by Tracy Sumner
She shook her head, not sure what this meant.
“Scrounge the river at low tide. Bits of coal, maybe a copper nail. Cut my fee something awful to threepence! So, I switched to sharping. Found out I’m a right fair cutpurse,” he said, flipping a broach he’d pilfered from her dressing table from hand to hand. It disappeared and reappeared at will, snaking through his fingers like a talisman. With a charming eyebrow wag, he lifted his hands in supplication, the broach nowhere in sight. “But it weren’t enough. Never enough.” Walking on his toes to her dressing table, he returned the broach, smiled back at her. “Then I worked for a group, weren’t too good to me, truly, until the giant bloke found me. Offered me a better…hmm…” He drummed his fingers on the marble top. “Arrange whatnot.”
“Arrangement.” Piper smiled, slipping from the bed and crossing to him. “And the giant is Humphrey.”
“None too sure of me, that one.” Simon lifted a piece of foolscap before his eyes, studying it intently. It was a drawing of plans for the gardens Piper had attempted to sketch. A quite poor attempt. “Spitting mad when he found me, I was. Tried to give him a good smack in the gob. But then I thought, be spoony to say no to this arrange-whatever, hey, right? Food every day, no begging. A real, actual bed.” He looked at his makeshift nightshirt with a grimace. “Stupid attires. Stuffy. But ain’t going to be good news delivered on every corner, now is it? Least no chilblains this winter, if socks be part of the bundle.”
“That makes two of us.” At his startled glance, she clarified, “Humphrey isn’t too sure of me, either.” She didn’t want to admit she found much of her clothing downright uncomfortable, the multitude of layers ridiculous, thus presenting a negative example.
“This sketch is awful,” he said, turning the sheet in every direction as if this would improve it.
Approaching with care, she halted at the settee and perched on the edge, as if, like Simon, she were a bird set to take flight. “Yes, my charcoal broke in the middle of the composition.”
“Don’t think that mattered.”
Amusement she couldn’t contain spilled forth. She drew her hand to her lips, leaning into her delight. “I suppose not.”
His eyes, as dark as the soil she’d planted a row of winter heather in, tracked back to her. A smile, the first genuine one he’d shown, curved his lips. Returning the sketch to the dressing table, he held up a finger. “Wait,” he instructed and was out the door like a shot.
He returned, clutching a battered leather satchel. Going to the settee, he turned it upside down, the varied contents spilling forth. Two charcoal pencils, a bound folio, a paintbrush, a tube of red paint, a silver fork, a folded sheet of foolscap, and a stick pin in the shape of a fox’s head that could only be Finn’s. Grubbing through the pile, he brought the pencils close to his eyes, selected the one with the longest lead, and presented it to her as a gift.
A gift he had clearly stolen.
“Thank you,” she murmured, taking the pencil.
He repacked the satchel—one she had seen Humphrey carrying—with swift purpose. She grinned, imagining Simon robbing him blind. “Where did you find art supplies?”
“Oh, in Mr. Julian’s house. Has more than he needs for years of slopping paint around. Colors were all over the floor. Like a rainbow. Like no place I’ve ever seen.”
“This house?” she asked as if she’d stumbled into a room with no light.
Simon flipped the folded foolscap like a sharper a deck of cards. “Oh, no. He lives in the ivy cottage in the woods.”
Piper did a quick mental examination. Julian the morning after the fire, his face alight with enthusiasm as he’d talked of colors, hues, tones; streaks of paint on his skin on two occasions; his avoidance of her questions about the lodge. Mine was all he said when she asked about it, his tone possessive.
Blast. There was a large part of Julian’s life she knew nothing about. For all the right reasons, he’d kept secrets from her.
Piper blinked to find Simon standing as still as a statue before her, a talent she did not associate with young boys. Regrettably, it seemed his experiences had matured him beyond his years. “I only broke in once,” he said, scuffing his toe across the carpet as he pressed the folded sheet into her hand. “I’m trying to quit the cutpurse ways, been ordered to, mind you, by the giant bloke, but it’s hard to remember I don’t have to anymore.”
