So Still The Night

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So Still The Night Page 5

by Kim Lenox


  “When you left London.” Her voice grew stronger, but held a thready edge. “Did you go somewhere far away? Somewhere more . . . exciting and exotic?”

  Mina listened in silence. Was she the only one who realized Lord Alexander and Lucinda shared some sort of past?

  In her corner of the carriage, Astrid stretched like a pampered cat and interjected herself into the conversation. “I love to travel.”

  Lord Alexander smiled easily. “I spent time in Rangoon, before proceeding to Mandalay.”

  Mina licked her lower lip. Two locations not so far away from Bengal and Tibet.

  Astrid gushed breathily, “I adore India.”

  Evangeline hissed, “Burma.”

  “Buhhr-ma,” Astrid purred, smiling coquettishly at Lord Alexander. “Isn’t that what I said?”

  Jaded amusement lit their visitor’s eyes. He seemed the sort of gentleman who was used to being fawned over. With a slight tilt of his square-jawed face, he met Mina’s observant gaze. Like a shot of morphine, the feeling of intimacy they’d shared in the cemetery returned to dizzy her, to warm her through and through. She felt attractive. Mysterious.

  Seduced.

  If only Trafford had returned her weapon, she would just pull it out and shoot him now. She could not help but sense he was a danger to her, in more ways than one.

  Lord Trafford rotated his cane against the carriage floor. Its faceted glass pommel glimmered in the dark. “Have you taken residence somewhere?”

  “I’m actually still on the river, moored at Cheyne Walk.”

  “I’ve heard talk of your Thais.” Trafford smiled. “Envious talk.”

  “Someone you were very fond of?” Lucinda prodded.

  “Who?” asked Lord Alexander.

  “Thais,” the countess repeated.

  He responded, “Thais was . . . a paramour of Alexander the Great.”

  The girls giggled behind their gloved hands, looking only half scandalized.

  His lordship pointedly returned his attention to Trafford.

  “I’ll take you out some afternoon.”

  “A spectacular idea,” Trafford agreed.

  Astrid effused, “I love to sail.”

  “As do I,” Evangeline echoed faintly.

  Lord Alexander glanced between them. “You are certainly welcome to come along.” To Mina, he said, “You are . . . all . . . welcome to come along.”

  Trafford twisted in his seat and crossed one leg over the other. “Now that I know your accommodations, I must insist you accept an invitation to pass the night with us.”

  Mark shook his head. “I couldn’t impose.”

  “Nonsense,” Trafford declared. “It’s late, and we’ve empty rooms begging for guests.”

  Evangeline and Astrid nodded in concert. Lady Lucinda mustered a blithe smile. Mina prayed his lordship would decline.

  “I’m afraid I just can’t. I’ve a full morning of appointments, and all the documents I require are on the boat.”

  Astrid and Evangeline let out little sighs of disappointment. Lord Alexander grinned, and a boyish, heart-melting dimple appeared on his left cheek. Mina wondered how many women he’d seduced wielding that weapon.

  Just then, the carriage rolled into Mayfair.

  “Open all the windows so we can see out,” exclaimed Astrid, her face bright with excitement. She pushed her shutters open.

  Mina did the same, cowardly focusing her attention on the passing scenery, rather than returning the interest of the man in front of her.

  Gone was the sweet air of the countryside. Here, everything smelled of dust and horses. Well-appointed vehicles crowded the roadways. Gas lamps illuminated the night, reflecting off the façades of the great houses, most of which were lit up like glittering bonfires. Flashes of color could be seen through the windows—silk gowns and flowers—along with glowing faces and sparkling crystal. Even from the street, laughter and strains of music could be heard.

  After a half hour of slowing and lurching in traffic, the carriage rolled to a halt in front of the Trafford house. Though just as impressive as her neighbors, the windows were solemn and dark. Footmen rushed to assist the ladies down from the vehicle, guiding them between two towering post lamps, toward black lacquered doors. Moments later everyone gathered in the entry hall, an impressive structure of gleaming wood and plaster ornamentation. To the side of the central staircase, several large busts of notable historical figures perched atop Corinthian display columns. A solitary chandelier illuminated the vaulted ceiling, leaving the periphery of the room in shadows.

