by Tracy Sumner
“And be the responsible party when they find you?” He sat back with a muttered oath, his stained linen shirt still tucked neatly in his trousers and straining over muscles she didn’t remember him having. His silk waistcoat lay open, the dangling ends brushing his hips. Her crisis had sent him fleeing without the benefit of a topcoat, cravat, or gloves. Her stomach tensed to imagine where he’d been in such a state of undress.
Masculine fury had never looked so magnificent.
His gaze held hers as she studied him, his tightly leashed intensity sending his aura rippling from his body in waves, like a stone had made a disturbance on its calm surface. Awareness pulsed between them, the same she remembered from long ago.
“Jules,” she whispered without thought.
His gaze dropped as his expression shuttered. Ignoring her plea, he bought his hand to his brow, rubbing hard. Headaches apparently still beleaguered him. “I think you’ve forgotten what happened to your grandfather in the quest to find his chronology. To find you. How very precarious our existence is.”
Piper turned to study the pinch of sky visible above the treetops. The air in the carriage crackled with tension and, as usual, her temper and impulsivity had trumped good sense. She swallowed past the apology she wanted to make.
Oh, how she wanted to be different. Prudent. Capable. Composed. Like Julian. Only, she didn’t know how to rise above the Scott predilection for trouble.
She heard the strike of a match as Julian lit a cheroot, and the scent of sulfur drifted through the carriage. How could he desire this when the taste of burnt wood and fabric must be stinging his throat as it was hers? Rather rude in the confines of the brougham, too, but with the mess she’d created, she couldn’t complain about a minor bit of indelicateness on his part.
She slid lower in the seat and chanced a glance at him as a shaft of moonlight highlighted his face. Piper wished he looked more like the gentle young man of her remembrance and less like one set on fighting a tiger with his bare fists. The tip of the cheroot glowed, bobbing with his inhalation.
When the silence had grown unmanageable, he said, “Bizarre coincidence that Marianne Coswell, of all people, ended up with your advertisement.” He gave the sheet peeking from his pocket a firm tap.
She kept her expression composed even as her stomach pitched. The advertisement making its way to Lady Coswell meant every salacious tidbit whispered in polite and not-so-polite drawing rooms was true. She was Julian’s mistress. That he’d introduce this topic was dreadfully cavalier. Not for Piper Scott, but certainly for Julian Alexander. “Coincidence? Yes, very.” Which it wasn’t. Piper had tucked that sheet in Lady Coswell’s hands with every intention of letting Julian know she was back in London.
“You know what, Yank?” His shoulder flexed as he flicked the smoldering cheroot out the window. Air blew up his sleeve, puffing the material like a sail above his broad forearm. “Honest to God, I’m feeling inclined to leap from this borrowed carriage just thinking about the mess you’ve created. I could locate Finn’s discarded handkerchief in the process. A two for one victory.”
“Leaping from a swift-moving vehicle? That’s your plan?”
“No, my plan”—he slouched, long legs stretching the length of the interior—“was to keep you safe, albeit hidden, in Gloucestershire.” His clipped words drifted like snow, chilling her. “Temporarily.”
She blinked away another salty tear-prick. “I think the gossipmongers have it right, Jules. You’re quite terrifying in your fury. What is it they call you?” She clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Beauchamp the Lionhearted. My, having a sobriquet doesn’t exactly speak to lying low.”
He kicked one foot atop the other, closing his eyes and his mind to the conversation. “Well, Scandalous Scott, the half-dozen attributed to you are extremely flattering.”
“Enough!” Finn came halfway off his perch, his boots slapping the carriage floor.
Piper flinched, in all honesty forgetting Finn sat on the foldaway seat.
Slumping back, he continued in a resigned tone, “Truce, please? You’ve both earned everything you have, including your legendary reputations.” He threw his arm over his eyes as if to block out the light from the coach lamp and their inane argument. “Somehow, we’ll make a plan. We always do. We’re a team, remember?” Finn’s temper blistered when it flared, but it startled due to his carefully crafted façade. He’d polished himself as sharply as a jewel, and by some odd circumstance, a ruffian from London’s roughest rookery fit in their world better than Piper or Julian could ever hope to. “Let’s get to the inn, and we’ll discuss this in the morning.”