Her heart stuttered at his admission. “I won’t tell.” She didn’t see any benefit to breaking the trust they were building, as it seemed he didn’t trust anyone else. She did wonder, however, what of hers was going to end up in Humphrey’s satchel.
She unfolded the foolscap with care, the yellowed creases conveying age. When she got a good look, her pulse thumped so stridently it cut out the sound of rain pelting glass.
“It’s you,” Simon said as if she needed him to tell her this.
“Yes.” She pressed her fist to her chest to help her draw a breath. “Years ago.” The charcoal study was exceptionally detailed, a vivid representation of a young woman on the cusp of maturity. The sooty lines and smudged shadows softened features that should not have been as her expression was the penetrating one she recognized from the mirror. She brought the drawing closer. The dress she wore had unique trim at the sleeve, a double row of pearl buttons crawling up the bodice.
Buttons Julian had been unfastening, his lips pressed to hers, when they were interrupted by her grandfather’s murderer.
Chapter 9
In short, I will part with anything for you but you.
~Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
The storm continued into the next evening, a steady assault against the harness room’s slate roof and lone window, which was closed to keep the discussion within the building but allowed no respite from the scent of horse dung, beeswax, and leather overwhelming the space. Julian rested his elbow on a saddle tree, his hand clutching a bridle similar to the ones they’d used to bind the Mayfair intruder’s wrists and feet to the loft’s post.
Humphrey, his face marred by frustration, paced from the wooden block centering the room to the glass harness case, two tours there and back before he halted next to Julian.
Julian slapped the bridle against his thigh. “Finn, bring the lamp closer.”
Finn stepped in, the oil lamp casting a golden glow over the four men. Three in a tight ring around another rendered helpless in what was not only an undignified position but a painful one, his shoulders drawn to an unnatural angle to allow for his trussing to the post. The man, who had revealed the name Cookson and his position as a Bow Street Runner but little else, blinked a bloodshot eye. The other was swollen shut, currently caught in a mix of blues vivid enough to paint a summer sunset. The scar running from his temple to his chin provided insight into how hard they’d have to press to get information.
“You’re going to tell us who sent you.” Julian cocked his head toward Humphrey, adding a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “The next drop of blood spilled will be yours. And my friend here is itching to spill it.” Cookson had gotten a swipe at him when they were hustling the man out of the carriage and into the harness room. A blade hidden in his blasted boot; one Julian wished they’d located when they searched him. His shoulder hurt like a beast and had bled quite copiously down the sleeve of a shirt newly arrived from his tailor.
Cookson’s anxious gaze shot to Humphrey. “Why say a deuced word when I’m headed for a shallow grave in the miles of forest surrounding this place?”
“Dead men don’t talk, true enough,” Julian replied.
“A Mayfair toff was all I was told you were.” Cookson yanked at his restraints, grimacing as leather cut into his skin.
“Regretfully”—Julian snapped the bridle with a crack—“you were misinformed.”
“I should have known from the lock on the door.” He knocked his head against the post. “None better guarding a bleeding vault.”
Humphrey stepped forward, fists clenched. It had been a str
uggle to keep him off the man when blood started running down Julian’s arm. “I’m done with this gentle line of questioning.”
“Jule,” Finn said, light dancing as he placed the lamp on the wooden block. “There are swifter ways to handle this.”
Julian turned on him, a flare of panic sliding through his belly. “No.” He didn’t want Finn involved any more than he already was. Damn Humphrey for even bringing him.
Finn’s gaze iced stark blue as he stepped around Julian. “Yes.”
Humphrey raised his arm, blocking Julian’s interference. “Let him,” he whispered, “nearly a man, he is.”
Finn moved to Cookson, who assessed him with a scathing glance—from the damp sweep of Finn’s hair to the tip of his polished boots. The mocking twist of Cookson’s lips told Julian the man had, for the second time in recent history, misjudged an adversary. The handsome face, the immaculate dress, the intelligence Finn stored in a portmanteau, and placed at his side during most encounters made people overlook him. It was a stout defense.
