by Amanda Quick
“How do you think it was for me? I was devastated when I got word of your so-called accident. I could not bring myself to believe it. I was convinced that you were alive. I told myself that if you were dead, I would somehow know it. But there was no word from you.”
“I am sorry, my sweet.” He used one hand to gently tilt her head back so that he could have access to her throat. “I swear, I never meant for you to hear the news of my death. How was I to know that you would see such a small story in the London papers? I thought you were safely tucked away in Bath.”
“You should have contacted me,” she insisted.
“Forgive me,” he said into her ear. “I thought this damned business would be finished weeks ago and I would be able to come to you without trailing danger in my wake.”
He eased his fingers through her hair. Pins plopped softly on the carpet. The intimacy of the situation made her shiver. She clutched his shoulders, aware of the crisp white linen of his shirt and the firm swell of muscle beneath the fabric.
Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders. The next thing she knew his fingers were at the fastenings at the front of her gown. The knowledge that he was about to undress her elicited a flicker of panic.
Everything was happening too fast, she thought. Gabriel acted as if he wanted her but she must not forget that he had come back to her for reasons other than passion. Furthermore, this was not remote, secluded Arcane House, where no one would know what happened between her and Gabriel. Gabriel himself was no longer a safe fantasy that she could savor without courting disaster.
They were in her personal study, for heaven’s sake. Amelia and Beatrice and Edward were upstairs. Mrs. Trench was asleep in her little room off the kitchen. If any of them awakened, they might hear sounds and come to investigate.
They were in the real world, she reminded herself. Things were different here.
But Gabriel was unfastening the bodice of her gown. His mouth was on hers, distracting and disorienting. She trembled, closed her eyes and clung to him to keep her balance.
“I was not mistaken, was I?” he rasped. The question was roughened by desire.
“About what?” she managed.
“That last night at Arcane House. You wanted to be in my arms. You wanted me.”
Uncertainty spiraled through her. That night had been perfect, or nearly so. But tonight was not perfect. The setting was all wrong and Gabriel was no longer her mysterious, secret lover who could be conveniently hidden from sight. He was living right upstairs in the attic, for goodness sake. She would have to face him at breakfast tomorrow morning. In front of the entire household, no less.
“Yes,” she whispered. “But that was then and this is now.”
He stilled. “Is there someone else? I told myself that you would not lose interest in me in such a short period of time. Although I must admit that tonight when you disappeared from the exhibition hall, I wondered if I had miscalculated.”
Miscalculated seemed an unusual choice of word, she thought. Miscalculated was a term one employed when one had plotted a strategy that had gone wrong. Miscalculated was not a word a lover used. At least she didn’t think it was that sort of word.
She withdrew her arms from around Gabriel’s neck and flattened her palms on his chest.
“Is there anyone else?” he asked again, without inflection. In the firelight his eyes were dangerously enigmatic.
“No,” she confessed. “For heaven’s sake, in the past three months I have been overwhelmed with the move to London and the establishment of my business here. I haven’t had time to find anyone else. That is not the problem.”
He smiled. She could feel the tension leave his muscles.
“I understand,” he said, caressing her throat with his finger. “The events of the day have no doubt rattled your nerves.”
That was as good an excuse as any, she decided.
“Yes, quite so.” She took a deliberate step back. “My apologies, sir. A great many startling incidents have, indeed, occurred today. Why, one might say that events seem to have rained down upon me like a great waterfall. The shock of your return. This strange mystery involving the alchemist’s formula. The discovery of Burton’s body tonight. It is all simply too much. I do not believe that I am thinking as clearly as one should in these circumstances.”
Amusement curved his mouth. “On the contrary, Mrs. Jones, this is one of those rare situations in which one should not depend entirely upon logic and clear thinking.” He gently eased the edges of the gown’s bodice together. “Nevertheless, I would not press you under such circumstances. You need time to recover from what has clearly been a series of shocks.”
“Precisely, sir.” She clutched the bodice of her gown, not knowing whether to be relieved or hurt by his consideration. If his passions had truly been fiercely aroused a moment ago, would he not try to be just a bit more convincing? “I appreciate your sensitivity.”
He leaned forward slightly and brushed his mouth across hers. “I am not being sensitive so much as pragmatic, my sweet,” he said, as if he had read her mind. “When we do eventually make love again, I would not wish you to harbor any doubts or regrets afterward.”
She was not sure how to take that, either. Tonight everything involving their relationship seemed suddenly extremely murky. Things had been so much simpler when he had been just a fantasy.
“I will bid you good night, sir.” Holding the bodice of her gown together in one hand, she hurried toward the door. “In addition to a problem with my unsettled nerves, I am quite exhausted.”
That last was very true, she thought. She did feel strangely weary. But she also had a feeling that sleep would be hard to come by tonight.
“One more thing before you go, Mrs. Jones.”
The coolly spoken, subtle command caused her hand to freeze on the doorknob. She looked back at him, deeply wary. He stood silhouetted against the firelight, darkly sensual and compelling in his open shirt and unknotted tie. A fresh wave of unease swept through her.