Piper perked up at this. “Inn?”
“The Cock and Bull,” Julian said, his voice a fatigued rasp. “Workingham. Back entrance with a healthy monetary bonus, because you and I look like something a cat with his tail on fire dragged in. And unless you have a chaperone hiding beneath your skirts, you’re already compromised.” He added in a low voice, but she caught it: “Like that would surprise anyone.”
So, they were headed north. “Where—”
“Harbingdon.”
“Harbingdon,” she repeated, confused, and hoping someone would enlighten her. Perhaps this was the estate Julian had found for the League. She looked to Finn, but he avoided her gaze, the coward. “I’m not to be dropped off? Hidden away? Tucked out of sight? I’m going with you and Finn?”
Something in her tone must have alerted him. “Don’t smile, Piper Scott, don’t you dare smile,” Julian grit between clenched lips.
But she did.
After she turned to watch the scenery pass as if pitch-black English countryside was the most exciting thing imaginable.
Chapter 3
We look before and after, and pine for what is not.
~Percy Bysshe Shelley
The next morning found Piper awake before dawn, hungry, uneasy, and humiliated over the debacle the prior evening. Tipping aside the faded floral drape, she peered through the lone window in what was a modest but very quaint room, one Julian had, without comment or expression, escorted her to after they’d arrived. If she pressed her brow to the glass and looked hard to the left, she could just make out the back of Dalton’s brougham parked near the horse stable.
She released a breath. They had not left her.
Since there was no more sleep to be had, and she did not want to vex Julian further by delaying their journey, she called for the maid, Adelia, who arrived with a neat bundle of clothing acquired from the owner’s daughter. Seeing as Piper was ‘hardly bigger than a grasshopper,’ she said no one else’s garments would do.
Suitably presented, Piper headed downstairs and, upon finding an empty common room, popped her head in the kitchen and bargained for a slice of cheese and bread, which she took with her into the gardens behind the inn. From corset to stockings, Adelia had given her a wonderful oral tour of the property. There was even a secret tunnel leading to the village priory, but Piper could imagine Julian’s reaction if she asked to see it.
Kicking dirt off her slippers, Piper reentered the inn to find Julian seated in the dining room, gazing into his teacup as if he would find answers there. A folded newspaper lay unopened by his side. Bathed in the sunlit shimmer, he looked both younger than his bearing and older than she recalled. Time had changed him. Still heartbreakingly handsome, there was a sharpness to his visage that had not been there before, a cool detachment she felt sure he used to measure, rebuff, renounce. As she stared, his aura sparked like a phosphorous match strike, an effect she wasn’t sure how to interpret. Tangling her fingers in her borrowed skirt, she shifted her attention to the horrendous painting of Queen Victoria above his shoulder and let his aura fade to a low hum. She needed a steady equilibrium if she was going to deal with Julian and make it out alive.
To pull him from his contemplation, she gently bumped the table when she reached him. Julian swallowed hard, braced his hands on the scarred wood, and came to his feet. Eyes the color
of tarnished silver met hers. His regard was restrained but welcoming enough. At least he no longer seemed spoiled for a fight.
“May I sit?” She indicated the empty chair. Anything to lessen her feeling like a rabbit to his hawk, partly due to their disparity in height. With his nod of assent, she shook her skirt and settled in.
Julian sat, unfolded The Times, and ironed it flat with his hand. “The clothing is suitable? I, myself, leave a case here for the unplanned outing.”
Of course, he looked suitably magnificent in superbly tailored black. She smoothed her hand over her bodice, each borrowed button a jolt on the way down. “Yes, very.”
He gazed at the newspaper, but she had a feeling he wasn’t reading it. “I don’t suppose we’re so fortunate as to have your maid, Ebba, waiting in the”—he glanced at her over the top of the broadsheet—“hotel you almost burned down? Finn couldn’t locate her last night, but I can send for her. One possible reprieve from the Madame DuPre madness should we need her assistance in getting you out of this mess.”
