Alf glanced at Kyle out of the corner of her eye. What was he thinking? Had he known his wife had had lovers? Had he cared?
Had he loved her?
Did he love Lady Jordan?
She scowled and glanced out the window again. A woman carrying oysters in a great basket on her head bawled her wares. A beggar sat on a corner, his hand outstretched, his swollen and deformed feet in rags. Soldiers swaggered past in a group, one calling something to a pretty serving girl in a mobcap, who tossed her head at him.
Inside the carriage no one spoke. Everyone was still and tense.
Outside, London Town whirled by in constant, hurrying, yammering movement.
Alf sighed silently. What did she care if Kyle loved or didn’t love? He was like a star in the night sky above and she but a sparrow. No matter how high she might try to fly, she’d never reach him.
She told her mind this. She told her heart this. And yet she still felt a pull. He’d hunted with her in the dark woods of St Giles. He knew the thrill of the chase. He’d kissed her—her, not Lady Jordan—twice after their victories. He and Lady Jordan might match on the outside—their clothes, their accent, their ranks—but there was something wild that lived inside both her and Kyle.
The carriage jerked to a halt and Alf blinked, looking up. They were in front of a town house, not half as nice as Kyle’s, but rich enough.
“We’re here,” the duke said, and looked at her. “He’s dangerous. Stay close to me.”
HE SHOULDN’T HAVE brought the boy, Hugh thought as he descended from his carriage. Shouldn’t have let Alf wheedle his way into what very well might be a dangerous situation. But the shock of finding out that Katherine’s death might not have been accidental, of finally having a trail to follow, had made him soft.
Well, what was done was done, and besides, they were already standing outside Crewe’s town house. He shot a look at Talbot and then gave a pointed nod to Alf. The boy was still limping from his wounds, though he was trying hard to hide it.
The grenadier nodded. Good. Talbot was a smart man. He’d know to keep Alf safe.
Hugh leaped up the front steps of the white stone town house and knocked.
The door opened almost immediately to reveal a frowning butler. “Yes?”
“I’m the Duke of Kyle,” Hugh said. “I wish to speak to your master at once.”
“Sir Crewe hasn’t yet risen, Your Grace,” the butler replied in conciliatory tones. “I will inform him that you called, of course, and—”
Hugh didn’t wait for the end of the sentence. He simply shoved past the man.
Inside was a small entryway and a hall that led straight back to a dark wooden staircase. Ignoring the butler’s sputtered protestations, he made for the stairs. Crewe’s bedroom would no doubt be on the floor above.
He took the treads two at a time, his men at his back, and when he made the upper floor nearly ran down a maid standing in the hall.
The girl squeaked in alarm.
“Where is your master’s bedroom?” Hugh demanded.
“Second door on the right, sir,” she said, pointing.
He was at the door in half a dozen strides. It was unlocked and he flung it open.
And then stopped short.
The curtains were still drawn, the room shadowed, but even so the hanging shape in the center was unmistakable.
Behind him the maid screamed.
“Bloody ’ell,” Alf whispered beside him. “Is that Crewe?”
Almost at the same time, the maid sobbed, “Oh no, the master!”
“Guess that answers that question,” Riley muttered.
Hugh crossed to the windows and drew the curtains. Sunlight immediately flooded the room. He looked up at the corpse hanging from the chandelier. The man might’ve once been handsome, but the face was bloated and discolored now.
In the hall the maid was weeping loudly, and he could hear other servants coming, summoned by the commotion.
Hugh jerked his chin at Talbot. “Shut the door.”
The big grenadier did as he ordered.
Hugh glanced at Jenkins. “Suicide?”
The one-eyed man was pacing in a circle around the hanged man. “Certainly looks that way, doesn’t it, sir?”
“What was ’e standing on?” Alf asked abruptly.
Hugh looked at the boy.