“Yes?” she said politely.
“You have not answered my question.” He crossed to the small table that held the brandy, picked up the decanter and refilled his glass. “What was it you saw tonight when the killer fled down the stairs?”
He was not going to give up on that front, she realized. She had a feeling that once he had determined upon an objective, Gabriel Jones rarely abandoned any quest. Like a hunter that has sighted prey, she thought. The image was disturbing. It was also, unaccountably, thrilling. It was as if he had issued some sort of elemental challenge.
She pondered her answer, strongly tempted to evade a direct reply. He was unlikely to believe her if she tried to explain her unusual talent, she thought. But she was intrigued by the fact that he was astute enough to realize that she had perceived something beyond the ordinary. Few people of her acquaintance, male or female, would have guessed that much.
Part of her was also suddenly curious to know how he would respond to the truth.
“I doubt that you will credit this,” she said, readying herself for instant skepticism, “but I saw an aura of psychical energy around the fleeing man.”
The glass in his hand stopped halfway to his mouth.
“Damnation,” he finally said, very softly. “I suspected as much, but I couldn’t be certain.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind. Tell me about these auras you see.”
She had been prepared for disbelief, not a reasonable question. It took her a moment to adjust.
“They appear in the form of waves of energy that pulse around the individual,” she said.
“You see these auras around everyone you meet? That must be somewhat disconcerting.”
“I do not see them unless I concentrate and make an effort to distinguish them. Then, it is like looking at a negative image of the world. In that state, I can make out auras.”
“Interesting.”
“I do not expect you to
understand what I am trying to tell you but I assure you that if I were to encounter the killer again and if I knew to look at him with my second sight, I would very likely recognize him.”
“Would you now?” he asked softly.
She did not know what to make of that response so she forged ahead, anxious to complete her explanation.
“You see why I did not say anything about any of this to the man from Scotland Yard,” she said. “I doubt very much that he would have believed me. You saw how he treated me. He assumed that I was a victim of shock and that I was teetering on the verge of hysteria.”
“True.” Gabriel lounged against the edge of her desk. “He did aim most of his questions at me, didn’t he?”
“Because you are a man.”
“And because he believed me to be your husband.”
“That, too.” She made a face. “Even if I had volunteered the information about the fleeing man’s aura, it would not have done the detective any good. There is no point describing a person’s psychical energy pattern to someone who cannot perceive it.”
Gabriel studied her for a moment. “You say auras are distinctive?”
“Yes. They definitely vary from one person to another. There are colors involved but I cannot tell you the names of the hues and shades that I see because they do not correspond to those that I see with my normal vision. I have invented my own, private vocabulary to describe them but it would be meaningless to you. There is also something about the intensity and the pattern of the psychical energy that is particular to each person.”
“Can you determine a person’s sex from his aura?”
“No. That is why I cannot say for certain that the fleeing figure was male or female.”
“What of an individual’s character or inclinations?”
That, she thought, was a very perceptive question. “Sometimes those aspects, if they are strong enough, are often startlingly vivid, yes.”
“What did you learn about the nature of the person you saw in the hallway tonight?” he asked.
She drew a deep breath. “If that person had been an animal, I would have said that he was a predator, a creature that kills when death suits its purposes. In the animal kingdom, such beasts have a rightful place. They kill only to live. But among humans, we would label such an individual a monster.”
Gabriel went motionless. All expression evaporated from his face.
“I see,” he said. “A monster.”
“That is how the fleeing figure appeared to me. Cold-blooded and very frightening. Quite frankly, I hope I never have occasion to see him or her again.”
He did not speak.
Something about the dark stillness that emanated from him made the hair stir again on the nape of her neck, just as it had earlier when she had seen the killer flee the scene of his crime.
“Good night, Mr. Jones,” she said.
“Good night, Venetia.”
She stepped out into the hall, closed the door and hurried toward the staircase. She flew up the stairs as if she were being chased by the sort of predator that she had just tried to describe to Gabriel.
When she reached the safety of her bedroom she was breathless. The sight of herself in the dressing table mirror shocked her. Her hair was down, her gown was open and her eyes were dark pools of shadows.
The haunting sensuality of her own image shook her to the core of her being. This is what Gabriel saw, she thought.
She whirled away from the mirror and hastily undressed.
A few minutes later, garbed in her nightgown, she slipped between the covers and turned down the lamp. She waited, listening tensely to the quiet sounds of the house.
She never did hear Gabriel climb the stairs to the attic. But eventually she heard some faint noises overhead and knew that he had gone to bed.
It was not until she was sliding away into a dark, restless dream that she asked herself the question that had been troubling her ever since Gabriel had arrived on her doorstep.
He had made it plain that he needed her cooperation in his venture. Would he attempt to use seduction to achieve his ends?
In that instant the jumbled mix of confused emotions that she had been experiencing dissolved into sharp-as-crystal clarity.
