Instead, he had…well, he had her. A brash American who was rarely quiet, often spoke before she thought, and couldn’t bake a sugar cookie to save her life.
If only he knew how lucky he was.
“How long were you a policeman before you became a detective?” Joanna asked.
A shadow darkened Kincaid’s countenance. “Long enough to decide I’d rather work for myself. Miss Thorncroft, let’s begin by reviewing your—”
“What drew you to such a job?” she interrupted. Having never met a detective—crime wasn’t exactly rampant in quiet, sleepy Somerville—she was naturally curious as to why Kincaid had chosen such a dangerous, demanding line of work…and what had made him leave it to become a private investigator.
“Because I wanted to help people,” he said curtly. “Do you have a picture of—”
“Why did you leave the police force?”
Brandy-colored eyes burned into hers. “Miss Thorncroft, I have agreed to take on your case in exchange for your secretarial skills, as unproven as they are. If you wish to begin our agreement by asking prying questions which I’ve no obligation to answer, then I’d just as soon show you the door.”
Well, then.
She’d certainly been put in her place, hadn’t she?
How unfortunate (for Kincaid) that she had no intention of staying there. Still, it wouldn’t do to be sacked on her first day. Especially when she found her employer so very intriguing.
She liked his spectacles, which gave him an air of propriety. And she liked his scowl, which did not. She also liked the way she had felt when he touched her yesterday. That little sizzling shock of awareness that had made her breath catch and left her thinking about him long after they’d said goodbye. It made her wonder what it would feel like if he touched her deliberately…and if those proper spectacles would fog with passion when they kissed.
Joanna blinked.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d lusted over a man. Charles and his pink pants hadn’t exactly invoked dreams of desire. On the two occasions she had granted him permission to kiss her (ever polite, Charles had always made sure to ask before he attacked her lips with all the fervor of a small Pomeranian yapping at the heels of its master), she’d immediately regretted her decision. But she had an inkling that if Kincaid kissed her, the last thing she’d feel was regret.
“I apologize for my questions,” she said, offering her most contrite smile. “Normally, it is my sister, Evelyn, who is the nosy one. But I must admit I find you utterly fascinating, Kincaid. I hope that is not too forward a thing to say. As we get to know each other, I believe you’ll find I have the bad habit of almost always speaking what’s on my mind.”
His scowl deepened. “I can assure you there is nothing fascinating about me, Miss Thorncroft.”
Oh, Joanna doubted that.
She doubted that very much.
If ever there was a person who was hiding something, it was Kincaid. She’d already told him all of her scandalous secrets. By the time they were through, she was determined to learn his.
One way or another.
“Should we get on with my case?” she asked brightly.
With clear relief, Kincaid nodded. “Indeed. Your case.” He picked up a pen, and briefly consulted his journal. “I’ve already requested the passenger manifest for the Queen Mary and should have a copy by the end of the day.”
Joanna sat up. “That’s brilliant!”
“However—”
“Never a good word,” she mumbled.
“—I doubt very much if the pickpocket we’re searching for will show up on it. He was most likely a stowaway, or used a different name. Which means we know the ring arrived in London when the Queen Mary made port but, after that, we’ve no way to trace it.”
“What about the inscription?” she asked. “And the initials. JW.”
“Yes.” Kincaid tapped the pen against his chin. “I’ve given that a great deal of consideration. I do believe your grandmother’s theory is correct. This was no random robbery. That boy, whoever he is, was dispatched specifically to steal your ring and bring it here. If I were to question every jeweler in Boston and the surrounding area, I should think we’d discover they were paid, and paid handsomely, to send the ring to England should it ever come to be in their possession.”
She slumped in her chair. “Then by the very act of having the ring appraised, we allowed it to be stolen.”