Hmm…Julian did throw a dart near the bullseye. “Ebba left Gloucestershire after Aunt Hortense joined the great beyond.”
He put the newspaper aside and took a thoughtful sip of tea. “Footman?”
“Groom. Daniel. Very young, very handsome.” Piper traced a jagged nick in the table. “I tried to talk her out of running off with him.”
He snorted, more ruffian than viscount, a hint of the boy she’d loved sending a tremor through her. “I’m not even going to imagine that conversation.”
She opened her mouth to tell him she was fully capable of giving sound advice; her problem was following it. Except, blast the man, he reached inside his coat and extracted a pair of spectacles. Executing a neat loop behind each ear, he blinked and settled back with a rapt perusal of his newspaper. When she didn’t comment, he glanced up. Stilled. His hand rose to touch the bridge of his nose. Then he shrugged and dropped his arm. His only comment, “Headaches.”
Piper’s toes curled inside her slippers. The lenses enlarged his eyes, emphasizing the amber flecks swimming in silver. As if something so lovely needed amplification.
Breaking the silence, the serving girl halted at their table to take their breakfast request. Soon, a cup of coffee, dark and pungent, sat before Piper. She stirred in cream and risked a glance at Julian, who was staring sullenly at her.
“May I ask why you’re fixing me with such a vexed expression?” She lifted the cup to her mouth and practically purred as the warm liquid hit her tongue. “Didn’t you flay me to within an inch of my life last night?”
Sitting back, he drew his hand to his lips, silent. Raised one finger. “Trip to London, alone, no chaperone.” Two fingers. “Masquerading as a medium.” Three. “Going—”
“Stop.” She set her cup on the saucer with a clatter. “I did not travel alone. Not exactly. There was a third cousin of a footman who—”
“Good Lord,” he interrupted, dropping his head back to stare at the ceiling.
“Well, if you’d like to know what I did and why…” She let her words drift, doing a quick mental calculation. Honesty versus more chicanery. The new, mature Piper Scott took the courageous, truthful route. Even if mature Piper had to lock her knees together under the table when facing the intimidating man sitting across from her. Clicking her nail against her cup until Julian’s impatient glance made her seize the motion, she finally admitted, “Rest assured, I operated completely in darkness, veiled at all times. The typical attendee: half-foxed, wealthy, well-placed in society. Not able to give more than a scant description of me, if one at all. I was never in danger, Julian. No one knew who I was. Except you, when you heard the name Madame DuPre. Which is, honestly, exactly as I’d planned.” No more lonely Piper, she could have added but didn’t dare.
“Brilliant,” he muttered, his voice still strained from the fire. He blinked at the ceiling, the rims of his spectacles winking in the sunlight. What in heaven’s name was he looking at?
“I’m sorry for this misadventure, truly.” She twisted her cup this way and that, then forced her hands to her lap. Piper Scott did not fidget. “But this time, Jules, I have, well, what you like. A plan.”
His gaze slipped to a spot just over her shoulder. Finally, with a sigh and an adjustment of his spectacles, he looked her dead in the eye. His forceful regard seared her to the tips of her toes and back, kicking her poise down by at least two notches. “I’m not sure my heart can take it but enlighten me.”
Flustered, she fought to gather her words. She wasn’t sure why she was so tongue-tied when she and Julian had always sparked like two pokers struck against each other. She brought her bottom lip between her teeth, mentally composing her rationale. A fleeting expression crossed Julian’s face, causing him to shift in his chair and his aura to widen about him.
“Well,” he prompted with a sharp edge.
“When you first dumped me—”
“Settled you,” he cut in.
She gave a mock bow over the table. “When you first dumped me in Gloucestershire, I began to make notes about the auras I witnessed that had any validity to them. Such as, I understood the person’s circumstances and was able to infer how this may be affecting their aura. For example, one man, a baron as I recall, lost his family home to creditors. It was the most appetizing morsel of gossip that week. I didn’t speak to him, but from across the village green, the air surrounding him smoldered, the same color as the earl’s old pistol.”
