Lucinda gave Caleb a cool, polite smile. He could feel the wariness in her. She was not certain that she had done the right thing by sending for him, he realized. Many clients developed reservations after making the appointment.
“Thank you for coming here today,” she said. “I know you must be very busy, Mr. Jones.”
“It was no imposition at all,” he said, mentally dismissing the long list of pressing projects and responsibilities that would otherwise have occupied his attention. “Happy to be of service.” It was certainly the first time he had ever said that to a client. He suspected it would be the only time.
“Shall we go into the library?”
“As you wish.”
She untied her dirt-stained apron and slipped it off over her head. The ungainly assortment of tools and implements in the pockets clanked. He watched her strip off the thick leather gardening gloves. There was, indeed, a ring, he noticed, just as the press had reported. It was fashioned of heavy, intricately worked gold and decorated with dark blue lapis and an amber gemstone. The ring looked old and vaguely Renaissance in style. It was certainly large enough to conceal a small compartment, he thought, intrigued.
She stopped in front of him and gave him an inquiring look.
He realized that he was standing there, directly in her path, staring. He pulled himself together with a monumental effort of will and stepped aside to let her enter the library. When she went past him he deliberately heightened his senses, enjoying the little rush of energy that stirred the atmosphere. Oh, yes, definitely a woman of power.
Lucinda seated herself behind a cluttered mahogany desk and indicated the chair across from her.
“Please sit down, Mr. Jones.”
She was defining their relationship quite clearly, he realized, amused; making it obvious that she perceived herself to be the one in command and that she intended to retain the upper hand in their association. He found the subtle, unspoken challenge as stimulating as her aura.
He lowered himself into the chair she indicated. “In your note you mentioned that the matter was urgent.”
“It is.” She clasped her hands very tightly together on top of the blotter and fixed him with a very steady look. “Have you, by any chance, heard of the recent death of Lord Fairburn?”
“Saw something about it in the morning papers. Suicide, I believe.”
“It may have been. That is still to be determined. The family, or at least one member of the family, Fairburn’s son, has asked Scotland Yard to investigate.”
“I had not heard that,” he said.
“For obvious reasons, the family would like the inquiry to remain quiet.”
“How did you come to learn of it?”
“The detective who is conducting the investigation asked me to give my opinion. I have consulted for Mr. Spellar on a number of occasions.”
“I know Spellar. He is a member of the Arcane Society.”
“Indeed.” She gave him a defiant little smile. “As am I, Mr. Jones.”
“I am aware of that. No one outside the Society would likely be aware that the Jones agency even exists, let alone know how to contact me.”
She flushed. “Yes, of course. Forgive me. I fear that I am occasionally inclined to be somewhat defensive.” She cleared her throat. “My family has something of a reputation. I’m sure you’re aware of the gossip.”
“I have heard a few rumors,” he said neutrally.
“I do not doubt that.” Her fingers tightened visibly until her hands appeared clenched, not merely clasped together. “Will those rumors affect your decision concerning whether or not to accept my case?”
“If they did, I wouldn’t be here. I should think that much would be obvious, Miss Bromley. As I’m sure you’re aware, the Arcane Society does not always conform to the same rules that govern the social world.” He paused a beat. “And neither do I.”
“I see.”
“I suspect you have heard gossip about me, as well.”
“Yes, I have, Mr. Jones,” she agreed quietly. “It is one of the reasons I asked you to come here today. Among other things, it is said that you are greatly intrigued by mysteries.”
“To a fault, I’m told. But in my own defense I will say that I am only intrigued by very interesting mysteries.”
“Yes, well, I’m not sure my situation will qualify as interesting to you but I assure you I find it extremely worrisome.”
“Why don’t you tell me a little more about your mystery?”
“Yes, of course.” She straightened and squared her elegant shoulders. “As you may know, I possess a certain amount of botanical talent. Among other things, I can detect poison. If that poison is based on herbs or plants, I can usually determine the precise nature of the ingredients in the toxic substance.”
“You deduced that Lord Fairburn was poisoned?”
