by Zoë Archer
Ada pressed her lips tight, fighting to smother her sounds of pleasure. Yet when his fingers found the hard point of her nipple and stroked, a quiet moan slipped from her.
They both froze. In the absolute silence of the servants’ quarters, her muted cry seemed as loud as a shout. Though no footsteps sounded, or doors opened, Ada scrambled off of Michael. She hastily fastened the buttons of her bodice, fingers shaking, as she struggled to calm her breathing. Michael shoved on his cap to cover the tangled mess she’d made of his hair. Grimacing, he also adjusted the crotch of his trousers.
She couldn’t blush or feel embarrassed. She’d wanted this. Him. But they were getting closer to figuring out the Larkfields’ plans. There was no surer way for them to be sent packing than being discovered on the verge of making love right there in the linen closet.
He stood, and helped her to rise. Neither spoke. But his gaze—half in shadow, half in moonlight—seared her. His hands knotted at his sides, as if fighting the urge to touch her.
He stood and silently opened the door. They walked to the window on the landing, and he climbed up into it. With one last, burning glance, he slipped through the window and then began to climb down.
Hands shaking, she closed the window. A light snow had just begun to fall. He’d have a cold walk back—but maybe he needed the chill as much as she did. Silently, quickly, she hurried down the corridor to her bedroom.
As she shed her clothes and donned her nightdress, she felt like another woman had taken control of her body. No, that wasn’t true. She seemed more herself than she’d ever felt before. The Ada who explored crumbling ruins by moonlight for clues to a crime, the same woman who’d climbed part way up the side of a building, and the person who’d allowed herself at last to give in to the passion that had always roiled within her—that was the real Ada. Not the housemaid with ambitions to become a housekeeper. Or the shopgirl who walked in parks with tame sweethearts. The one who silenced herself.
And Michael had been part of this revelation.
Carefully, she changed and slipped back into bed. Despite her full day’s work and late night adventures, her body still hummed with energy.
Sleep would be impossible tonight. Not when her body and mind were filled with Michael. And with her true self finally coming into its own, taking over. Maybe she’d never go back to the old Ada, but she had no idea what it meant to be the new Ada.
Chapter Eight
Tension knotting his shoulders, Michael entered the drawing room and set a tray of tea upon a table. The three women sitting at the table—Lady Cowan, Mrs. Herbert, and Lady Larkfield—paid him no attention. He didn’t mind. It allowed him to watch Lady Larkfield as he arranged the cups and plates of cakes. Despite her lazy pose on the settee, small lines of strain tightened in the corners of her mouth, her eyes were sharp as daggers, and she’d tried to hide the circles beneath them with a subtle layer of cosmetics.
He backed away as Lady Cowan poured the tea. The room itself was festively adorned, including a decorated tree.
But as he stepped from the drawing room, the Christmas spirit had no hold on him. In the fake ruin was the key to a missing valise. A valise that could possibly land the Larkfields in the clink for their crime. When the workhouse had been raided, some of the children had been placed in other orphanages, but beds were always in short supply, and too many of the children had scattered through the city. They’d have no holiday this year, no oranges or Christmas crackers. The best they could hope for was to find someplace out of the cold, and hope holiday charity moved passersby to toss them a ha’penny when they begged.
Goddamn the Larkfields.
There were already footmen in attendance in the hall, so he strode toward the servants’ hall. But he burned to search through the house, tear it apart to find that one small bag that would somehow bring the criminal couple to justice. He didn’t know what was in the valise, but it had to have something to do with the raid on the orphanage.
His thoughts churned as he moved through the massive house. Somewhere in Covington Hall was hidden that valise, yet during daylight hours, he’d be hard-pressed to look for it. Hopefully, Ada was finding time to investigate. God knew she’d proven last night how willing she was to do whatever was necessary to get the job done and see bastards like the Larkfields punished.
He walked through the richly furnished house full of art and expensive trinkets, but all he saw was Ada: how, on the ledge, the cold moonlight had traced the shape of her marveling face as she’d looked out at the grounds spread beneath her; her bravery and strength as she climbed part of the wall of Covington Hall; and, God, that kiss.