“Who sent you?” Finn asked, dusting lint from his sleeve in a veiled theatrical show. “All you have to do is think of who you’re trying so hard to protect. Imagine what they’d do to you if you revealed their name.” He cupped his chin in supposed thought, his thumb covering the dimple that had come to life with his slight smile. Julian had seen these moves before when Finn was trying to separate himself from a spot of trouble he’d landed in at Rugby.
Julian hid an inappropriate chuckle behind the raised bridle.
Finn leaned closer. “One name. And what you were looking for. It will save time and effort. On my part, I mean.”
Something in Finn’s countenance must have clashed with the witless, glossy exterior because Cookson’s eyes narrowed. “Bugger off.”
“You chose the road, my friend,” Finn replied and placed his palm on Cookson’s brow as if assessing for fever.
Finn’s lids fluttered as he staggered, and Julian stepped forward. Humphrey’s hand circled his arm, holding him back.
After a long moment of silence broken only by the shaken breaths coming from Cookson and the plink of raindrops against the windowpane, Finn’s hand dropped. His fingers flexed and closed in a tight fist before he spoke. “The Duke of Ashcroft,” he whispered on a rough exhalation. “He wants the chronology.”
The bridle slipped from Julian’s fingers. “Ashcroft?”
“Holy hell,” Humphrey breathed.
Cookson’s response proved the validity of the report. “You bloody, grand bastard,” he snarled. “You thieving trickster!”
“Correct on all counts.” Bracing his arms on the block, Finn dropped his head to his hands. “A parade of ghastly images housed in your mind, sir. Thank you for that.”
Cookson’s throat pulled on a long swallow. “He read my bleeding mind, he did.”
Julian advanced on the man before he had a chance to lodge another threat. He wedged Cookson’s head against the post, his blood rioting through his veins. He could end this here. One snap to mitigate risk.
One snap to protect his family.
“Julian, stop.” Finn’s plea was a dry rasp behind him. “If you,” he added, directing the words to Cookson, “think my stealing your thoughts is upsetting, next time I’ll scramble your brain like an egg.”
“Not a word, ever.” Julian closed his eyes, fighting the images Cookson’s shirt collar was sending through him. “And your association with the Duke of Ashcroft is finished. Do we understand each other? We have people who could use your skillset on the Welsh coast. You leave tonight.”
Humphrey stepped in and knocked aside Julian’s hand, allowing the haunting visions to drain away. “You’d better take the offer, my friend. These two are what you would call civilized, but me, ah, you wouldn’t be the first person I’ve killed, and you’d likely not be the last. But I’m trying to limit myself—and I’m fairly sure you’re not worth going to hell over.”
“Ashcroft,” Cookson gasped. “What to tell him?”
Julian shared a look with Humphrey across the rank distance. “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of the Duke.”
The undertaking was a foolish impulse.
One born of little sleep and the compulsion to return that distressing, wondrous sketch, which sizzled like a coal in her skirt pocket. Showing up at Julian’s secluded quarters without escort suddenly seemed foolhardy.
Even for her.
However, she couldn’t keep what served as evidence of his fascination and maintain her promise to suppress hers.
Exiting a copse of trees, she passed through two ancient stone pillars standing sentry, glancing around to ensure no guards monitored here as they did the main gate. During her morning session with Edward, he’d mentioned Julian would be engaged elsewhere this night—so here she was. After sneaking out a parlor window that had no sentry attached.
Moonlight splashed across the brick portico as she stepped onto it. Halting at the door, she replayed Simon’s words: top desk drawer, right side, beneath spectacle case. She turned the handle. Locked. Sighing, she pulled a hairpin from her pocket, where it resided alongside the sketch. The metal felt cold to the touch, telling her the blaze emanating from the drawing was a figment of her passionate imagination.
