“Had I imagined her,” the woman responded, “she would have been dressed.”
Lusinda ran to retrieve her clothing before another stray cloud could settle the argument.
JAMES SPED TO FARTHINGTON HOUSE AS SOON AS THE old codger was called away. The message handed to Farthington suggested he return home immediately, and even the lure of a fistful of aces and a fat lucrative pot couldn’t keep him at the table. James waited a few minutes to avoid suspicion, then fled the gentlemen’s club and flagged a cab in a race for Berkeley Street where his carriage stood waiting.
He found the carriage, but not the occupant. After dismissing his hired hack, he glanced to the upstairs window and noted it was still closed . . . and dark. Was she there? Did she make it to the bedroom? Or had she been discovered and was now being held elsewhere in the house? Was that the reason behind Farthington’s hasty exit? Worry chewed at his gut as he contemplated his next move.
He should never have blackmailed her into joining his espionage efforts. That’s what he’d done, threatened her to keep her so other operatives couldn’t use her. He’d given her no choice and then marched her off into a treacherous game with deadly results. Disgust rose in his throat. He was no better than the toady chieftain who had him whipped within an ounce of his life. No better at all. He didn’t deserve a life, a family, happiness—
Wait! A movement of sorts in the upstairs bedroom caught his attention. He was too far to see clearly, but thin shadows moved within the parameters of the window frame. What did that mean? Damnation. Worrying about someone else in possible jeopardy was worse than being in jeopardy oneself. Especially when that someone kissed with a passion that made him weak in his knees.
He maneuvered his way closer to the upstairs window.
Think, man, think!
This was no time to lose one’s intellect to passion. How could he be sure she was inside? His gaze swept the area, noting something dark on the ground near a tree. He investigated and found her clothes. Yes, that made sense. The shrubs would hide her from the street while the tree blocked the view from the window. Still, the thought that she was naked and in the company of that vile Farthington filled him with trepidation. He glanced up toward the window and saw the pane rise. For a moment he forgot to breathe, then she appeared, or rather something more translucent than opaque advanced to the ledge. Lusinda! It had to be. Relief flooded his senses. Dear Lord, she was beautiful, and agile, and brave. A Chinese acrobat could not maneuver a tree with more grace. He had suspected her stumble on the stool was orchestrated. Here, then, was his proof. She landed not far from his location, spread out her arms, then instantly vanished.
A commotion in the music room drew his attention. James stepped deeper into the shadows moments before Farthington looked out. He could only imagine what the old man thought when Lusinda disappeared before his very eyes. If James hadn’t witnessed it himself, he would doubt his sanity as well. He couldn’t stop smiling. Truth be told, he was liable to break out into a jig.
Suddenly, her scent touched his nostrils. “Lusinda?”
“Weren’t you to keep him occupied?”
An annoyed voice but hers just the same spoke from the area to his right. He glanced quickly toward the moon. Dear Lord, what he wouldn’t give for a cloud. He couldn’t keep the smile from his face as he addressed her position. “You’re safe, that’s all that matters.”
“I thought that the contents of the safe were all that mattered. ”
She’d moved! The minx was now to his left. This was different than when he had her cornered in his study. Then she was confined to a room, and easy to track. Here she could disappear before he knew she was gone. Her scent diffused in the breeze, making that means of finding her unreliable. She could walk away and never be discovered. That realization smacked him between the eyes. How could he control someone he couldn’t see? The answer was as troubling as the question. He couldn’t.
“We’re not out of danger yet,” he said, suddenly wanting her in a confined area. “Farthington might decide to investigate. ”
She laughed. “If he does, he’ll find only a gentleman who refused to give up the game, and a pile of women’s clothing. I wonder what the society columns would make of that?”
Indeed, he could only imagine. He tried not to laugh in an effort to be stern, but it was difficult, and not very effective. He scowled. “Lusinda.”
“All right.”
