by Kim Lenox
Lucinda peered down at Mina. “Let’s get you home.”
The girls’ faces fell with disappointment. Mina could not help but sympathize. They’d given up a week of their debut Season to mourning her father, a stranger, and then spent several days confined to the house while preparations for the garden party were finalized. And truly, all Mina wanted was to forget about the incident.
Mina assured Lucinda, “I’d prefer it if we went on to Hurlingham as planned.”
Leeson turned to the table. “Speaking of danger, your box at the mooring contained a number of correspondences, which by their scent, are from various ladies. There are a number of calling cards and invitations as well.” He sifted through a stack.
Mina. At just the memory of her, something inside him grew less sharp, less angry. It was one thing to allow Leeson into his service, but perhaps . . . gads. Skeletons? Burning orange light? Perhaps things grew too dangerous. Perhaps he grew too dangerous. Despite her own deceptions, was he wrong to involve her? Bemused, he approached the table.
When had he ever worried about anyone but himself? He refused to start now.
Leeson spread out three cards, all in a row. Mark frowned. He recognized the writing on one, and left it for last. As he tore open another, the scent of lavender spilled out. Inside he found a brief note, written with dramatic flair.
Hurlingham.
Tuesday, midday. The Clubhouse.
—A.
The second note smelled of violets and contained identical information. The authoress had simply signed “E.” The third, of course, was from “L.” and thankfully contained no scent; yet the words “Please come” had been added—and underlined.
“There’s one from all the women in that house but the Limpett girl.”
“I see that.”
“How is she? What information were you able to glean from her at the funeral?”
Mark paused. Leeson wouldn’t know about the professor’s falsified death. Under normal circumstances such a thing would be easily verifiable by the immortal secretary, but if the portals had closed, he was effectively cut off from the informational resources they had all previously enjoyed.
He considered whether he should share any of his hard-won knowledge with the enthusiastic little man, but in the end, decided he had no choice but to trust him—at least in this.
“The professor isn’t dead.”
“What?” His eye patch moved up on his face with the raising of his eyebrows.
“He and his daughter falsified his death. I’m certain to throw someone off their trail.”
“‘Someone’ as in not you?” Leeson frowned quizzically.
Mark nodded. “There’s someone else out there who wants the scrolls. Whether it’s an individual or some sort of cult of immortality, I don’t know yet. I just know I’ve got competition.”
Leeson drifted closer. His temples creased in thought. “I realize they are valuable artifacts, but do you think their true value is known?”
“Hell, I can’t even claim to know their true value. All I know is that the first scroll provided a glimpse of the information contained in the second and third scrolls; specifically, that they would provide details of a conduit of renewal and immortality—one that could repair an immortal stricken with Transcension,” Mark answered. “I’ve got to believe the professor is still in possession of the scrolls—or at least knows where they are.”
“So what is your plan to seduce the girl?”
Mark flinched. Were his methods so predictable? So clichéd?
The old man prodded. “Come on now. We’re not two rascals telling tales. This is strategy. Have you managed to bed her yet?”
“Leeson.”
“Don’t be shy, boy. Have you danced the horizontal polka or no?”
“Good God,” Mark exclaimed. “We only met three days ago and I’ve been . . . I don’t know where since then, but I think I’m safe assuming not with her, so no. We’ve only talked.”
“Talked.” Leeson chewed his thumbnail in thought. “I’m not sure that method will be quite as effective or expedient as what you require. Lucky for you, a mortal woman turns to veritable putty in the masterful hand of an immortal lover. You and I both know that.” He winked. “Get her in bed and she’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
Mark said firmly, “I haven’t made any decisions yet on how, exactly, I will proceed with Miss Limpett.”
“Your only other alternative, as I see it, is to cut off her fingers one by one until she talks.” He made scissor motions.
Mark clenched his teeth. “That’s not an option.”