She gave him a wry smile. “You do indeed jump straight to the appropriate conclusion, I see. Yes, he most certainly drank some very lethal concoction. The only question now is whether it was a case of suicide or murder. To be honest, I think it highly unlikely that Inspector Spellar will be able to prove the latter.”
“It is notoriously difficult to prove a case of murder by poison even when there is strong evidence, as in the case of arsenic or cyanide. It is too easy to convince a jury that it was an accident or that the victim took his own life.”
“Yes, I know. But if there are extenuating circumstances—” She stopped abruptly.
“Why are you so concerned with the outcome of this case, Miss Bromley? Surely it is Spellar’s responsibility to decide if it was murder, not yours.”
Lucinda drew a deep breath and visibly braced herself. She was trying to conceal her tension but he could detect the undercurrents as clearly as if he could see her aura. She was not just anxious about the outcome of the Fairburn case; she was frightened.
“When Inspector Spellar summoned me to view the body at the Fairburn town house yesterday,” she said slowly, “I confirmed that—”
“You viewed the body?”
She gave him a quizzical frown. “Well, yes, of course. How else could I assess the possibility of poison?”
He was stunned. “Good Lord. I had no idea.”
“No idea of what?”
“I understood that Spellar occasionally asked you to consult but I did not realize that you were obliged to physically examine the bodies of the victims in order to give an opinion.”
She raised her brows. “How did you think that I went about providing my consultations?”
“I suppose I didn’t,” he admitted. “Think, that is. I just assumed that Spellar brought you some of the evidence. The poisoned cup, perhaps, or the victim’s clothing.”
“I can see that you do not consider what I do for Inspector Spellar to be suitable work for a lady.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No need.” She waved one hand, dismissing his attempt to vindicate himself. “I assure you that you are not alone in your view. No one, with the exception of Inspector Spellar, approves of what I do. Actually, I don’t think that Spellar entirely approves, either, but he is dedicated to his profession and, therefore, more than willing to take advantage of whatever assistance I can provide.”
“Miss Bromley—”
“Given my somewhat unusual family history, I am quite accustomed to disapproval.”
“Damn it, Miss Bromley, you will not put words in my mouth.” He was on his feet before he realized what he was doing, flattening his palms on the desktop. “I am not passing judgment on you. Yes, I was astonished to discover that your consulting work requires you to view the bodies of the victims. You will concede that sort of thing is, generally speaking, a somewhat uncommon occupation for a lady.”
“Is it?” She unclasped her hands and sat back quickly. “And just who do you think is usually responsible for attending to those who become gravely ill and die in the vast majority of households? Most people do not go to hospitals to die, sir. Most people die at home and it is women who are at the bedside when the end comes.”
“We are talking about people who are murdered, not those who expire from natural causes.”
“Do you think one sort of death more violent than the other? If that is so, then you have not been called upon to witness many passings. I assure you, a so-called natural death can be far more dreadful, more painful, more lingering than one brought on by a quick case of poison or a bullet to the head.”
“Devil take it, I cannot believe I am engaged in this ridiculous argument. I did not come here to discuss your consulting work, Miss Bromley. I am here because you sent for me. I suggest we get on with our business.”
She gave him a steely glare. “You’re the one who started the quarrel.”
“The hell I did.”
She blinked and angled her chin. “Do you always use that sort of language when you are in the company of a lady, sir? Or is it that you feel free to employ such colorful vocabulary because of the particular lady you happen to be with at the moment?”
He smiled grimly. “My apologies, Miss Bromley. But I must admit that I’m surprised to learn that a lady who consults at murder scenes is shocked by a little rough language.”
She matched his smile with a very chilly one of her own. “Are you implying that I am not a proper sort of lady?”
He straightened abruptly, turned and stalked to the window. “This is the most bizarre conversation I have had in ages. Also the most pointless. If you will be so good as to tell me why you summoned me here today, perhaps we could get on with this meeting.”
A sharp knock on the door interrupted him. He turned to see the housekeeper enter the room with a tray of tea things. Mrs. Shute glowered at him, letting him know in silent but no uncertain terms that she had overheard the heated discussion.