Her long, thin cloak jumped into the air as if it had a life of its own and molded itself around what he knew to be a shapely feminine body. Though the possibility of seeing her womanly attributes glow in luminous radiance no longer existed, he knew that only a single layer of cloth separated him from said attributes, and that knowledge registered in his groin.
Bloody hell. He should have thought to bring a coat of his own, but then he hadn’t considered the effect a woman’s cloak would have on his long-denied libidinous behavior. Pickering had been right in that regard. He was a healthy man with healthy appetites, and in this context, ravenous.
Her coat lifted at the hem, and two slippers jumped to attention. The coat arms discovered gloves in the pockets that gave definition to her hands. Finally, she completed the ensemble with a lacy black veil that draped over the front of her face, hiding the void that would otherwise appear beneath the hideous widow’s cap.
Once he was sure they could leave the shadowed alcove without discovery, they hurried to the street. Then they walked, as a normal gentleman escorting a normal widow might, to the waiting carriage. At one point, he looked askance into the dark veil. The emptiness draped in black resembled the caricature of the grim reaper popular in
Punch
. A shiver slipped down his spine in the manner of one who has just glimpsed his future.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
Strange to hear words spoken by a human form without benefit of lips.
“No,” he said. “I was thinking how much you resemble the image of death.”
Her elbow stiffened beneath the light touch of his hand. He couldn’t see her face, but something in her manner suggested she didn’t appreciate his observation. She was silent for several steps.
“Not to say that you remind me of death. Quite the opposite, ” he quickly added. “However with that black coat and the lack of your . . . features . . . some superstitious bloke might construe that you resemble a gatherer of souls.” He forced a chuckle. “Why, all you’d need is a scythe and—”
“What do mean, ‘the opposite’?” she interrupted.
“Well . . .” This was difficult. He wasn’t exactly sure himself what he had meant. “Walking with you just now . . . it rather makes me feel alive.”
That was an understatement. That she was safe and out of danger made him feel alive to the point of being giddy. He should be interrogating her about what she found in Farthington’s safe, and yet, at the moment, he was more concerned that she understood that he meant no harm in his earlier ill-considered comment.
“I can’t recall ever feeling as alive as I did this night after I learned you were safe. I was so worried that something had gone wrong. Then you appeared and . . . I hadn’t realized how much I needed to know you were unharmed.” He smiled to himself, reliving the experience. “Of course, when you radiated so magnificently with the moon’s beams, I was most certainly glad to be alive.”
“Or when we kissed?”
He stopped, and she turned to face him. Of course, when they kissed! His manhood throbbed with the memory. He struggled to think of how to put into words the effect those kisses had on his life. How she made him forget the misery that his life had once been. How she reminded him what it meant to be embraced. Her black mourner attire reminded him that death had come close once before to claiming his soul, yet the reaper had passed on by, letting him live. Suddenly, he very much wanted to live, and she was responsible for awakening a joy that he thought had been buried forever. But he couldn’t think how to begin, how to put it all in words. So they stood looking at each other, or at least he supposed she was looking at him, in silence.
“We should hurry,” she said. “The sky is not predicable this evening.”
He nodded and took her elbow to take the final steps to the carriage. “And I have yet to hear the details of your investigation. ”
THE DOOR CLOSED TO THE CARRIAGE, CONFINING HER with Locke in an intimate wooden and leather environment. The carriage rocked forward, racing away from the possibility of the Farthingtons discovering her identity, racing away from danger. She relaxed onto the cushions of Locke’s well-appointed carriage, comfortable in the close confines. It seemed she spent a great quantity of her life alone in carriages. In some ways, these surroundings felt more like home than when she was surrounded by her own family. But, of course, she wasn’t alone. She was knee-to-knee with the only man who knew of her “gift.”
“There isn’t much to tell,” she said, reaching over to lower the right window shade on her side of the carriage. She had left both sides raised on the trip to the Farthingtons’ so as to maximize the moonlight. Now, however, she preferred privacy. “I found the key and safe, just as you indicated, but there certainly wasn’t a list of names.”