It had been years since she’d picked a lock, but Finn had provided exhaustive lessons, and she’d been an apt pupil. Concentrating, she pressed her tongue against the back of her teeth and felt the hairpin settle in the tumbler.
The tantalizing scent hit her before the realization that she was not alone. Citrus, smoke, man. The tip of a muddy boot entered her vision as she glanced down. Oh, dear God in heaven, she was as doomed as doomed could be.
“I wasn’t expecting you.” He brushed her aside, his touch traveling like sunlight through her.
“Jules,” she whispered directly into his ear. Stilling, he turned his head. Gazes locked, they stared as the night wrapped them in a mantle of radiant heat. “You’re not going to believe why I’m here.”
“Hmm…” He gave the hairpin a twist, and the door swing wide. “I just might.”
She glanced at the line of trees just visible in the scattered moonlight. If she started running, she might be able to make it to the house before he caught her.
He issued an aggravated snort and took her by the upper arm, hauling her inside, and with a swift kick, closed the door behind them. A rainbow of color, just as Simon had said, splattered the planks beneath her feet; canvases large and small—finished, blank, and somewhere in-between—were perched against the walls, the settee, the Chesterfield sofa. Nudes, landscapes, portraits. Wooden shelves holding tubes of acrylic and oil paint. Charcoal pencils, sketchpads. And on every surface lay ragged bits of cloth doused with the same colors that had hit the floor.
Shadow cloaked the bedchamber off the main room, but she noted the massive tester bed, the crimson counterpane lying in a twist upon the mattress. She tore her gaze away when her belly started to jump, her mind conjuring images it had no permission to conjure. Her senses unfurled like rose petals in the spring as she searched for equilibrium.
This was Julian’s world, and the secret he had kept from her.
The urge to sink to her knees before a canvas and study the wild slashes of color until Julian made sense to her rolled over her like a wave. Because this man, she knew nothing of.
“I can explain why I—” She turned, her breath seizing.
Arm braced on the doorjamb, the other hanging limply by his side, Julian’s aversion to this intimate examination of his life was evident in his unsettled, rippling aura. Eyes shadowed, shirtsleeve torn and bloody, he looked like a man on a precipice, wavering between surrender or a fight.
“Jules”—she crossed to him without hesitation—“you’re bleeding.”
His head fell back against the door. “I think bled is more apt.”
He didn’t stop her as she separated ruined linen from his skin, his only response a harsh inhalation sucked
between his teeth. His acquiescence alarmed her more than his bruised, torn flesh. “This is going to require stitches,” she said and probed hesitantly, her stomach tightening as he winced. “At least it’s a clean cut.”
Like a knife would make.
Since it seemed the door held him up, Piper chose to let the presumption remain unsaid. Another time, another conversation.
“Didn’t one governess quit”—he stood, lock-kneed as if the floor were undulating beneath him—“over your horrendous stitching skills?”
“Are you expecting daisies on your arm?”
He huffed out a startled laugh. “No.”
She nodded, convinced enough for the both of them. “Then, my inferior skills will suffice. You need help. And for once, I’m going to give it.”
He didn’t seem to know how to take this, testing his shoulder with a stretch and an accompanying groan.
Had he ever let someone take care of him, she wondered?
As he calculated benefit-lose, a trickle of blood trailed down his arm and over his closed fist, and any opposition seeped away as if through a cracked teacup. With a sigh, he slid to the floor, propelling his long legs in an elegant stretch before him. His smoky eyes held hers the entire way down, daring in some manner she couldn’t define.
She raised a brow. Tapped her toe on the floor, then mimed pulling a needle through fabric. Or in this case, skin.
“Desk. Bottom drawer. Left.”
Much like Simon’s directive for return of the sketch.
The mahogany desk would have made for fascinating study had she the time to search it. Mixed among the explosion of art supplies was proof of Julian’s responsibilities: ledgers, mail, copious notes in his precise script. Silver spectacles lying by a book on Renaissance artists that was wedged open with a paintbrush. She took measure of the man, her heart breaking as she realized how little she truly knew of him.