“Thank you, Mrs. Shute,” Lucinda said smoothly, just as though she were not thoroughly annoyed with her visitor. “You may leave the tray on the table. I’ll pour.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
With another disapproving look at Caleb, the housekeeper departed, closing the door quietly.
His language really had been quite appalling. It was true that he had never been known for his drawing room manners. He had little patience with social niceties. But he was generally not so lost to propriety that he cursed in the presence of females of any station or background.
Lucinda rose and went to sit on the sofa. She picked up the teapot.
“Milk and sugar, sir?” she asked, poised and composed, just as if there had been no argument. Her cheeks were somewhat flushed, however, and there was a militant sparkle in her eyes.
When all else fails, pour a cup of tea, he thought.
“Neither, thank you,” he said, his voice still a little gruff.
He tried to analyze the new, bright intensity that emanated from Lucinda. She was not precisely glowing, but she seemed a little more energized.
“You may as well sit down again,” she said. “We still have a great deal to talk about.”
“I’m amazed that you wish to engage my services given my language.”
“It is not as though I am in a position to ask you to leave, sir.” She poured tea with a graceful hand. “Your services are unique and I find myself in need of them.” She set the pot down. “So it appears that I am stuck with you.”
He felt the edge of his mouth start to curve in spite of his mood. He took the cup and saucer and sat down in an armchair.
“And I, Miss Bromley, appear to be stuck with you,” he said.
“Hardly, sir. You are quite free to decline my request for your investigative services. We both know that you do not need the exorbitant fees that I’m certain you intend to charge me.”
“I could certainly walk away from the money,” he agreed. “But not from this case.”
Her cup paused halfway to her lips. Her eyes widened. “But I have not yet told you what it is that I wish you to investigate.”
“It does not matter. The case is not what interests me, Miss Bromley.” He swallowed some of the tea and lowered the cup. “You do.”
She did not move. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“You are a most unusual female, as I’m sure you’re well aware. I have never met anyone quite like you. I find you—” He broke off, searching for the right word. “Interesting.”Fascinating would have been closer to the truth. “Therefore, I expect that your mystery will prove equally stimulating.”
“I see.” She did not appear pleased, nor did she seem insulted. If anything she looked resigned; perhaps a little disappointed although she hid the reaction well. “Given your odd choice of a career, I suppose it makes sense.”
He did not like the sound of that. “In what way?”
“You are a gentleman who is attracted to puzzles.” She set her cup down very carefully on the saucer. “At the moment, I am something of a mystery to you because I do not conform to the model of female behavior that is generally held to be acceptable by society. Therefore you are curious about me.”
“It is not that,” he said, irritated. He paused, aware that she was correct, in a manner of speaking. She was a mystery to him; one he felt compelled to explore. “Not exactly.”
“Yes, it is exactly that,” she countered. “But you are drinking the tea that I just poured for you, so I will not hold it against you.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
She gave him another cool smile. “Very few gentlemen have the courage to drink tea with me, Mr. Jones.”
“I cannot imagine why any man would hesitate.” He smiled faintly. “It is excellent tea.”
“It is said that the poison that killed my fiancé was fed to him in a cup of tea that I poured.”
“What’s life without a little risk?” He took another healthy swallow and put the cup down. “Now then, about the matter you wish me to investigate. Would you care to give me the details? Or would you prefer to spar awhile longer? Mind you, I have no objection to the latter. I find the sport quite stimulating.”
She stared at him for a heartbeat or two, her eyes unreadable behind the lenses of her eyeglasses. Then she burst into laughter. Not the light titter of ballroom giggles or the low, seductive laugh of a woman of the world. Just genuine, feminine laughter. She had to set down her cup and dab at her eyes with her napkin.
“Very good, Mr. Jones,” she managed finally. “You are as unusual as I had been led to believe.” She crumpled the napkin and pulled herself together. “You’re right. It is time for the business at hand. As I said, Inspector Spellar called me in to view Lord Fairburn’s body.”