The situation between herself and Gabriel Jones had become confounding and unsettling precisely because she was no longer in full control of it.
At Arcane House she had established all the unwritten rules that had governed their association. She had set out to seduce Gabriel to fulfill her very private dream of a perfect romantic interlude.
But now Gabriel was establishing all the rules. She would have to be very careful, indeed.
17
FOOTSTEPS SOUNDED on the attic landing. Gabriel wiped the last of the shaving lather from his face, tossed the towel aside and crossed the small, cramped space to open the door.
Edward stood in front of him. The boy’s hand was raised in preparation for a polite knock.
“Good morning,” Gabriel said.
“Good morning, sir.” Edward gazed up at him, openly curious. “You haven’t finished dressing.”
“Not quite.”
“Mrs. Trench sent me to tell you that breakfast will be ready in a few minutes.”
“Thank you. I am looking forward to a good home-cooked meal. I’ll only be a moment.”
He turned away from the door and took a clean shirt off one of the wall pegs.
“I’ll wait for you,” Edward volunteered, edging into the room. “I can show you the way to the breakfast room.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Gabriel said. “It will save me wandering all over the house.”
He watched Edward in the mirror while he fastened his shirt.
The boy looked around, studying each of the items that Gabriel had unpacked. He seemed particularly taken with the shaving things arrayed on the washstand.
“Papa kept his shaving items in a leather kit very similar to yours,” Edward said.
“Did he?” Gabriel finished buttoning the shirt and pondered whether or not a tie was called for. When he was at home he always went down to breakfast in the comfort of his shirtsleeves. But his was a bachelor household.
“Yes,” Edward said.
“You must miss your father a great deal.”
Edward nodded. For a moment he fell silent. Gabriel slung his tie around his collar and knotted the silk in a four-in-hand.
Edward watched the knotting process very closely.
“Papa was an investor,” he blurted out.
“Was he?”
“He traveled to America a lot. But when he was home he took me fishing and showed me how to do lots of things.”
“That’s what fathers are supposed to do,” Gabriel said.
“A brother-in-law can do that sort of thing, too, can’t he?”
Gabriel looked at him. “Yes,” he said. “He can.”
Edward brightened. “I know it’s supposed to be a secret, about you not really being my brother-in-law and all. But as long as we’re pretending, I thought perhaps you could show me some of the things that Papa did not have a chance to show me.”
“I don’t see why not,” Gabriel said.
“Excellent.” Edward grinned. “You needn’t worry. As I explained, sir, I’m very good at keeping secrets.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I’ve had a lot of experience since Mama and Papa went to heaven,” Edward said with a touch of pride. “In a way, pretending that you are my brother-in-law is very much like the secret that I have to keep about Papa.”
“I see.”
“Papa was a big mist.”
Gabriel went blank. “A big mist?”
“That is what they call a gentleman who has more than one wife.”
“Bigamist,” Gabriel said softly. He thought about the photograph of the larger-than-life man hanging on the wall of Venetia’s study.
That information explained a great deal, he thought.
�
�Papa had another wife and some children in New York, where he went on business twice a year. We did not find out about it until after Mama and Papa were killed in the train wreck. Because Papa was a bigamist, it means that Venetia and Amelia and I are not his real children.”
“You’re wrong, Edward. Regardless of the circumstances of your parents’ relationship, you are most certainly your father’s real children.”
“Aunt Beatrice says we are ill—” Edward stumbled over the word. “Ill something.”
“Illegitimate?”
“Yes, that’s it. Anyhow, after Mama and Papa died we discovered that Mr. Cleeton had disappeared with the money that was supposed to come to us. Aunt Beatrice says that was a huge disaster because having a comfortable, respectable income would have covered up a host of sins in the eyes of the world. She says if it weren’t for Venetia’s skill with photography we would all very likely have wound up on the streets.”
Gabriel had already concluded that Venetia was supporting the entire family, but this explained why she had been obliged to shoulder such an enormous responsibility.
“Who was Mr. Cleeton?” he asked.
“Papa’s man of affairs. He stole our inheritance. Papa always told us that if anything dreadful ever happened to him, we would be comfortably situated financially.. Only we weren’t because Mr. Cleeton took our money and went far away.”
“Bastard,” Gabriel said.
“Yes, I know I am a bastard.” Edward’s lower lip trembled. “That is another word for illegitimate, isn’t it? Aunt Beatrice and Venetia and Amelia don’t think I know it but I overheard Aunt Beatrice tell Venetia and Amelia that people will call me that if they find out that Papa was not really married to Mama.”
Gabriel crouched down in front of the boy. “I was referring to Mr. Cleeton, not you, Edward.”
Edward’s brow furrowed. “Was Mr. Cleeton illegitimate, too?”
“I have no idea. But it does not matter because I employed the wrong word to describe him. Being a bastard is not a bad thing; it is merely a fact. Like having red hair or blue eyes. It does not tell you the character of the person in question. Do you understand?”
“I think so.”