When the shadow of a man filled the doorway, she stood and tossed him a haughty glance. He stepped into the light of the gas lamp.
She noted with pleasure that Mr. Preston was exceedingly fine to look upon.
Of course, he would be. A man didn’t gain the reputation for being a dissolute rogue without being charming, cynical, and blessed with armloads of masculine beauty. Jacob Preston possessed all three in sufficient quantities to overcome the combined scruples of a nunnery.
A shock of chestnut hair fell over his forehead above strikingly pale, almost silver-gray eyes. His fine straight nose divided a face of strong planes and angles, evidence of determination ingrained in his features. His lips turned up in a smile that was slightly crooked, dispelling the notion of perfect balance.
Good.
She found small imperfections in a man attractive. Her experience in the theatre had taught her that perfectly sculpted males tended to be drawn to other perfectly sculpted males.
Jacob Preston was taller than most men of her acquaintance, with a corresponding breadth of shoulder.
She wondered if he was proportionate in other ways as well. Her body registered a response with a quick flutter under her ribs and a heightened sense of awareness that brought the masculine scent of bergamot and sandalwood to her nostrils.
Steady on,
she chided herself.
This is about business, not pleasure.
Still, Jacob Preston was devilishly attractive and perception was everything among the ton. Since she would likely be in the public eye while in London, it would enhance her standing to have a handsome man at her side. And she intended to keep Jacob Preston near her for as long as it took to accomplish her goal.
“Mr. Preston, I presume.” She consulted her pendant watch again, though she knew perfectly well what time it was. Then she closed the silver filigreed cover with an annoyed snap. “I live in the country most of the year, so perhaps I’m not as well versed in city manners as I ought to be. But in Cornwall, it is considered beyond impolite to keep a countess waiting for three hours.”
The man strode forward and made a correct obeisance over her gloved fingertips. “Your pardon, Lady Cambourne.”
That was better. Julianne preferred to begin relationships, even those of a business nature, as she meant them to continue, with herself firmly in charge.
“As long as we’re recounting deficiencies in our education, I too must confess to ignorance over country manners.” His voice was a deep rumble, but he didn’t boom as most men with bass notes tended to do. The low sound shivered over her like the purr of a lion in its prime. “For your future reference, my lady, in London it is customary
not
to call if one’s intent to do so has not been acknowledged.”
She narrowed her eyes at his insolence, but he seemed uncowed by her displeasure. In fact, the wretch’s mouth twitched in a wider smile.
A sensual smile that sparked with recognition.
He’d probably seen her on stage. If she didn’t need his help so badly, she’d storm out in a fiery scene that would put her Drury Lane days to shame. She realized suddenly that he hadn’t released her hand, so she tugged it away.
“Are you this rude to all your potential clients?”
He stifled a yawn. “Only the ones who keep me from my bed.” Then he skewered her with a penetrating gaze and she felt his animal heat sizzling toward her. “Of course, I’m never rude to clients who wish to join me there.”
She cocked a brow at him. Why did men always assume actresses were ever ready for a quick tumble?
Besides, in matters of the flesh, she preferred to initiate an encounter. Julianne had been tempted to take a discreet lover during her mourning period, but she’d resisted. She wanted to keep matters simple. If she allowed a man in her bed, he might begin to contemplate marriage, and she’d have to cut him loose. She wasn’t about to surrender the freedom of widowhood for the vacillating trifle of a man’s affections.
Still, her belly tightened at Preston’s suggestion and a quick flick of her gaze below his cut-away jacket revealed a more than satisfactory bulge in his close-fitting breeches. She turned her head aside, pretending fascination with the small Gainsborough landscape hanging above his fireplace.
Julianne was a sensual creature. She knew this about herself and embraced it, but she’d been so caught up in other more pressing matters since her husband’s death, there’d been no time to find a suitable bed partner for a light dalliance. It seemed like ages since she’d been with a man. But this wasn’t the time and Jacob Preston certainly wasn’t the right man, if she intended to become his employer. She needed to regain control of this interview before her body began overruling her head.
“I’m sure you believe joining you in bed is a charming suggestion, Mr. Preston. Thanks to a subscription to the
London Crier
, I’ve heard tales of your amorous abilities even in distant Cornwall,” she said dryly. “However, I discount such superlatives by at least half. And frankly, after meeting you, given the sensitive nature of my situation, I’m not sure you’ll do at all.”
His brows drew together into a frown. “Why not?”
“For one thing, I can’t imagine the other things I’ve heard of you are true.”
“And what things might those be?”
Now her lips twitched. By taking her business away, she’d increased his interest in it. Men were so predictable.
“According to rumors, you’ve solved a number of cases that baffled the best of Bow Street.”
“That’s true,” he said with a smug grin.
“And you have a reputation for recovering items of intrinsic value ... by means best left unexamined.”
He gave a slight shrug. “You have the right of it, madam. If you want strictly legal means employed in solving your difficulties, I do have connections in Bow Street who might assist you.”
Drat the man.
He, too, knew the value of taking something away. “I wasn’t speaking of legalities. I’m referring to means of inquiry which border on the fantastical.”
His face hardened into a guarded mask.
“Of course, I put little stock in such rumors, myself,” she said, depositing her oversized carpetbag on the marble top of a side table. “It is 1859, after all. I’d rather trust to science than some sort of gypsy fortune-telling.”
