“I wasn’t going to kill him.”
“Then why bring a gun?”
He looked perfectly baffled by the question. “To defend myself.”
“Which is exactly what he would have done upon seeing your gun. He would have lifted his own weapon to defend himself, and before you knew it, the two of you would have defended yourselves to death.”
“That would not have happened. Damn it, Lottie. I’m careful—”
“But he may not have been,” she ground out. Oh, how she hated this sort of arrogance, the absolute conviction that he was, and always would be, in complete control of every situation.
No one had control all the time. Or even most of the time. Life was filled with an infinite number of unknowables—distractions, traps, surprises, lies, betrayals. Control was something a body reached for, grabbed, lost, and reached for again. The only thing constant about it was the regularity with which it slipped through the fingers and how quickly the assumption of its possession could put a man in his grave.
“You could have been killed, Owen.”
“I am good at what I do, Charlotte.”
Now she had pricked his pride. God help her. She gestured at the gun in his hand. “Put that away, if you please.”
“I don’t see—”
“I don’t like guns,” she snapped. “If you wish to continue this argument, you will put it away.”
“You don’t like…” It was a toss-up as to which emotion played longer over his face—shock, horror, or fury. “Are you telling me there are no guns in this house? That you have spent the last eight years in an isolated country home without the means to protect yourself?”
“Of course I have guns. I have two pistols and a rifle right there.” She pointed to the trunk at the foot of the bed. “And had the intruder thought to come upstairs, I would have retrieved them without hesitation.”
“You know how to use them?”
“No,” she drawled and dropped her arm. “At the time of purchase, I just thought them terribly pretty.”
He glared at her.
She ground her teeth. “Yes. I know how to use them.” The lessons had been terrifying, exhausting, and self-imposed. Contrary to what Owen appeared to believe, she was quite aware of where she lived and for whom she was responsible. “I know how to protect my own home.”
“Do you? Because it seems to me you allowed a man to come into your home—”
“I did not allow it.”
“You helped him escape.”
“I chased him off. Without anyone becoming injured.”
“Without anyone being apprehended for a crime.” He stepped closer. “Is that what this is about? Proving there is honor and loyalty amongst thieves?”
“I am not a thief.” It was almost true. She wasn’t a thief now, and even when she had been a thief, she’d never gone skulking about someone’s house. She’d merely picked the lock and kept an eye out so her father could go skulking about. It was the thinnest and flimsiest of distinctions, but she clung to it with both hands.
Anger fired hot in Owen’s eyes, then died just as quickly. His features softened and he sighed. “But your father was,” he murmured. He was quiet a moment, and when he spoke again, his tone was filled with understanding. “I’d not have killed the intruder, Lottie.”
“I’m sure it would not have been your intention.”
His lips twitched. “I don’t kill people accidently.”
Self-defense was not accidental, but she didn’t see the purpose in starting the argument anew, not when they were so close to a truce.
“I’m sure you don’t.” Repetitive, perhaps, but it was the best she could do.
“Did someone shoot him? Your father?”
She hesitated, uncertain how to answer. She didn’t want to lie to him, not about this. Why this should be the case, she couldn’t say. Perhaps because it was such a big part of her life and that would make her denial of it a big lie. And, really, there were only so many big lies one could tell a person and still retain the hope of a true friendship. I’m not a thief likely topped out that threshold.
But neither did she wish to discuss the matter. At all. It was an ugly memory. Painful, frightening, and for reasons he’d not understand, unbearably humiliating.
She would wager every penny she owned that Owen had never been forced to watch his father crawl and beg in a pool of his own blood.
But telling Owen she didn’t wish to discuss the matter was tantamount to saying yes, indeed, someone had shot her father. And once she admitted the truth, however indirectly, Owen would insist on discussing the matter.
She shook her head and rattled the manacles. “Doesn’t matter. Let me out of these.”
To her relief, he neither pressed the matter nor denied her request. After digging out the keys, he released her hand and tossed the manacles on the bed.
A crease formed in his brow. “Did I hurt you?”
“Hurt me?” She looked down to where she was rubbing her wrist. “Oh. No.” It was like taking off a tight or heavy bracelet—one rubbed afterward without thinking about it. “No, I’m—”
He took hold of her hand gently and turned it over to study the wrist. His thumb caressed the palm of her hand. “Has this happened before?”
“Manacles? Yes, but—”
“No, not manac—” His head snapped up. “Wait. Yes? Yes? Who the hell put you in manacles?”
“My father. He felt it was important I know how to get out of them. And I can, generally, if I have a hairpin or the time to work my hand through, or if I have access to a hard surface or object and enough room to maneuver. With a little luck, a well-aimed swing can break one of those open, you know.”
“I do know. I also know that two of those processes have the potential to break bone.”
“Unlikely.” Though her efforts had resulted in some colorful scraping and bruising. “They were lessons, not life-or-death scenarios.”
“And how many times did your father have you practice this particular lesson?”