Kincaid put down his and pen and frowned at her. “This is not your fault, Miss Thorncroft. You, and your sisters, are the victims here. Per the inscription on the ring, you are also its rightful owners. Clearly, it was intended as a gift to your mother. It’s also clear that the person who gave your mother that ring, or someone closely associated with them, has gone to great lengths to get it back. My assumption is that they do not wish for your mother’s…relationship…with whomever gave her the ring to come to light.”
“You can call it an affair. It’s all right.” Ignoring the pang in her chest, Joanna gave her best attempt at a lighthearted shrug. “That’s what it was, after all. I suppose I should be grateful the affair happened, for had it not, I would never have been born.”
“Yes, well.” Kincaid cleared his throat. “I can assure you I will do my best to find your ring, Miss Thorncroft. As well as the identity of your…”
“Birth father,” she supplied.
“Indeed.” He stood up behind his desk and brought his pen and journal to her. “Would you be able to draw a picture of the ring? You’ve described it in detail, but a visual is always best.”
Yes, Joanna thought as she suddenly found herself eye-level with Kincaid’s nether regions. A visual was always best.
Goodness.
Who knew a man could be so well…endowed…in that area?
Maybe it was because she’d never paid much attention, having never had loins thrust in front of her. But it seemed Kincaid’s height wasn’t the only thing about him that was larger than average.
Slowly, her gaze traveled up the length of his torso, lingering on the V of flesh that was exposed by his partially unbuttoned shirt until she finally reached his face.
Their eyes met.
With a delicate cough, Joanna’s gaze flicked down, then up again.
“Miss Thorncroft, what is the—oh.” As he suddenly realized the close proximity of his groin to her countenance, Kincaid’s body went as stiff as a board.
His entire body, she noted with some interest.
“Here,” he said, all but throwing the journal and pen into her lap. “Draw the ring to the best of your ability and I’ll return shortly.”
Before she could ask him where he was going, he had quit the room.
“Hmmm,” Joanna murmured to James, who had watched the entire exchange from his lofty perch atop the bookcase. “How do you like that?”
Chapter Seven
In the foyer, Kincaid closed his eyes and let his skull fall back against the plaster wall with an audible thud.
Bloody hell.
He’d hoped his flare of attraction towards Joanna had been a one-time anomaly. A result of him being caught unawares by a damp, delectable beauty forcing her way into his office. Surely, he’d told himself, when he saw her again there would no sexual friction between them. She was his client, and his employee, and he could—he would—conduct himself in a manner that conveyed his utmost professionalism.
“Kincaid? I’m all done.”
As Joanna’s melodious voice floated through the door, his bollocks tightened.
Done?
No, they hadn’t even gotten started.
And he already needed an ice bath.
“I’m coming,” he called back, then winced.
Bad choice of words, that.
Not to mention they did piss all to help with his growing arousal.
Shoving his hands through his hair, he forced himself to count to ten. Twice. When he’d finished and his trousers still fit a bit more snugly
than he was comfortable with, he cursed under his breath and went upstairs to fetch a long overcoat. Holding it closed, he re-entered his office, marched straight to his desk, and sat down.
“Cold?” Joanna asked with a glance at his coat.
“Let’s just see the drawing.” Normally, Kincaid wasn’t so abrasive. Under the right circumstances, he could almost be as charming as Sterling (no easy feat). But these were far from the right circumstances, and given how tenuous his grip was on his self-control, he wanted to conclude this meeting with all haste and get Joanna the hell out of his house.
“Here.” Leaning forward in her chair, she slid the journal across his desk. “My sister, Claire, would have done a much better job. She’s the artistic one in the family. But this should give you a fair idea of what the ring looks like.”
Kincaid picked up the journal. His brows drew together. Joanna was right. She wasn’t an artist. But her rudimentary sketch gave him a clear picture of what he was searching for.
Sort of.
“Is the ring on a large boat, or…”
Joanna’s eyes narrowed. “That is my mother’s hand.”
“Ah.” Kincaid tilted his head and squinted. “Yes, I see it now.”