  “Alexander, I’ve recently acquired a box of Havanas. Care for a smoke until your mount arrives?”

  “Certainly.” Lord Alexander’s face came around. “Good evening . . .”

  Mina looked away before their eyes could meet.

  “Ladies.” His voice carried a distinct lilt of amusement.

  He and Trafford disappeared through an arched doorway.

  Lucinda was already halfway up the staircase. “Come, girls. It’s been a tiring afternoon, and we’ve a full day of appointments tomorrow.” Her skirts rustled as she ascended the stairs. Evangeline and Astrid cast longing looks in the direction of their father’s study, and with dual sighs, slowly followed their stepmother up.

  On the first-floor landing, Lucinda paused. “Miss Lim pett, are you coming?”

  Mina responded, “I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep just yet. I believe I’ll step into the library and find something to read.”

  Lucinda pressed a hand against her temple, and after an extended moment of silence, descended the stairs to stand before her. “I’ve been unforgivably withdrawn this evening. I’ve allowed my preoccupation with the planning of Thursday’s silly little garden party to distract me when today should have been all about you and the terrible tragedy of your father’s passing.” She grasped Mi-na’s hands and looked earnestly into her eyes. To Mina’s surprise, she saw the gleam of tears against the young woman’s lashes. “Please forgive me.”

  Mina suspected Lucinda’s emotion had nothing to do with her silly little garden party or her father’s funeral, a perfect example of why she should avoid Lord Alexander. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

  “You are a darling girl, and we’re so glad you’ve come to be part of our family.” Her ladyship embraced Mina, fiercely, yet fleetingly, before returning up the stairs and disappearing with the girls around the balustrade.

  Mina glanced to the closest of the plaster busts. Lord Nelson stared at her, steely eyed and resolute.

  “I’ve had such an interesting day.”

  He did not ask for details.

  Moving in the direction opposite to that which the gentlemen had taken, Mina traveled a dim hallway dappled on either side by framed oils. Eventually she passed through two behemoth wooden doors into a warmly lit room. In the week that she’d resided with the family, the library had become her haven in the massive, always-busy town house. Two enormous plaster medallions, painted a glacial white, spread above her on the ceiling. Busts of all the great literary masters peered down over their learned noses from identical nooks around the decorative upper border of the room. She walked the full length of shelves, filled to the ceiling with books. She had already paged through and made a few selections when her eye fell upon Debrett’s Peerage. A sudden curiosity sprang to mind. She claimed the weighty volume and made her way to the far side of the room, taking her seat at a desk situated within a large and deeply bowed and curtained window. A small lamp provided all the light she would require. She paused only a moment to open her bag and retrieve the small photograph case. This she propped open and upright beside her. Glancing at her father and the blurred gentleman who accompanied him, she took up Debrett’s.

  A for Alexander.

  She skimmed the aristocratic titles and found the place where . . .

  A frown turned her lips. After A-L-E-X- there was nothing but an illegible smudge, an entire half page blurred to nothingness. She
fanned through the rest of the pages and found them all in perfect form. Just her luck that the one page she wished to read had suffered some sort of publishing mishap.

  Mina shut the book and banished it to the far corner of the desk, more disappointed than she ought to be.

  “I believe I owe you something along the order of forty-four pounds from our last card match.” Trafford sat in a thronelike armchair behind a mahogany desk. Smoke arose in gray tendrils from the cigar he held pinched between his fingers. He opened a drawer. “Let’s see what I’ve got here.”

  “No, don’t.” Mark waved him off, savoring the sweet, woodsy essence of the cigar. “You’ve allowed me to intrude on your family and gifted me with this excellent cigar. Consider us square.”

  Trafford grinned. “It’s not really gambling if someone doesn’t lose. I fully intend to fleece you next time around.”

  “I don’t want your money, Trafford.”