“I’m inclined to agree.” Leeson nodded. “I saw her myself. She’s got lovely fingers, and so seduction is the desired plan of action. All you’ve got to do is work your Marcus Antonius magic on her and she’ll spill the details of the professor’s whereabouts.”
Mark shared his deepest doubt. One he’d refused to address, even with himself. “Bloody hell. What if she doesn’t know where her father is? What if I’m wasting my time?”
“Oh, I vow he knows where she is. If you had a daughter like her, would you just give her up to the nasty old world, and forget her? No. He may be off on an adventure, but he’s got his paternal eye on her somehow. He’s got to have trusted connections here in London, who would relay any cause for alarm to him. And if any man is cause for alarm—it’s you.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“As you should. But in this case, I think you need to go above and beyond as far as the girl is concerned. You’ve got to come out big, right out of the chute. No time for dillydallying.”
“What might you suggest?” Mark asked sardonically.
Clearly the man did not understand sarcasm.
Leeson crossed his arms in thought, his eye focused on the ceiling. “We’re experiencing the oddest summer, either roasting or chilled, but no rain in sight. So that excludes a carefully orchestrated, trapped-in-the-gardener’s-hut-during-a-downpour seduction.” He grinned. “Always my favorite scenario. Everyone’s clothes all wet and clingy.”
Mark shook his head. “I’m not doing this. I’m not strategizing with you over a seduction of Miss Limpett. She’s not a hackneyed cutout like . . .”
“Like all the others?” Leeson grinned. “Then we’ve got to think of something big. Something truly spectacular.”
Mark poured himself a glass of water from the carafe on the table. “If you didn’t understand what I just said, allow me to translate: Stay out of my business where Miss Limpett is concerned.” He consumed the tepid liquid in one gulp.
Leeson shrugged, but his eyes still twinkled with too much mischief. “Have it your way. I am, after all, at your service.”
He turned to peer out the portal. “We’re nearing the wharf. Before we arrive, there is one more thing you need to see. Something I’ve . . . ah, purposefully delayed in showing you because . . . I don’t think you’ll be very pleased.”
“What is it now?” Mark responded suspiciously, and set down the glass.
“I think you’d better go outside and have a look.” Something in Leeson’s face—the drop of his lips, the hardening of his jaw—told Mark to not ask questions, to simply do as he asked. He slid the lacquered wood door into its casement and stepped out into the cool morning air.
White rose petals carpeted the threshold. Slowly, he followed them all the way to the prow of the yacht.
Rose petals. Unpleasant memories surfaced in his head. Jack had preferred red roses. These were white.
Well, mostly.
Some of the petals had become stained by the bloody footprints underneath.
Leeson joined him, mop and bucket in hand. “Go get yourself together, sir. I’ll clean up this mess. Go on to Hurlingham and see if you can get your name, along with Miss Limpett’s, into the gossip rags.”
Hurlingham, located at the private end of Ranelagh Gardens, was not far from Cheyne Walk. Indeed, the grounds of the private club
were so close, Mark chose to walk the distance. He’d used the time alone to think, and think he had.
He’d thought about scalding orange light.
Skeletons.
The damn voice in his head.
And now, on top of everything else, white rose petals stained with blood. At least, clearly, the footprints hadn’t belonged to him. They’d been smaller and narrower. Whether they’d belonged to a woman or a man of smaller stature, he had been unable to discern.
His mind kept returning to the same thought. As Leeson had suggested, why should he be surprised that he, a Transcending immortal, might also be susceptible to the same message-bearing waves intended for deteriorated souls, such as Jack the Ripper and the rest of the fiendish brotoi attempting to populate the earth? The admission was not a happy one. It served only to emphasize how little time he had left in which to save himself.