A hint of a smile touched his lips. “I remember that pistol well.”
She pointed to the ceiling. “In my valise, I have five journals detailing credible encounters matching mood, circumstance, or personality to color. Madame DuPre’s included. All listing variations affecting one’s aura. With validation, I could add this research to my grandfather’s chronology.” She rested her chin on her palm. “The missing link is how to recreate the various shades and hues. I’ve tried, but I’m not a skilled artist. One governess left over my lack of talent in that area if you recall.”
“You’ve been tracking patterns with colors,” Julian whispered, stark interest she couldn’t discern the meaning behind shaping his words. He slid high in his chair, his curiosity sparked. A flash of delight streaked through her, knowing she had finally, finally done something to please him. “You have data.”
“Mounds from even my short time in London. You see, Madame DuPre can ask probing questions that Lady Elizabeth Scott cannot. And at some point, if you had not located me, I would have located you.” She forced her gaze from his because she wasn’t sure that was entirely true. The absorbed young man, her friend from summers past, had proven quite hazardous to her heart.
“Piper, I can help.”
She looked up to find his wistful expression clearing. He slid his hand across the table, halting before he touched her. If illuminating sunlight had not bathed him, she would have said the tint sweeping his cheeks was a figment of her imagination. Julian, blushing?
Rolling his lips in, he reached for his tea and sat back. “Colors. Hues. I’m passably proficient. An interest.” A puzzling expression, almost what she would call bashful. “No.” A quick shake of his head. “It’s more of a diversion.”
The table bit into her ribs as she leaned closer. “I don’t understand.”
He placed his cup in the saucer, the look on his face similar to hers while she decided whether to be truthful or float a lie like a toy boat across a lake.
The serving girl interrupted the conversation with the arrival of their breakfast. Quite lovely, she appeared to have a rather healthy attraction to Julian. Her aura projected yearning in vibrant shades of deep plum. When he glanced her way with a smile, the edges flared crimson.
Piper accepted her plate as her stomach gave a hard twist, wondering how frequently Julian stayed at the Cock and Bull. And exactly how solicitous their service to a handsome viscount was. Oblivious to the scene playing out before him, he thanked the serving gi
rl, his aura shifting not one wit.
Piper drew a relieved breath as the delectable aroma of eggs, beans, and black pudding dove deep, eliciting a stomach rumble she hoped he didn’t hear. She settled her napkin in her lap, watching Julian, plainly, struggle.
He glanced at her, shrugged a broad shoulder. “I left the townhouse too quickly to take my utensils. As you know, I try to limit confronting items that are not my own.” Releasing a resigned breath, he grasped the fork, fingers clenching, knuckles going white. “Delightful company, hosting everyone who has touched this recently.”
Startled and intrigued, she recorded his aura as it lit with not one color but a brilliant array. It would take weeks to decipher the explosion surrounding him.
“Quit reading me,” he said on a hard rasp, his dark lashes sweeping up to reveal a wondrous, leaden shimmer behind spectacle glass. His brow creased, and he inhaled on a rapid gust.
Going on instinct, Piper slid her hand across the table and gently covered his. Surprisingly, he didn’t push her away. Encouraged, she rubbed her thumb over his wrist in slow circles as his pulse raced. He exhaled, fingers flexing.
She stilled as a fragment of a scene, grainy and indistinct, intruded upon her mind. A barrel-chested man, rotten teeth, lips peeled back in a roar of laughter. The dank scent of ale and crisped meat. The glow of a gas lamp.
The hairs on her nape lifted as her heart lurched.
The image wrapped around her—smell, taste, touch—pressing as closely as her lace-edged chemise. The tenseness in Julian’s shoulders eased, and his breathing fell into a regular pattern as the vision flowed out of him and into her.
She resisted the urge to expel it as her skin tingled, and her vision blurred. Healing often felt like the sudden pinch of a needle sliding beneath skin before she wrapped her mind around what she was taking from another person. Twisting her hand in her skirt, she held her mind steady as the image dimmed to a glow she could accommodate. It frightened her, this…transmission because it wasn’t a common occurrence.