“Rest assured, milady, I do not possess so much as one crystal ball,” he said smoothly. “We’ve danced around the issue long enough. It’s apparent that you have a case which requires my skills. Or you think you do. Perhaps you’d better tell me what it is.”
He motioned her to a deep burgundy wing chair flanking the fireplace and settled into its mate once she sat.
“Actually, it’s what
they
are. I have two commissions for you, if you feel yourself up to the challenge.” She leaned forward slightly. “As you may know, the authorities ruled that my late husband took his own life.”
“I take from your tone that you disagree with this assessment.” He steepled his long fingers before him. “But why did they believe it was so?”
She retrieved her carpetbag and was gratified by the fact that Mr. Preston stood until she sat once again. His manners were improving by the moment. “Perhaps because his body was found in a room locked from the inside.” She pulled a leather sheath from the bag. “With this dagger thrust through his heart.”
Preston reached for the weapon, careful to hold it by the embossed leather scabbard, not the hilt, she noticed. The haft was covered with swirling Celtic patterns ornamented with strips of gold and silver, studded with carbuncles and polished amber.
Preston took a handkerchief from his pocket and drew the blade from its home, careful not to touch the dagger with his uncovered hand.
She nodded approvingly. He understood that the oils from his bare skin might be injurious to such an ancient blade. Beneath the crosspiece, the lethal steel shone with iridescence in the flickering firelight. There was an indistinct pattern etched onto the blade as well that seemed to change shape as the light varied.
“Given the preponderance of evidence to the contrary”—he said as he eyed the dagger—“what makes you think your husband did not, in fact, end his own life?”
“The weapon itself,” she said. “It’s obviously a ceremonial blade, one of deep antiquity. My husband had far too much respect for history to misuse such an artifact in that way.”
One of his brows arched in question. “Not because your marriage was deliriously happy and you can’t imagine why he’d choose to leave you?”
She glowered at him. “The condition of my marriage is not your concern.”
“It is if you wish my help.”
“We had a ... companionable marriage,” she said finally.
“I assume he was much your senior.”
“He was.”
“How much?”
“Forty-five years.” In truth, she was younger than Algernon’s heir, a fact that rankled her stepson sorely.
“Sounds quite ... companionable.”
Preston’s gray gaze traveled over her and she could almost hear him calculating the worth of the union based on the cut of her clothing and the quality of the pearls and jet at her throat. But money and position weren’t her only considerations when she’d decided to wed the earl. Lord Cambourne had promised her unheard of freedom in ordering her personal and financial life.
Lord Cambourne was smitten after seeing her onstage, but unlike so many others, he wasn’t looking for a mistress. After a short courtship during which Algernon dazzled her with his wealth and title, showering her with the courtly attentiveness only older men seemed to possess, she’d agreed to leave the theatre and marry him. Julianne had known she’d probably not be accepted by his peers, but the fact didn’t seem to trouble him as he’d long since retired from fashionable life.
They’d enjoyed a brief time of delight when his older body roused to her younger one with a last flare of passion. Then he seemed to remember his years, and their life together became one of shared enthusiasms.
Algernon had respected her intellect as much as he’d admired her beauty. He had allowed her to fund her pet charity, Mrs. Osgood’s School for Girls, without restriction. He had even encouraged her to take a lover quietly, since he was unable to meet those needs, but she honored him too much to cuckold him, even with his permission. She understood his love of arcane weaponry and, because of her stint on the stage, was able to demonstrate the use of his acquisitions in little mock battles they both enjoyed. But her life of cherished freedoms had crumbled the day Algernon was found dead.
She had been fascinated by Lord Cambourne’s collection of weapons, but she wished she’d never seen the dagger now in Jacob Preston’s hand.
“You still hold your title,” Preston said, turning the dagger in the light, inspecting the intricate whorls etched in the blade. “If you think you can afford to hire my services—and let me assure you I don’t come cheaply—you obviously still have access to adequate funds ...”
She schooled her face not to react. He didn’t need to know her financial situation might shortly change. Worse, she wouldn’t be the only one who suffered if it did.
“Why do you care if the world believes your husband’s death was a suicide?”
“Because I know it wasn’t,” she said. “And because it would pain Algernon—I mean, the earl—to know that his body is not interred in consecrated ground.”
She didn’t intend to plead, but some men would not be moved without it. With no effort at all, she whipped up enough tears to set them atremble on her lashes without spilling over her lids and ruining her appearance.
“Please, Mr. Preston. This is the last good thing I can do for my late husband. I ask for your help.”
He narrowed his eyes at her as if he were trying to peer into her soul. “Very well. But I can only go where the evidence leads. The motto on your coach says ‘I triumph in truth.’ If I discover your husband did—”
“He didn’t.”
“If the evidence leads us to a different conclusion, you must promise to accept it. Will you?”
She sighed and nodded.
“Now, what about the other matter?”
“You’re holding it in your hand,” she said. “That dagger is one of a set of six identical blades.”
“And you know this how?”
She shot him a withering glance. “With all ancient artifacts, provenance is everything. My husband unearthed an illuminated manuscript, part of one at any rate, which describes this set of daggers and how they were dispersed in order to protect the weapons.”
Jacob frowned at the blade he still held in his handkerchief-shrouded hand. “Protect the weapons? Usually one thinks of a weapon protecting its bearer, not needing protection itself.”
“The manuscript hinted at magical properties in the blades, which my husband discounted, of course.”
“What sort of magical properties?”