“Nothing in Russian or Arabic?”
She was in the process of lowering the left shade when he reached over and stilled her hand, stopping the shade from cutting off all view of the outside world. She glanced his way, anticipating an explanation, but he just thinly smiled. She acquiesced. No one outside would be able to view anything of substance in the carriage through that limited space.
“I’m not sure what those languages look like, but everything was in English.” Even in the dark interior, she could sense his disappointment. She removed her veiled bonnet and placed it on the bench beside her. She had purchased it for the coverage it afforded, not for its comfort. The stiffened lace of the cap scratched her neck while the veil obscured her vision. She was far more comfortable without it, even though she knew the effect was disconcerting. “Would you have been able to?”
He glanced up, puzzled. “Been able to what?”
“Read the documents if they were in Russian or Arabic.” His intelligence amazed her. Intimidated her, truth be told. What could she offer to a man that intelligent? Perhaps he shared similar concerns. Perhaps that is why he had remained silent on the subject of their kisses.
He nodded. “Then what happened?”
“Farthington and another man entered the room. The second man asked about the list and Farthington said he had passed it on. Nothing seemed amiss in the room, so they left.” She wished she had discovered something to make the mission worthwhile. “I’m afraid my first foray into espionage was not a productive venture.”
“Not so . . . You’ve eliminated a possibility, and that is always productive.” His eyes narrowed. “Did you see who was with Farthington? Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“No. I just heard his voice.” She was about to say that the voice sounded familiar when she realized that Locke looked straight at her, not out the window, or at his feet or hands, but right at her. And not for the first time, even though she knew she was still in phase. “You’re looking at me.”
He drew back. “Does that pose a difficulty?”
His brow rose, giving him an incredulous air, an expression she found endearing.
She smiled, though she knew he couldn’t see it. “Even my aunt has a problem looking at me when I’m fully phased— but you don’t. Why is that, Mr. Locke?”
“I would think that not looking at the other person during a civil conversation would border on rudeness, would it not?”
“And yet my aunt, who is one of the most polite women in all of London, has difficulty, whereas you do not. I shall repeat my question, why is that, Mr. Locke?”
He dropped his head but a moment, then bit his lower lip. This was difficult for him, she could see that, but couldn’t imagine why. It was a simple question, really.
“Not so long ago, I was confined in a dark place where hearing a voice, any voice, was a cherished event. It meant I was still alive, I was still human. Often I couldn’t see the speaker, so I’d imagine them.”
He looked away and was silent a moment. She wanted to offer comfort, but in her current invisible state, she wasn’t sure what she could do.
“I’d imagine their faces, make them complete in my mind.” He reached over and took her gloved hand in his. “I suppose I do that with you as well.”
He was a rare man, indeed. One that could imagine her when there was nothing to see. A yearning that she could be with such a man beyond the conclusion of their mission began to build. To share a life with someone who wasn’t affected by her inconsistent visibility. Why, it would almost be . . . normal!
“I imagine your face, even though I can’t see it. I can imagine your eyes, so direct and challenging, and your nose with that little upturn at the end.” He leaned forward and tapped her precisely on that very spot. She smiled at the rare mischievousness in his touch.
“And I imagine your lips, especially when they’re touching mine.”
He was affected by her kisses! Just as she was! She leaned forward and kissed him. How could she not? But before she could withdraw, he slid his hand up her arm and pulled her to him, finding her lips with unerring accuracy.
While thus engaged, she felt his hand press at the small of her back, urging her to move onto his lap. It was heavenly, this feeling of being wanted, even while in phase. He wanted her. She had never experienced that with anyone before. She had always felt the freakish one, but now she was desired.
She tingled all over, not sure if it was from his ardent kisses or because her body was phasing back. Before, such sensations were confined to her extremities; now the sensations reverberated in her most private areas.
His hand fumbled with a button, then slipped inside her coat, finding her breast. She gasped from the sheer intensity of the explosions throughout her body.