Mark paused in the shadow of the Hurlingham clubhouse. The structure’s massive colonial columns offered a grand salute to the ships sailing down the Thames. Visible from where he stood, the river coursed along the southern border of the property. With his current spate of luck, he’d likely encounter Lucinda, Astrid, Evangeline, or—God, please no—all three at once and be informed Mina had remained behind at home. He prayed a weekday walk on the grounds would be a desirable excursion for a young woman in mourning. If only he could get her alone.
His own dear mother had written the book on strategic seduction, and he supposed the apple had not fallen far from the tree.
Mark proceeded in front of the clubhouse, and down the slope. He dispatched a thousand mental feelers, in all directions, in an effort to pick up her trace. The dramatic crescendo of a string quartet drifted out from the open windows, adding an almost comical score to his quest. Just last year, he had thundered atop prime horseflesh on the distant polo field, to the applause of the crowded grandstand. The club also hosted lawn tennis, cricket matches and male-member-only pigeon shoots. Likely Miss Limpett would not be undertaking any of those sports. He rounded a thick copse of trees, which led to a smaller clearing. Ah, there. Close . . . yes, she was close.
However, his gaze narrowed on a man in a straw hat and dressed in white duck—a familiar man who had no business being at Hurlingham. Mark had often wondered if Leeson were part sprite, for his ability to move about so quickly.
A large square of white canvas blanketed the clearing. At its center, a large wicker basket lay on its side and beyond that, a half-inflated gas balloon. Mark pinpointed the source of a faint hissing sound—a cylindrical metal dispenser of compressed gas, inflating the balloon via a large filling tube. Mr. Leeson shouted orders to four harried club groundsmen, who staked lines and assisted in spreading the plumping silk.
Mark approached him from behind, and growled, “What are you doing here?”
Leeson cast him a sideways glance. “I think that’s obvious, sir. I’m airing up my balloon. My big . . . spectacular balloon. Don’t worry. I shan’t interfere with your plans. I realize you don’t need me or my silly-old-man ideas. So I’ll just be here enjoying myself with my own thrilling diversion. Perhaps I can persuade some pretty, adventurous lady to go up with me. By the by, yours is just around that bend of trees.”
Mark narrowed his eyes in warning and backed away.
Mina stared down into her book, but saw only the mask. She blinked the image away, and looked out over the lawn. Married couples walked arm in arm. Children chased each other through the trees. Nannies pushed babies in gleaming perambulators. Everything around her appeared so normal. Everything was normal. That morning, outside the shop, she’d been the victim of a random crime. If her attacker had wished to harm her, he would have, but all he’d wanted was a strand of her hair. According to the constable, the person suffered from a hair fetish, and they’d seen the crime before.
So why did her mind insist on painting the world in shades of danger and impending doom? And on making hazy connections where there ought to be none?
Trafford had unexpectedly met them at the club. Unfortunately, he’d forgotten his ticket, so Mina had insisted on surrendering hers. Understandably he’d been mortified at the news of her attack, and though he had voiced nothing but concern, she could not help but feel as if she were being branded a damsel in constant distress. First there had been her gun-wielding panic at the cemetery, and now this. For the express purpose of proving the event hadn’t phased her, she’d calmly waved them off to the musicale, insisting she’d rather read her book out on the grounds.
Mina’s breath stopped as she caught sight of a tall, dashing figure in gray trousers and a dark blue frock coat. Broad shouldered and confident, Lord Alexander strode in her direction. She bit her lip, half praying he did not see her—and half praying he did.
His cool, blue-eyed gaze surveyed the lawn, skimming over everyone, disinterested . . . until they settled on her. His pace slowed. A smile turned his lips. That smile. Endearingly boyish with a sharp glint of rogue. Pleasure curled up through her belly, to warm her throat and her face.
Her inner shrew—the one she imagined as a grumpy, dour-faced version of herself—counseled her to remain on guard. That he was too handsome and too tempting for even a strong, forward-thinking young woman like her, who wouldn’t, under the right circumstances, shy away from romance. But how could she not be thrilled by the notice of such a remarkable man?