“Give me that.” Snatching the journal back, she pressed the tip of the pen between her lips—dear God in heaven—before adding a few lines to the drawing, then a few a more. She held the journal back out. “There. That should be better.”
“Thank you,” Kincaid croaked as he took the journal.
“The ruby is a vibrant red.” She tucked the pen behind her ear. “Mr. Bernard, the jeweler, said it was a marquise cut, and quite old.”
“An heirloom, no doubt. In the peerage, it’s common for certain pieces of jewelry to be handed down through the generations. If it was given to your mother without the family’s knowledge or permission, that might also explain why they went to such lengths to have it returned to them.”
A tiny notch appeared in the middle of her brows. “But you said the ring rightfully belongs to me and my sisters.”
“Morally, it does.”
“Morally?”
“British law is…complicated. Particularly when it involves the aristocracy.” Kincaid shifted his weight in his chair as, at long last, the blood in his groin began to recede. Nothing like a healthy law discussion to quell a man’s arousal. “I should forewarn you that even if we manage to find who took the ring, they may be under no legal obligation to return it.”
Anger swirled in the depths of Joanna’s gaze. “That’s not right. They stole the ring. They have to give it back.”
“Hopefully, they will.”
“And if they don’t?” she demanded.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. As I said, I will have the opportunity to examine the Queen Mary’s manifest this afternoon. If I find anything of interest, I’ll be sure to let you know.” He closed his journal. Cleared his throat. “It looks to be a clear, sunny day. You and your sister should do some sightseeing.”
Joanna stood when he did. “Are you dismissing me, Kincaid?”
Damned right he was.
The sooner his office didn’t smell of violets, the better. Maybe then, he’d actually be able to focus on her case instead of stealing glances at her breasts like some lovesick young pup.
“I can recommend Hyde Park,” he said as he opened the door. “There are several miles of walking trails. There’s also Trafalgar Square where you’ll find the National Gallery. I believe they’re currently showcasing an exhibition featuring new European artists. There’s one in particular I like, although I doubt you’ve ever heard of him. Claude Monet?”
“No, I am afraid not.”
“If you enjoy watching plays, the Gaiety Theater shouldn’t be too far from your boarding house. The acting troupe that’s currently touring there is quite entertaining.”
Joanna tilted her head. “Do you enjoy the theater, Kincaid?”
“Occasionally.” Back when he was a peeler, Kincaid had worked, gone to bed, woken up, and returned to work. There’d simply been no time to take a stroll through the park, or admire paintings at the National Gallery, or see a play. After he was let go (as kind a way to put it as any), he’d drank himself into oblivion. When he’d finally surfaced from the self-inflicted haze of cheap gin, he had found himself with nothing to do.
Needing something to fill the long, empty evenings that gnawed at him like a dog on a bone, he’d followed Sterling’s suggestion and attended the theater. Better to spend his money on that, he’d supposed, than a bottle of gin. To his surprise, he’d actually enjoyed himself, and had seen several plays since.
“They’re debuting an operetta tonight, I believe.” A combination of humor and vocal talent, operettas were shown exclusively at the Gaiety Theater as they weren’t considered prestigious enough for The Globe or Charring Cross, both of which appealed to a more exclusive set of people than Kincaid preferred to run with. “You should go see it, Miss Thorncroft. Take in a bit of the local talent during your stay.”
Her blue eyes brightened. “What a nice invitation, Kincaid. I would love to accompany you.”
“What?” he said blankly. “No, I didn’t…that is to say, I wasn’t…”
“I’ll be ready at half-past seven.” With that, she picked up her bonnet and coat and sailed past him before he could sputter another word.
*
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?” Joanna asked for the fifth time. “I am certain Kincaid could get another ticket.”
“And spoil your evening alone?” Evie teased. “I wouldn’t dare dream of it. Besides, Mrs. Benedict is going to teach me how to play whist and then we’re going for a stroll around Cremorne Gardens. She says it’s the place to be if I want to meet a duke.”
