way. “I beg your pardon.”
“I suggest you go downstairs to the library. I will meet you there in a few minutes and tell you what little I know.”
“Very well.” She hesitated uncertainly. “Are you all right? You were not hurt?”
“I am fine.” He moved past her with an air of impatience. “Now, if you will excuse me?”
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
He crossed the hall and wrapped his fingers around the knob of the door. “I won’t be long.”
“One moment, if you don’t mind,” she whispered, unable to restrain herself. “Did you find any clues?”
He looked back at her over his shoulder. “Not unless you count the newspaper.”
“What newspaper?”
“The one that is on my writing desk.” He angled his chin to indicate the interior of his bedroom. “I doubt if it will amount to a clue, but it looked as though it had been deliberately hidden. I found it tucked away beneath the false bottom of a drawer in Jervis’s desk. You may take a look at it if you like.”
He disappeared into the bath and closed the door.
She waited until she heard the muffled sound of water flowing through the pipes before she went slowly back to the doorway of Ambrose’s bedroom and peered inside.
It was a decidedly masculine room done in shades of green and rich amber. The thick carpet was heavily patterned with giant ferns. The massive four-poster bed and a large wardrobe occupied a great deal of the space. The coat that Ambrose had recently discarded was flung carelessly across the bed.
She could see the folded newspaper on the writing table that stood near the window.
All she had to do was take a few steps, pick up the paper and depart. Yet she found herself hesitating. Entering Ambrose’s bedroom struck her as an almost overwhelmingly intimate thing to do.
She drew a deep breath, strode briskly into the room, seized the newspaper and scurried back to the door.
It was only when she was safely out in the hall that she realized she had been holding her breath.
Ridiculous. It was merely a bedroom. Not only that, it was, if she had interpreted the few hints she had picked up from Mrs. Oates correctly, the private quarters of a man who did not have any sexual interest in women.
She hurried into her own room, turned up the lamp and opened the newspaper. Disappointment descended when she realized that she was looking at an edition of
The Flying Intelligencer
that was some six weeks old.
She opened the paper to its full width and turned the first page, looking for markings or notations that might have been made by Mrs. Jervis.
When she turned the second page, two sheets of writing paper fell out and fluttered lightly on the carpet.
She looked down at the papers and saw that they were letters. Both were addressed to R. J. Jervis. Both were signed by S. Bartlett.
She scooped up the letters and read each one quickly, her blood chilling with every sentence.
When she finished, she rushed back out into the hall. The water had stopped.
She rapped sharply on the door of the bath.
“Mr. Wells,” she said, struggling to keep her voice from rising. The last thing she wanted to do was awaken any of the students upstairs. “Mr. Wells, you must see what I found in the newspaper.”
He opened the door with an air of grim resignation. He had removed his shirt entirely, leaving himself quite nude above the waist.
She could see the glistening dampness of his bare skin where he had splashed cold water on his face and upper body. His shoulders appeared astonishingly broad. The contours of his chest and lean waist would have done credit to a statue of an ancient, mythic hero. A triangle of dark hair angled downward and disappeared beneath his trousers.
“What is it now, Miss Glade?” he asked politely.
She stared at him, aware that her jaw had dropped. “Good heavens, sir, is that a
tattoo
?”
He glanced down at the small flower on his upper right chest. “It is, indeed, Miss Glade. Very observant of you to notice.”
“Good heavens,” she said again. She drew a deep breath. “I have never met anyone with a tattoo.”
“It appears that I have at last succeeded in shocking your extremely modern sensibilities.”
“No, no, not at all,” she said hastily. “It is just that, well, a
tattoo
?” She peered more closely at the small design. “It is a flower of some sort, is it not? I do not recognize the species.”
“I will likely regret this,” Ambrose said. He captured her chin and tilted it up so that he could look into her smoky eyes. “But I cannot seem
to resist. You have caught me in a very weak moment, Miss Glade. The cold water was supposed to act as an antidote but it does not seem to have been effective.”
“Antidote for what? Are you feverish, sir?”
“I am on fire, Miss Glade.”
The next thing she knew his mouth was on hers in a kiss that made her forget everything else, including the tattoo.
H
e had not meant to kiss her. Not yet. Not tonight. It was too soon and the timing was wrong. That was why he had tried to send her downstairs a few minutes ago, why he had come in here to douse himself with a great quantity of icy water.
But instead she had come to him. The sight of her standing in the doorway of the bath, dressed in her robe, her soft mouth open in shock at the sight of the tattoo, was too compelling, too intimate.
Logic and good sense did not stand a chance.
He kissed her slowly, heavily, achingly aware that it would no doubt prove to be a grave mistake.
But she was the one who had come knocking on the door of the bath tonight, he reminded himself. And this was Miss Concordia Glade, the very unconventional daughter of the notoriously freethinking William Gilmore Glade and Sybil Marlowe. She was not some inexperienced, milk-and-water miss.
For a timeless instant she simply stood there as if she had been frozen
into immobility. He caught the back of her head with one hand and deepened the kiss, desperate for a response that would indicate she felt at least some of what he was feeling.
She trembled. Her mouth softened. A tiny little moan of pleasure sighed through her.
“Mr. Wells,” she whispered in soft, wondering tones. “It would appear that you are, indeed, attracted to women, after all.”