Six months earlier, they’d kissed. At the time, he’d never felt a hunger like that before. But last night … last night set everything he’d known ablaze. He was left in the charred remains of what he thought was true. Of her. Of himself. Of what it was to want someone.
Last night, she’d been an unstoppable force. And he hadn’t wanted to stop her. He wanted to urge her on, see where this new power led. She’d been hot and alive and demanding. Sleek. Lithe. Delicious. He could still feel the taut little tip of her breast, and her low moan continued to echo in his ears.
Hell. Tough to walk with a huge, aching cockstand.
He distracted himself by thinking of the places where the valise could be stashed. Maybe one of the other guests’ rooms, to avoid being found. But then they run the risk of the case being discovered by the room’s occupant. Some less-visited part of Covington Hall, perhaps. Too many possibilities, and time was brief.
He finally reached the stairs that led to the servants’ hall, then made his way there. Hot pleasure streaked through him when he found Ada there, working on more mending. But he couldn’t say anything or go to her because two other maids were there, both also sewing. He poured himself a cup of tea from the hob, and tried not to stare at Ada or drag her off to another closet to finish what they’d started last night.
“Ouch!” one of the maids cried. She was one of the temporary help. “Nearly stabbed myself with my needle.”
“Don’t get blood on Lady Paget’s dress,” the other maid said sharply.
“Sorry,” the other answered. “My head’s all a muddle today. I slept terrible—woke up in the middle of the night when I heard something that sounded like a moan, then couldn’t fall back asleep.”
Michael went perfectly still. That moan had likely been Ada’s. Damn. Had they been discovered? He couldn’t look at her right now, unless he wanted to give them both away.
“A moan?” The first housemaid looked intrigued. “Didn’t no one tell you? Covington Hall’s haunted.”
“No!”
“Yes.” Definite excitement came from the first maid. “It’s said there was a Royalist lady who took shelter here from the Roundheads. She hid in the Gray Bedchamber, under the bed, but they dragged her out and executed her right in front of the house.”
“Oh, blimey,” the temporary maid said weakly.
“That’s why no one goes into the Gray Bedchamber. Not in years and years. Even the staff don’t go there. She still haunts it, and sometimes, late at night, you can hear her, moaning and begging for mercy.”
“I’m never going to sleep now,” the other maid whimpered.
“Ah, don’t you worry. They say she hasn’t hurt anyone. Yet.”
It was a long wait, but finally the two maids left the servants’ hall, one of them looking white as ash. As soon as they were gone, Michael got up and sat beside Ada.
“Afraid of ghosts?” he asked.
She frowned. “I can’t say that I am, as I’ve never met one before.”
“We might tonight,” he answered.
* * *
He waited in the shadows of the corridor, tucked into an alcove near one of the servants’ doors. Earlier, he’d faked going to bed, then waited until he was certain all the male servants were asleep. He’d asked Ada to leave the window of a second story parlor unlatched, making it easy eno
ugh for him to climb up and in. Everyone in the house was asleep, stuffed full of more rich holiday food. Even the footman in the foyer on the main floor had nodded off at his post.
Since he’d begun working for Nemesis, skulking around houses in the middle of the night was as natural to him as a daytime stroll. More natural, even. He didn’t know bleeding-all about sauntering in the day without a care, like some clerk or toff.
A slight creak sounded nearby. He pressed deeper back into the shadows. Then Ada appeared just outside the servants’ door. She wore a robe, and slippers. Her hair hung down in a braid, and she carried no lamp or candle.
She started when he reached out to take hold of her wrist. But she didn’t gasp or make a sound. Good lass. Each day she learned more and more the ways of stealth and guile. Some might consider them bad traits. Not Nemesis. Not him.
This was a hard, unforgiving world. The only way to survive was to beat it at its own game.