Alf gestured at the floor, and then up at the corpse. It was several feet off the ground. “Must’ve ’ad to stand on something to get up there, right? A chair or a stool. Then ’e would’ve kicked it away to ’ang. ’Cept there’s nothing close enough, is there.”
He was right.
The bedroom was relatively small for an aristocrat’s town house, holding only an ancient curtained bed, a chest of drawers, a desk, and two chairs—both properly upright and set against the walls.
“Could he have stood on the bed?” Riley wondered.
“Not and put his head in that noose,” Talbot said with finality. “Too far away.”
Hugh looked between the bed and the corpse, measuring the distance with his eyes, and nodded. “Cut him down.”
Riley grimaced.
Talbot simply went and got both chairs, placing one on either side of the body. He stood on one chair, and Riley climbed on the other. Riley held the body while Talbot sawed at the rope—a short but laborious process. The rope gave suddenly, making Riley grunt as the weight fell against him, but then Talbot caught it as well, and they both lowered the corpse to the floor.
Jenkins knelt to examine the body.
“’E stinks,” Alf said, wrinkling his nose.
Jenkins glanced up at the boy. “He wasn’t dead long enough to stink, but you’re right. He smells of rotten eggs. This is why.” The corpse was wearing only breeches and a shirt and Jenkins carefully pushed back one of the sleeves. The arm underneath was smeared with a yellow paste. “He used an ointment with sulfur in it for his skin. You see? Here. And here.” He pointed to where the skin was mottled red and patchy, even with the pallor of death. “He was suffering from some sort of skin affliction and used the ointment to soothe it.”
Alf looked up, his brown eyes bright. “Then ’e was the one to ’ire the men what attacked you in St Giles, guv.”
“It would seem so.” Hugh grimaced.
So damned close. If he’d been here last night, would he have found Crewe still alive? Of course he’d not known about the connection to Katherine last night. Hadn’t narrowed his suspects down to Crewe last night.
Jenkins pushed the other sleeve up, and there was the dolphin on the back of the wrist.
Hugh balled his fists, feeling his shoulders tense, feeling a headache forming. This thing on the floor had in all probability taken his sons’ mother, had left Peter crying in the night, Kit looking at him with angry eyes. And beyond that, beyond his personal grief and thirst for revenge for a woman he’d once loved, this was the end of a once-promising trail to the Lords of Chaos.
Hugh wanted to smash his fist into the wall.
The door opened.
He pivoted to face the intruder. The man standing there was tall, thin, and pale, a walking skeleton. Of middling age, he wore his graying mouse-brown hair clubbed back, his suit a discreet dusty gray. One might mistake him for a banker or lawyer.
He was neither.
Daniel Kendrick, the Earl of Exley, was a powerful member of Parliament, a wealthy landowner, and a shrewd businessman. He was also almost impossible to investigate. As far as Hugh had been able to determine, the man led the life of a slightly boring monk.
Exley’s light-blue eyes widened fractionally at the sight of him. “Your Grace. Is it true what the servants are saying? That Sir Aaron Crewe has hanged himself?”
“That is certainly what it looks like.” Hugh gestured to the body on the floor.
The earl took a step forward and peered around Riley. He caught sight of the body and grimaced. “Dear God. Poor Crewe. He was in debt, but I had no idea it was so dire.”
“Indeed?” Hugh drawled. “What, may I ask, are you doing here, my lord?”
Exley frowned. “I’m not sure it’s any of your concern, but I was to meet with Crewe about a business matter this morning. Naturally when I found the household in a state of uproar I came up at once. And your reason for being here with so many men?” His eyes lingered on Jenkins, who had finished his examination and was rising.
Hugh waited until Exley had returned his gaze to him. “I wished to speak to Crewe.”
“Ah.” The earl shook his head. “Then it was simply your misfortune to find him.”
“Was it?”
Exley’s forehead wrinkled as if in confusion. “What else?” He sighed. “In any case, you and your entourage may go. I shall notify his solicitors and the authorities and see that his affairs are properly taken care of until such time as his heirs can arrive.”