“Until I got it right.”
* * *
Until I got it right.
Owen banked the sudden rage that threatened to boil up and out on a string of invectives aimed at Will Walker. What sort of man, what sort of father put his own child in manacles? Worse, watched as she struggled to free herself? The iron was sharp and unforgiving; it would have cut and bruised the skin. The thought of it, the image of Lottie bound and hurting, turned his stomach and squeezed his heart.
Carefully, so as not to expose the tenor of his thoughts, he asked, “Did he do this whilst I knew you in London?”
“No. I told you. He changed.”
He had nothing to say to that—at least nothing she would care to hear.
As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, Lottie pulled her hand away, and her voice took on a defensive tone. “He was only looking out for my well-being. He wanted to know I’d be safe.”
“He should have kept you safe.”
“He did. He—” She pressed her lips together and made an exasperated sound in the back of her throat. “I don’t wish to fight with you again tonight.”
Owen clenched and unclenched his fists. He didn’t want to fight with her at all. He wanted to go back a decade or more and beat Will Walker to the ground. Because he couldn’t, he shoved the anger aside and changed the topic.
“This changes things, you understand.”
She shook her head. “What has changed what?”
“A man broke into your home tonight.”
“Yes. I am aware.”
“And I am staying.”
“Staying?”
“Yes. Just until I can be certain the man downstairs was only here to nick the silver.”
“Well of course he was here to steal.”
> That had been his initial assumption as well. Just a common burglar, easily managed. But the muddy footprints he’d found downstairs told a different story. “He walked right through your parlor without taking a thing.”
“Perhaps there wasn’t time.”
“There was time.” The tracks across the rug were those of a man walking, not running. “You’ve a small pair of silver candlesticks on your fireplace mantel. They’re sitting in plain view. Why didn’t he take those?”
She hesitated, looking uncertain. “I don’t know. Maybe he wasn’t after valuables. Maybe he was just hungry and in search of the kitchen.”
“Then he would have broken in through the kitchen, not a side door.” The kitchen would have been easy to find from the outside. Its drapes had been wide open. “Do you have an item of exceptional value in the house? Something the local villagers know about?”
“You think he was after something in particular?” She shook her head. “The only things out of the ordinary to be found at Willowbend are my father’s journals.”
There were also the letters, he thought.
And there were the Walker children.
He took Lottie’s chin in his hand and held it steady. “Listen to me—every precaution will be taken to ensure your father’s past remains a secret. Peter will not hear it from me or my men. I swear it. I’m sorry if that’s not sufficient to ease your fears, but until I can be sure this man was nothing more than an inept burglar, I am staying.”
“You’re really rather worried, aren’t you?” Her mouth turned down at the corners in a thoughtful manner. “Very well. You’ll stay.”
“Very well?” he echoed, suspicious of the agreement.
“I think you’re wrong, but if there is even a remote possibility my family is in danger, I’ll not argue against your protection. Why would I?”
Loath to break the contact, he let his fingers linger a few seconds before releasing her. “Because argue, darling, is what you do.”
She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. He watched with satisfaction as she struggled with the impossible task of disputing that point without actually producing an argument.
“Surrender, Lottie.”
“I disagree with your assessment,” she announced. “And were I in a mood to do so, I would explain to you the nature of your error.”
“That is still an argument.”
She ignored him. “I do feel compelled, however, to explain a possible complication of your decision to stay.”
“Oh, elucidate, by all means.”
She leaned a hip against the bedpost. “You could be here a very long time, Owen.”
“Eager to be rid of me?” It troubled him how much he didn’t want her to say yes, even in jest.
“No. Not anymore. But you are needed in London. Mrs. Popple deserves justice. Her family does as well. I think…” Her brow knit. “She might have mentioned a sister once.”
“In Leeds,” he confirmed. “At the moment, your father’s journals are the best chance I have at finding Mrs. Popple’s murderer. I can always send Gabriel or Samuel to London if the need arises.” They’d need to check in on other investigations and other clients at any rate. “You knew Mrs. Popple, didn’t you? She wasn’t just a friend of your father’s.”
“I knew her for a time when I was quite young.” Her voice and tone softened in memory. “She was very kind.”
“That is the way people speak of her. Her employees and patrons both.”
“But I rather doubt her sweet nature would make Inspector Jeffries take note of her. I remember him. He wasn’t the sort to trouble himself over murder amongst the criminal class.” She shook her head. “No, he didn’t ask for your assistance, though I suspect he was eager to hand you the work. Who hired you? Mrs. Popple’s sister?”
“She is the wife of a respectable shopkeeper. She wanted nothing to do with her sister in life, or death. Inspector Jeffries did seek me out, Lottie. So did Lord Sevarton when one of his oil paintings disappeared.”
“Oh, yes, the missing art. That would garner the inspector’s sympathies.” She ran a finger down a long groove in the bedpost. “I’d not thought so much about that part of it.”