“Because of all the trees?” Joanna asked innocently, then promptly ducked when Evie threw a pillow at her head.
“You know I was speaking metaphorically.” Carefully adjusting a shiny, black curl she’d laid just so over her shoulder, Evie put her hands on her hips and turned her head to the side. “How do I look?”
“Beautiful, as always. That color is stunning on you.”
“It’s not too yellow, is it?” Evie fretted, glancing down at her voluminous skirt.
“If there’s a duke to be had, he’ll be eating out of your palm in no time at all,” Joanna said with the utmost confidence.
Evie smiled. “Thank you. I must say, you don’t look nearly as dowdy as you usually do.”
“What a wonderful compliment,” Joanna said dryly. For her night out with Kincaid, she’d chosen a gown in emerald green silk with a square neckline, pointed waist, and a modest bustle that paled in comparison to the small mountain that currently resided on Evie’s rear end. She’d tamed her thick mass of red curls into a braid, and then twisted the braid into a bun on top of her head. A pair of simple pearl earrings and matching necklace completed the outfit.
“Come to think of it,” said Evie said thoughtfully, “I don’t know if you’ve ever been this dressed up. Are you wearing a corset?”
“Maybe,” Joanna said defensively. “What does it matter?”
“You never wear a corset.”
“Because they’re barbaric monstrosities created to suppress women.”
“And yet you’re wearing one.”
“The dress required it.”
“Ah, of course.” Evie’s smile grew. “The dress required it.”
Joanna began to cross her arms, but was forced to drop them back to her sides when the edges of her corset dug into her ribs. They really were devilish contraptions. “What does that mean?”
“It means I was right. You are sweet on Kincaid.”
“I’m nothing of the kind,” she scoffed. “This is merely a—a business meeting between associates. Men have them all the time.”
“You aren’t a man,” said Evie. “And I’ve never heard of a meeting being conducted in the middle of a play.”
“It’s an operetta.”
“Whatever it is, I’m certain Kincaid did not invite you to discuss business.”
“I don’t know if he invited me so much as I invited him.” And for as long as she lived, Joanna would never forget the way the blood had drained from Kincaid’s face, as if she’d proposed they fling themselves off London Bridge instead of attend a play. Truth be told, she didn’t know whether to be insulted or amused by the obvious horror he’d experienced upon realizing she had tricked him into a night at the theater.
A bit of both, she decided as she picked up her beaded handbag and slipped it around her wrist.
Which was why she had decided to wear the corset.
“All right,” she confessed. “Maybe I do find Kincaid somewhat…attractive.”
“I knew it!” Evie said triumphantly.
“But finding the ring is still my highest priority.” As she spoke, Joanna honestly didn’t know whether she was trying to convince Evie…or herself. “Any feelings I may or may not be developing for Kincaid must remain secondary.”
“Well I, for one, think it is romantic.”
Joanna gazed dubiously at her sister. “This from the person who doesn’t believe in love?”
“I never said I didn’t believe in love. I just don’t believe in marrying for love unless it is financially beneficial.” Consulting her warlike assortment of beauty products and potions, Evie opened a tin of beeswax and used her fingertip to apply a light sheen to her lips. “The more I think about it, the more I think you’re the one who doesn’t believe in love. All these suitors you’ve had, and not a single one has ever made your heart flutter?”
“No,” Joanna said without hesitation.
“And what about Kincaid? Does he make your heart flutter?”
A blush warmed her cheeks. “He…he makes me tingle.”
Evie nodded approvingly. “Tingling is good.”
“Yes, but as I said, my highest priority is—”
“Finding the ring.” A dusting of rouge on her cheeks, and Evie stepped back to admire her reflection in the dressing mirror. “That’s another thing I’ve noticed about you, Jo. For all your impassioned speeches about unconditional love, you’ve always managed to come up with a litany of excuses to cut your suitors off before they even have the chance to prove themselves. Do you want to know what I think about that?”
Bewitched by the Bluestocking Page 10