Hugh raised his eyebrows. “How very kind of you to put yourself to such trouble.”
“No trouble for a friend.”
Hugh stared at him a moment longer, but Exley’s expression was perfectly blank. Hugh bowed curtly. “My lord.”
The earl returned his bow. “Your Grace.”
Hugh pivoted and exited the room. He’d hardly stepped into the hall when Alf was by his side. “Oi! Don’t you want to search the room?”
Hugh shook his head. “No point. If Crewe was killed, as we suspect, then no doubt anything of use to our investigation was already taken by the murderer.”
“Bloody ’ell,” Alf swore under his breath.
And Hugh couldn’t help but agree.
Chapter Eight
The Black Warlock’s son was only a boy of twelve—too young to go to war. While his father was destroying the White Family, the Black Prince was at home studying. He happened to be in his room by the terrace window when he saw something fall upon the stones outside.
And when he went to look, he found a young falcon with feathers of purest gold, wounded and afraid.…
—From The Black Prince and the Golden Falcon
It was well past midnight that night when Alf leaped lightly down from the stable rooftop into the mews behind Kyle House. She paused in the shadows and glanced up and down the mews, but all she saw was a cat darting into the stable. She was still in her Ghost of St Giles costume, and it wouldn’t do to be seen by anyone.
When darkness had fallen she’d needed to dance on rooftops, feel the night wind at her back, find a rogue or two to bring down. Find a way to be free, or go insane.
After Kyle and she and his men had found Crewe’s body, they’d retreated in defeat from his house. The carriage ride back had been awful. The men not talking, Kyle obviously in pain from what looked like a headache—he seemed to get them regularly, from what she could see—and she…
Well, she really didn’t belong here, did she? She wasn’t even the boy they all thought her—the boy he thought her.
So she’d gone out as the Ghost to St Giles, looking for trouble, and she’d found some right enough. Except now, hours later, even after giving a sound drubbing to a footpad trying to rob a moll, she still felt itchy and out of sorts.
The rooftops and the moon hadn’t calmed her. She wasn’t sure she even knew what she wanted anymore. To return to St Giles and her life as a boy? To stay here under Kyle’s thumb, aware all the time of his broad shoulders and black, glinting eyes?
She was stuck. She couldn’t move either way.
She went over the gate and into the gardens behind Kyle House and made her way silently up the gravel path. The house was all in darkness.
Save for a single light on the first floor, coming from a tall glass door.
Alf halted and stared, her breath, quick and light, fogging the night air. Was it he? Was he still awake at this hour? Perhaps still sitting up with an aching head? Jenkins, the quiet one-eyed man who’d sewn her up with gentle hands, had given Kyle a wineglass of something when they’d gotten back from Crewe’s house. Kyle had downed the contents in one gulp—almost like medicine.
She frowned. It shouldn’t matter to her if his head hurt or if he had regular headaches.
But it did.
The garden path led to a series of steps and a short walkway. She approached the lit glass door cautiously. It was the library—the same one she’d been brought to the first time she’d entered Kyle House. She peered in the room and at first it seemed deserted, and she felt a bit disappointed.
Then she saw his leg, sticking straight out from the chair before the dying fire, and her breath caught. His leg wasn’t moving.
Her eyebrows rose. Was Kyle asleep?
She crept closer, her mask almost against the glass.
He sat in a wing chair before the hearth, a candle guttering on the table beside him. He had a book on his lap, splayed facedown, and his head was thrown back, his eyes closed, his mouth a little open.
Oh yes. Asleep.
She really ought to creep away again. To find the safety of her bed and go to sleep herself. It was far, far too dangerous to stay and risk the possibility of discovery.
But she’d always been attracted to danger.
She tried the handle of the glass door and found it unlocked. She smirked as she turned it and let herself into the room.
He didn’t move as she tiptoed closer and bent over him, feeling bold. Feeling as if she were a wicked thief. She bit her lip and studied him, all unawares.