  “How about a daughter, then?” The earl pointed the ash end of the cigar at Mark. “I’ve got two, if you hadn’t noticed, both in their debut Season. So if you’re of a mind to wed . . .”

  Mark’s throat closed on the smoke, and he coughed. “They are both lovely girls. I’m sure they are drawing potential suitors like flies.”

  Trafford chuckled. “I believe their list of favorites went out the window when they caught sight of you.”

  “I’m . . . ah . . . flattered. But at present, no, marriage is not a priority.”

  “The bachelor life. I remember it fondly.”

  Mark sensed no spite in the man that might indicate knowledge of the minor dalliance he and Lucinda had shared during her debut Season, just one year ago. They’d flirted, and they’d kissed. His hands might have wandered a bit—all at her encouragement—but that was all. In retrospect, he regretted things had gone as far as they had. It made his presence in the Trafford household damn awkward.

  Mark nodded, leaning forward in his chair. He extended his hand over the broad expanse of the desk. “That’s right. You’ve celebrated your own recent nuptials. I must offer my congratulations.”

  They shook hands, a firm exchange.

  Trafford puffed around a smile. “Lucinda and I married in December, at my family’s chapel in Lancashire.”

  “You’re a lucky man.”

  “I am, indeed. She’s done wonderfully with the girls.”

  Out of nowhere, a twinge of pain radiated through Mark’s temples. He pressed his fingertips against them, and the discomfort faded. His mood grew solemn. Sometimes a similar sensation warned of an oncoming spell of what he’d privately come to refer to as his Inconvenient Madness, which so far revealed itself in black moods of irrational temper and impulse, thus far within his ability to contain. He did not know how the missing three months of time, and his return to London—the place of his original Transcension—might affect their frequency, or intensity. It was for that reason he’d already declined his lordship’s invitation to stay the night. Despite his desire to court Miss Limpett’s immediate favor, he’d thought it best to exercise caution, at least until he was certain of his mental bearings.

  “Unfortunately, Trafford,” he said, “it’s time that I go.”

  As if on cue, the gilt-work clock on the mantelpiece chimed eleven. Trafford squinted at the dials.

  “I concur—it’s been a dreadfully long day.” His lordship stood up from the chair. Lifting a silver salver, he ground his cigar onto the gleaming surface and offered the tray to Mark so he could do the same. Cornering the desk, he lifted a guiding hand toward the door. “Let us see about your horse.”

  The butler met them at the base of the stairs and bowed deferentially to both men.

  Trafford rested his hand on the balustrade. “Has Lord Alexander’s mount been delivered?”

  The butler responded, “The groom took him to be watered. I’ll ask that he be brought around.”

  “Very well.”

  “And your lordship?” The butler edged forward, his hands behind his back. “Might it be possible to have a word with you on a household matter before you retire?”

  “Of course, Mr. George.” Trafford lifted a hand. “Just let me see his lordship to his horse.”

  Mark waved him off. “No, you go on. I’m sure he’s being brought around, thank you. I’ll just wait here.”

  Trafford added, “Lucinda’s planning a garden party for Thursday. We’ll send round an invitation.”

  The perfect opportunity to return and seduce—yes, why wait?—Miss Limpett.

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  Left to his own company, Mark drifted to the door, his hat clasped behind his coattail. He peered out the window into the dark but crowded street. Thank God he was on horseback, else it would take him an hour to get out of this jam. His blood quickened in awareness of her. A smile turned his lips. Behind him, light footsteps sounded against the marble. He turned.

  Miss Limpett emerged from a hallway, her path of intent clearly toward the stairs. Her bonnet hung from her elbow, suspended by its ribbon. She also carried her purse and several books. When she realized his presence, she froze, midstep. Her cheeks pinked, but she didn’t smile. She straightened her shoulders, as if to steel herself against him, but in the process, provided him with a tempting display of high, full breasts and an hourglass figure.

  His mental net filtered the space around her. Suspicion. He loved seduction twined with intrigue, but realized, in this matter, he could not move too fast or she would fly. “Miss Limpett.”