She faced him. The sight of her in her nightclothes, modest as they were, hit him like a jolt of electricity. For all the flannel and cotton that covered her, all he could think of was how few layers she wore now, no petticoats, no corset. Her legs completely bare.
He was fully dressed in dark clothing, but it made sense for her to be in her nightgown if she was inside. Didn’t make it easier for him to focus, though.
Slowly, he released her wrist. But then she surprised him by lacing their fingers together. Heat spread in widening circles from where they touched, palm to palm. And there was something else, an emotion he couldn’t name, but it filled him and lightened his footsteps even more as together they made their way toward the North Wing, and the haunted Gray Bedchamber.
They moved noiselessly through the house until they reached a closed doorway. He bent to see if there was dust on the doorknob that had been muddled, but it seemed the servants were able to overcome their fears enough to clean out here. From his pocket, he took a tiny flask of machine oil, and dropped a few beads of the lubricant onto the door’s hinges. When he opened the door, it didn’t make a sound.
The door opened into a small wood-paneled antechamber. The chamber itself stood completely empty. Michael shut the door behind them and stared at the room. It looked as unpromising as a vicar’s wife.
Noiselessly, Ada pointed at another door at the end of the chamber. They crossed over to it, and he again checked the doorknob. This time, he saw smudges in the dust. Someone had been here.
After using another bit of machine oil on the antiquated hinges, he opened this door. It swung open. He and Ada peered cautiously inside. Her hand, still in his, gave him a little squeeze.
The Gray Bedchamber lived up to its reputation. Old-fashioned diamond-paned windows lined one wall, letting in a spill of pallid moonlight—the snow had stopped during the day, and melted as soon as it touched earth. The light illuminated a huge four-poster bed at the center of the room. Bed hangings once rich with embroidery hung in shroudlike tatters. The furniture itself was hulking and dark. No one had even bothered with Holland covers. There was a desk, an upholstered chair that probably housed a family of mice, and a chest. Dust and cobwebs filmed every surface.
He’d no fear of things like spirits or fairies. Such creatures didn’t exist. But it was too easy for him to imagine the lady from long ago, huddled and terrified beneath the bed, praying for salvation. Yet none came. Only death.
Ada must have been thinking the same thing, for she gave a small shiver.
But if she was afraid, she threw it aside. “We search from opposite sides of the room until one of us finds something.”
“And if you find the ghost?” he couldn’t help but tease.
“Then I’ll ask her if she’s seen any oily aristos hiding luggage in here.”
They separated, and he began first with the chest. It seemed obvious, but Simon and Marco had cautioned him about ignoring the obvious, because most people weren’t very clever. The chest wasn’t locked, and he opened its heavy lid and peered inside. Aside from a moldy, crumbling book and a length of moth-eaten cloth, there was nothing. Not even a hidden compartment or false bottom.
Michael ran his hands over the wood surface of the wall, searching for secret panels. Yet everything was solid beneath his fingers.
He glanced over at Ada. Like him, she was feeling along the wall, until she reached the desk. Methodically, she pored over the desk, pulling out all the drawers, also searching for secret compartments. Yet she came up empty-handed.
Performing due diligence, he examined the chair. Just as he imagined, he disturbed a nest of rodents, who didn’t appreciate a late-night visitor.
Both he and Ada approached the bed tentatively. The posters themselves weren’t wide enough to hold a valise, and the headboard was solid wood.
Something on the ground on her side of the bed caught Ada’s attention. She waved him over. Coming around, he noticed it right off. Standing at different angles in the room had hidden it, but now he could see clearly that the thick dust on the floor surrounding the bed had been disturbed. It looked as though someone had lain down upon the floor and crawled under the bed.
Michael shucked his jacket and handed it to Ada. He got down onto his back and pushed himself along using his feet. Dust coated his lungs, and cobwebs clung to his face and hair. He wedged himself fully beneath the bed. It was black as coal down there, but he felt along the underside of the frame. Many of the ropes had frayed. Some were still whole.
His fingers brushed against the edge of something. Straight and smooth, as if it were covered in leather. He traced around the shape. It had been shoved between the ropes, and was the exact shape of a small case, and had a handle. The valise.