He’d taken off both wig and coat and sat in only rumpled shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his jaw shadowed by his dark stubble. Thick black eyelashes lay against his cheeks, his forehead marred by the spider legs of the stitches and the bruising around them, now turned yellowy green.
Her gaze fell to his mouth. That mouth. His plush pretty lips were parted as he slept, and she was tempted.
Oh, she was tempted.
He belonged to another, but it was night and the night was hers. What happened by the light of a guttering candle surely didn’t count, did it? She’d never had many things, and what she’d had had mostly been stolen or scavenged.
Why not this?
She leaned a little closer and pressed her mouth to those pretty, pretty lips and inhaled his breath.
For a moment he was still beneath her, and then he moved, his hands rising slowly to grasp her arms.
She drew a little back, watching him.
His eyes opened, black and drowsy, staring into hers. He seemed entirely unsurprised to find her in his library, kissing him.
She smiled and for the first time that night felt herself settle. She placed her hands on his shoulders and straddled his lap. Knelt on the chair and bent her head to his again, opening her mouth over his, her palms on either side of his face.
The book tumbled to the floor.
She skimmed over his upper lip, feeling the odd prickle of his stubble. Caught his lower lip between her teeth.
An ember fell on the hearth.
Something sparked, and he took charge of the embrace. He opened his mouth beneath hers, angling his head, kissing her slowly, lazily, lushly, as if he had all the time in the world. She could feel her heart beating fast, could hear his breathing in the quiet room. He found the laces of her tunic and pulled at them, parting the edges. Beneath she wore a plain man’s shirt, and he parted that as well. And under that?
Nothing at all, not even her bindings.
She could feel the chill of the air against the damp skin on her throat and between her breasts. He picked her up, never taking his mouth from hers, and rearranged her so that she lay across his lap, her head on one shoulder. He thrust his hand into her gaping clothes and she felt it, hot and large, against her bare breast.
She gasped into his mouth.
His palm was rough with calluses, but his touch was gentle—so gentle—as he brushed against her skin. Back and forth, lightly, teasing her nipples, until she arched under him, pushing herself into his hand.
He curled his fingers around one breast, so large that he entirely covered
her, warm and heavy, and then he flicked her nipple with his thumb, sending a spark through her.
She moaned.
He bit her bottom lip, sharp and fleeting, and then licked it as he pinched her nipple.
She squirmed under him, clutching at his shoulders. She’d never done this with anyone. Never been this close to a man. It made her feel so wild, so free, and she wanted more. Wanted to tear the shirt from his body, to feel his arms and his chest, to run her hands over his bare skin as well.
She growled in her throat at the thought.
He chuckled softly.
His hand was suddenly gone from her breast, and she groaned in disappointment, but then she felt it again.
At the fall of her breeches.
Her breath caught as she felt him open the buttons one by one.
He lifted his head and watched her, saying nothing, but one eyebrow rose in question.
She inhaled and let her hands fall to her sides, a silent assent.
The corner of his mouth curled in a male smile that was not quite kind.
She kept her gaze locked with his as she felt first her breeches loosen, and then the buttons of the boys’ smallclothes beneath.
His fingers slid against the skin above her curls, making her belly tremble. She felt his hand slowly move over her hair, down into that secret, warm place between her thighs.
That part that made her a woman. Not a boy.
His eyes glittered black and triumphant in the candlelight as his fingers parted her slick folds.
She gasped, her eyelids fluttering, trying to close against her will.
Holding his gaze was harder than leaping a five-story tenement. Harder than dueling three armed toughs at once.
Harder than hiding, every moment of her life, who she truly was.
But she kept her eyes open, for she was no coward. She was the Ghost of St Giles and she’d look Kyle in the eye even when he found that special nub at the top of her slit and touched it just like that with one of his thick fingers.
His beautiful upper lip lifted in a sneer then, but he nodded at her in approval. As if she’d passed a test of endurance. As if she’d done something brave and noble.
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