  “Lord Alexander,” she responded with all cordiality, but the emotional buffer she installed between them arose as stalwart as a twelve-foot wall of stone. She would resist being undone. Despite the urgency of time that he could not spare, the challenge thrilled. “I see you’re returning to the river after all.”

  “I am.” Hat in hand, he sauntered forward. “I was hoping to see you again before I left. Might we have a word?”

  “Yes, of course.” Her glance fell upon his tie. His chin. Everything but his eyes.

  “I wanted to ask you . . . well”—he smiled his most dashing smile—“if you might grant me permission to call upon you some afternoon, here at the house?”

  Wide, dark-lashed eyes fixed directly into his. “Call on me?”

  “I’d like to see you again,” he clarified softly.

  “I see.” She shifted her little stack of books from one arm to the other, holding them over her breast—her heart—like a shield against him. “As I told you at the cemetery, I don’t know the details of my father’s collection.”

  “My request to call on you has nothing to do with your father, or his collection.”

  Her dark brows went up, in elegant question. “No?”

  “No. I’d like to see you. Spend time with you.” He waved his hat in the direction of the rest of the house. “Not even all of them. Just . . . you.”

  A flush crept into her cheeks. She moistened her lips. “I see.”

  “Do you understand?” He smiled again, but only slightly, not wishing to appear overly confident—for in this endeavor, strangely he was not. Though an undeniable frisson of tension existed between them, he sensed there would be no guarantees when it came to Miss Limpett and her favors.

  “I think I do.”

  The door swooshed inward, and the footman appeared, bringing with him the sounds of hooves clattering on pavement. “Your horse, your lordship.”

  “I shall inquire, then?” Mark pressed her gently, lifting his hat in adieu.

  Her gaze went dark. “I’m flattered by your request, but . . . I don’t believe I’m ready for callers. And I don’t believe I shall be at any time in the near future.”

  Surprise and displeasure clouded his mind, but he easily held his smile.

  “I must respect your wishes, of course.” Slowly, he lowered his hat to his head. “Good night, then, Miss Limpett.”

  He exited the door held by the footman. On the street he accepted the reins of his horse. Ho
isting himself into the saddle, he glanced through the polished front windows to see her still there on the stairs, an alluring silhouette, watching him as he watched her. His blood warmed a degree hotter, and every muscle in his body drew excruciatingly, deliciously taut. He touched the brim of his hat, and turned his horse in a wide circle, departing in the direction of the Thames.

  An hour later, he descended the creaking steps of the public stable and set off on foot, east down King’s Road. Two- and three-storied shop fronts and houses lined his way. Steam hovered in the warm, stagnant air, forming hazy haloes around the large gas lamps lining the avenue. Here in Chelsea, the green, decayed scent of the river permeated everything.

  His thoughts lingered on Miss Limpett—Mina—an intriguing enigma. A delightful turn of tables, when it was he who always played that part. Even now, the delicious agony of their parting lingered. Delicious it was, because her reluctance to trust him—to allow him to draw closer as quickly and easily as he wished—only heightened his interest, an interest that had nothing to do with her father or the scrolls, and everything to do with the first sensual strokes of a growing flame.

  A sudden fluctuation deep inside his bones, within his very immortal marrow, alerted him that he was not alone on the street.

  The occasional hansom clattered past and small groups of men and women clustered on deeply shadowed stoops. But there was something else. He passed an alleyway, and from the corner of his eye glimpsed a shadow moving against shadow.

  He did not alter his pace, but mentally dispatched a penetrating wave of energy, one that revealed, like an explosion of white light, everything around him in luminous relief regardless of brick walls, wood or stucco: A fishmonger pushed his cart down the back alley. Three rats, tails snapping, feasted on a heap of fresh rubbish. A swarm of cockroaches scurried in the basement of the butcher shop two streets away. And someone—or something—tracked him, just along the edge of his awareness, too fast and too erratic of movement to positively identify. His assassin or some other foe? An anticipatory smile pulled Mark’s lips at the impending combat. His palms itched to wield an Amaranthine silver sword or dagger, but, denied that privilege since his Transcension, he would make do with his hands.

 

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