He pried it loose from its hiding place. Cradling it against his chest, he hauled himself out from beneath the bed.
Ada’s eyes widened when she saw what he held. Standing, he set the valise down on the bed and used a set of picks to unlock the case.
This was it. The moment he and Ada had been relentlessly pursuing. Whatever the case held, it had to incriminate the Larkfields, or else they wouldn’t go to such lengths to conceal it.
The latch to the valise flipped open. Michael lifted the lid. And cursed.
So did Ada, using words he’d never heard from her mouth before.
Inside the case, lined up in neat rows, were stacks and stacks of pound notes.
Chapter Nine
“My God,” Ada breathed. “That’s got to be thousands of pounds.” She’d never seen so much cash in her entire life.
“A hundred thousand,” Michael answered, also staring at the pound notes, “if I had to guess. But I can’t count the bills, not without Louse Larkfield maybe knowing someone’s rifled through the money.”
“What’s it mean? Aside from a ruddy big pile of blunt.”
“Best guess? The Larkfields were doing all their business with the workshop in cash. Pay the suppliers in cash, get paid by their buyers in cash. Keeps everything out of their banking records.”
“Thus Scotland Yard and Nemesis couldn’t find a trail,” she deduced.
“A perfect screen for the Larkfields.” His mouth hardened. “When a bit of scandal poked up, they threw open their banking records for scrutiny. Nothing was found, because nothing was there. They covered their tracks.” He rubbed at his jaw. “They’ll keep the money here for a time, then move it out of the country. To a French bank account, or even America.”
Bile rose in Ada’s throat. The Larkfields wore perfect disguises as elegant people of fashion and quality, but they were just costumes. Beneath their Worth gowns and bespoke suits, they were vile carrion-feeders, reaping huge profits from the forced labor of children. And they couldn’t claim not to know of what had been happening at the orphanage. This valise full of money proved it.
Yet it didn’t. “We can’t take this cash to the law,” she muttered. “It doesn’t connect the Larkfields to the workhouse. There’s no receipt. For payment of abusive services rendered.”
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He crossed his arms over his chest and continued to frown at the money, as if it were a suspect he planned to interrogate. But it kept silent. In the ghostly light sifting through the windows, the lines furrowing his brow deepened, and he looked like a handsome, angry saint.
She almost wished to pass her hand across his forehead, smooth the creases to soothe him. But their task now was not to be soothed, but to think of what step to take next with this newest discovery.
Proof that wasn’t proof. A stalemate.
“We can’t let them just waltz away from this,” she said in the silence. “With a case full of money and an unblemished reputation. Where’s the justice in that?”
“Nemesis doesn’t fail,” he answered without looking at her. “However it has to get done, we punish those that need punishing. If it means finding a more creative way of making someone pay, then that’s how it gets done.”
“Making someone pay,” she echoed softly.
Their gazes met and held. A decision seemed to reach them both at the same time, their thoughts in tandem.
“The law might not get their hands on the Larkfields,” he murmured. “Hell, society might never know what bastards they truly are. No reason, though, why they can skip off with heavier pockets.”
“What can they do?” she said quietly. She shook her head in wonderment. “Go to the authorities and report the theft? Excuse me, constable, but the cash I got from forcing children to work is suddenly missing.”
“A rule of confidence artistry that Marco taught me,” Michael said. “Pick your targets wisely. Play on their own greed and desire to undermine the law. So when they finally get rooked, they’ve got no one to complain to, or else they implicate themselves.”
“Sounds like a dangerous man, that Marco.”
He flashed her a quick, devastating grin. “It’s part of the recruiting criteria for Nemesis. Mad? Perfect. Dangerous? Even better.”
Michael was both those things, and they stirred in her a wildness and need to be heard that she’d always buried. Until she’d contacted Nemesis six months ago. And then she met him. Knowing him better now, it made that urge to speak out pulse even stronger within her. It took her to places she’d never expected.