“It is not the part that matters.” It was an easy statement to make, and he thought nothing of offering it, until Lottie looked at him with eyes that shone bright with understanding and gratitude.
“You’re right. It isn’t.”
She smiled at him then. A rare, soft smile that held no trace of disdain or regret or mistrust. She smiled at him as if they shared something essential. As if he was essential.
It had been so long since she’d looked at him like that. In truth, he couldn’t be certain she’d ever looked at him like that. But he was damned sure he wanted her to keep looking at him just like that. It stunned and unnerved him, the power and intensity of that one wish. There were probably things a man would not do, lengths he would not go or depths to which he would not sink, to assure a woman kept looking at him just like that, but damn if he could think of a single example at present.
He took two full steps back. “You should get some sleep.”
“And you.”
“Yes.” No. He would not sleep tonight. But he needed to end the conversation, needed to leave before he did something imprudent. Like take her in his arms, and not with the breathless but relatively manageable desire he’d known in his room, but with the strange desperation that was clawing through him now.
“Go to sleep,” he repeated with an embarrassing catch in his voice. Then, to top off that indignity, he all but bolted from the room, slamming the door on his way out.
He struggled with a mix of need and anger as he stood in the hall and took several steadying breaths. Ill at ease with the need, he concentrated on the anger. Anger could be controlled, even diminished in part, if he could only settle on one target and let loose. But he couldn’t decide where to aim.
There was Will Walker: worthy of retribution but unreachable in death. There was the man who’d broken into Lottie’s home: a deserving target but not yet in his line of sight. And there was himself: a target both justified and available.
From the start, he’d handled the business with Lottie poorly. Or, at the very least, with less finesse than a man his age and experience ought to be able to muster.
He had finesse, damn it. He was a careful man, a man well prepared for every circumstance. He’d learned early the value of forethought, discipline, and careful planning, and had experienced the ugly consequences of forgoing all three. Until the day his father died, the Renderwell home had been in a constant state of chaos. The sword of utter ruin had dangled over the house for years. There’d been no control, no safety, no thought given to the future. There had been only the endless, mindless pursuit of immediate gratification.
With a stifled oath, he headed for his door. He knew better than to charge ahead without thought for the consequences. He knew how to take charge of a situation, how to bring order out of chaos.
Why, then, did he find himself off-kilter and struggling for balance in Lottie’s presence? Why did he feel as if there was another sword hovering about his head, ready to lop off an ear?
Because he’d not prepared. That was bloody why. He hadn’t planned what to do about Lottie. He’d simply arrived at Willowbend and charged ahead, allowing himself to be governed by… He had no idea. Emotions, he supposed.
He stopped outside his door.
No, he did not suppose. Small children and hysterics were governed by emotions. A grown man might, however, be governed on occasion by… He tipped his head back, considered various options, and finally landed on…instinct. A grown man might be guided by instinct.
Satisfied with the internal edit, he let himself into his bedroom, then began a slow pace across the carpet. Utilizing instinct was not a failing in and of itself. He
used it often and he used it well when the occasion called for it. But it was a poor alternative to reason and strategy when there was time and call for both.
There had been time, and there had certainly been call, but he’d chosen to concentrate instead on his primary purpose in coming to Willowbend. Namely, to seek out Will Walker’s journals.
Reconciliation with Lottie had been secondary in his consideration. While Owen preferred to think he’d put murder first because, well, it was murder, he could admit now that it had also been easier, even safer, to concentrate on an objective he could be sure of achieving.
He’d been quite sure of his success in obtaining the journals and had planned accordingly.
He had not been sure of Lottie, had not been comfortable pondering the countless ways an attempt to make amends with her might ultimately lead to his humiliation, and had therefore failed to plan for either defeat or victory.
Which had left him with the aforementioned reliance on instinct.
Perhaps he’d kiss her again, perhaps not. Perhaps he’d bed her, perhaps not. Oh, he’d just see how things ambled along, work the whole business out as they went, would he?
Lottie was right. He was a dolt.
Worse, he’d been a coward. Or perhaps it had been more a matter of neglect.
Owen ceased pacing and sought out the blade he’d put away, a second pistol, and his resolve. Failure, cowardice, or neglect—no matter the error, it would be remedied. Tonight, he could plan. He would keep watch over the house, and he would formulate a sensible strategy for dealing with Lottie. Come morning, he would be prepared.
Nine
The storm left Willowbend’s garden bruised and battered. Foliage was torn and flattened, the shredded remains of blooms littered the pathways, an old trellis had been snapped clean through, and now only the tenacious grip of a climbing rose kept the two halves in place.
Lottie surveyed the damage as she strolled down the familiar path. The trellis could be repaired and the plants would rebound and thrive. Within days, there would be new blooms on…whatever that squat little bush with the blue-tinted leaves happened to be. She had no real knowledge of gardening. In fact, she wasn’t sure the blue plant flowered at all. But there would be blooms on something somewhere. And Owen would be there to see them.
A Talent for Trickery Page 11