“Good morning, Miss Limpett,” he called as he drew close. “Certainly you’re not here alone, are you?”
“Not at all.” She pulled the ribbon between the pages to mark her place, and closed the book. “The family received tickets to the musicale at the clubhouse, and rather than stay alone at the house, I came along.”
“How fortunate for me.” His shadow slanted across her.
She watched him beneath the brim of her hat, and inquired politely, “What brings you to Hurlingham?”
“An invitation from some friends,” he answered vaguely.
Yes. He would have lots of friends. He had the sort of magnetism that would draw all kinds of personalities, admiration and favor. He was both attractive and likeable, but beneath all that, a bit mysterious as well.
He added, “They must have been delayed, but I am just as pleased to find you here. May I sit?”
Best she avoid such a tempting situation. Although he was a different kind of danger, she’d had quite enough imperilment for one day. She did not want to risk the chance he would try to resurrect the matter of the scrolls. She opened her purse and glanced at her watch without even making note of the time.
“Actually, I’m supposed to meet the family. Would you like to walk with me to the clubhouse?”
His smile faded the slightest noticeable bit. “Of course.”
She slid her book into her purse and stood. After brushing a few bits of stray grass from her skirt, she joined him. They walked side by side along the path, with him towering above her. Furtively, she studied him from beneath the brim of her hat. Did she only imagine the thick air of tension between them, or did he feel it too? She curled the gloved fingers of both hands around the ebony handle of her purse.
“You’ve been well these past few days?” he inquired, his eyes riveted to her face.
No, she didn’t imagine the tension. She reminded herself men like him had tension with whomever they chose, and wielded the talent like a weapon. He’d apparently experienced some sort of tension with her aunt, and perhaps still did. Her spirit of individuality rejected the idea of becoming one of a bevy of admirers, a competitor for his attention.
She nodded. “There’s always something going on in the house. The girls have been busy, of course, with their social activities, and Lady Lucinda has been thick in preparations for a garden party she will host on Thursday. She has marvelous taste. I’m sure the event will be the talk of the Season.”
“But what of you?” he probed, forcing the intimacy she avoided.
She shrugged. “I read. I walk. I read and walk some more.”
He chuckled, deep in his chest, good humor mixed with masculine power. She liked the sound—too much. In her mind, she almost dared him to ask about the scrolls so that she would have good reason to avoid him further, but he did not.
“You’ve other things to occupy your time, I’m sure,” he said.
“I’ve some of my father’s papers. His notes.” She did dare him now, quite recklessly. “There’s nothing of real importance in them, but I think they’ll shape up nicely into several different academic papers. I’ll submit them to the Royal Geographical Society, and we shall see if they publish them.”
“Under your father’s name?”
“Yes,” she replied, then emphasized, “Posthumously, of course.”
“You’ve always written your father’s articles, haven’t you?” he asked.
She shrugged. “More or less. My mother used to do it for him. He was always very good at making translations, observations and measurements, but for some reason, organizing his thoughts and getting them onto paper never came easy.”
“I’ve read them all, you know.” He inclined his head, casting the shadow of his top hat across her skirts. “They are exceptionally well done, and I’m certain that you, as an Englishwoman, have set a few records when it comes to territorial exploration and mountain ascensions. You ought to publish them under your name, at least jointly with his.”
“Thank you.” His admiration and encouragements were like a physical caress.
“Perhaps sometime you could”—he shrugged elegantly—“assist me in making sense of my own expeditionary papers.”
“Perhaps.”
His gaze fell to her lips. “I suspect we’ve many interests in common.”
She felt almost certain his words carried hidden meaning, and perhaps even an invitation—one that had nothing to do with writing or papers or foreign expedition. To her dismay, she found herself craving an advancement of the intimacy between them. She wanted to ask him questions about his family, about his interests in languages and artifacts. Much as she wanted a home and family and permanency, she supposed a need for adventure also thrived in her blood.