He went quite still. Then, very cautiously, he raised his head.
“What the devil are you talking about?” he asked.
“It was something Mrs. Oates said. I got the impression that perhaps you and Mr. Stoner were more than just good friends.”
“I see.” Amusement welled up inside him. “Serves me right, no doubt.”
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter now.”
“No, it does not. Allow me to correct the small misunderstanding.”
He tightened his hold on her and kissed her again, very thoroughly this time.
She put her arms around his neck and kissed him back with an enthusiasm that made his head whirl. A hot tide of desire and a euphoric sense of exhilaration surged through him.
He tangled his fingers in her hair and devoured her mouth.
A long moment later he was forced to surface briefly for air.
“After all that we have been through together,” he said, “I think it’s time you started calling me Ambrose, don’t you?”
“Ambrose.”
He pulled back slightly and saw that her eyeglasses had become clouded from the effects of their combined breaths.
“My apologies.” He smiled and removed her spectacles. “That must have been a bit like kissing a stranger in the dark.”
“No,” she said. She blinked once or twice and searched his face in an unfocused way. “I know exactly who you are.”
“Concordia,” he heard himself whisper. “What are you doing to me?”
He pulled her tightly to him, desperate to feel the soft warmth of her against his own heavily aroused body. Nothing else could assuage the hunger that was clawing at his insides.
She clung to him, seemingly as ravenous as he was. He reached down and undid the sash of her robe.
When his hand closed over her breast, she stiffened.
He managed to drag his mouth away from hers. “What is it?”
Her eyes were very wide and shadowed. She released him and took a quick step back.
“Good heavens, I almost forgot.” She shoved a hand into the pocket of her robe.
“Forgot what?”
“The letters.” She waved two sheets of paper at him. “That is what I came here to tell you. I found them tucked inside the newspaper. They are from Miss Bartlett. She wrote them to Mrs. Jervis while she was at Aldwick Castle. The last one is dated shortly before she disappeared.”
He made himself refocus his attention on the two sheets of paper being waved in front of his face. “Let me see those.”
She handed them to him. “Miss Bartlett discovered that something was amiss with the situation at the castle. In her first letter she mentions
that no mail can be sent or received there. She says she got her letters posted by bribing one of the farmers who delivered produce to the castle kitchens.”
He handed her the eyeglasses. “Go downstairs to the library. I will join you in a few minutes.”
T
EN MINUTES LATER
, garbed in his dressing gown, he stood at his desk in the library. The two letters from Miss Bartlett addressed to Mrs. Jervis were spread out before him on top of the blotter.
“It is obvious that she and Jervis were well acquainted,” he said.
“Yes.” Concordia paced back and forth in front of the desk. “They communicate in the manner of two people who have known each other for some time.”
“In the first letter Miss Bartlett tells her that she believes she has stumbled onto some sort of illicit scheme involving the girls she was hired to teach.”
“She came to the same conclusion that I did.” Concordia’s fine mouth tensed. “There can be no mistake about it now. That vile Alexander Larkin was, indeed, attempting to set himself up in the business of procuring high-class courtesans.”
He contemplated the letter for a moment. “The implication is that Phoebe, Hannah, Edwina and Theodora may have been experiments, as it were. If all went well, the project was to continue using other orphans.”
“Despicable man.”
Ambrose thought for a moment. “She doesn’t mention Larkin by name. Very likely she was unaware of his connection to the business.”
“You did say that he is careful to keep himself at arm’s length from his illegal enterprises.”
“Yes.”
She clenched both hands into small fists. “Dreadful, odious, vile creature.”
Ambrose planted his palms on the desk and read aloud from the first letter.
“‘ . . . There is little doubt about what is going on here. If the first auction is successful, there will be more. I see no reason why you and I should not take a portion of the profits. . . .’”
Concordia stopped abruptly. “It sounds as though Miss Bartlett was suggesting that she and Mrs. Jervis engage in blackmail, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. Unfortunately the name of the intended victim is not mentioned in either letter.”
She frowned. “You just told me that Larkin would have been careful to make certain that his name was not associated with this business. They must have had someone else in mind to blackmail.”
“I think so, yes. And it makes some sense.” Ambrose walked around to the front of the desk and lounged back against the edge. “There is more going on here than I have told you, Concordia.”
“What do you mean?”
“There have been rumors for months that Larkin has formed a partnership with a gentleman who moves in Society. It may be that the new business associate was the person who approached Mrs. Jervis and asked her to find a teacher for the first four girls in this experiment. Miss Bartlett and Mrs. Jervis may have attempted to blackmail him.”
She folded her arms beneath her breasts. “If Larkin’s new partner moves in Society, he would certainly have been vulnerable to blackmail.”
“And no doubt willing to commit murder to protect himself.”
There was a long silence while they both considered that.
“How could Miss Bartlett do that?” Concordia asked after a while.
“Risk blackmail?” He shrugged. “She was making her living in a profession that does not pay well. She saw an opportunity to improve her finances so she seized it.”
Concordia shook her head. “I wasn’t talking about the blackmail attempt. I meant, how could she consider getting more deeply involved in that dreadful scheme? How could she even think of doing that to the girls placed in her care?”