by Amanda Quick
Lavinia frowned, the sherry decanter tilted over a glass. “Did you injure your leg, sir?”
“A small misstep.” He concentrated on setting the kindling ablaze. “The leg healed nicely, but on days such as this I am occasionally aware of my mistake.”
“Mistake?”
“Pray do not concern yourself, Mrs. Lake.” He finished his task, gripped the edge of the mantel, and pulled himself to his feet. When he turned toward her, his expression was politely unreadable. “It is nothing, I assure you.”
It was clear to her that he did not want to make further explanations, and the condition of his leg was certainly none of her business. Furthermore, she had no cause to feel the least bit of sympathy for Tobias March. Nevertheless, she could not repress the twinge of concern.
He must have seen something in her eyes because his own hardened in annoyance. “The sherry will suffice to take care of the problem.”
“There is no need to snarl at me, sir.” She splashed the liquor into the second glass. “I was merely being polite.”
“Between us, madam, there is no need for such niceties. We are partners, remember?”
She handed him one of the glasses. “Is there a rule in the private inquiry profession stating that partners do not have to be civil with each other?”
“Yes.” He downed a large quantity of the contents in a single swallow. “I just invented it.”
“I see.”
She took a healthy sip from her own glass. The warmth of the sherry had a reviving effect on both her spirits and her temper. If the man did not want polite concern, she would certainly not go out of her way to smother him with the stuff.
She stalked to one of the chairs in front of the fire and dropped into it with a small sigh of relief. The heat of the flames drove out the damp chill that had clung to her after leaving Mrs. Vaughn’s establishment.
Tobias took the large chair across from her without waiting for an invitation. They sat together in silence for several minutes, sipping from their glasses without comment. Tobias began to rub his left leg.
After a while, Lavinia got restless.
“If your leg pains you greatly, sir, I might be able to relieve some of the discomfort with a mesmeric treatment.”
“Don’t contemplate such a notion for even a moment,” he said. “Do not take offense, Mrs. Lake, but I have absolutely no intention of allowing you to put me into a trance.”
She stiffened. “As you wish, sir. There is no need to be rude.”
His mouth twisted. “Forgive me, madam, but I do not believe in the so-called powers of mesmerism. My parents were students of science. They agreed with the results of the public inquiry conducted by Dr. Franklin and Lavoisier. The whole business of inducing therapeutic trances with the power of the gaze or with magnets is utter nonsense. Demonstrations of that sort are best suited to entertaining the gullible.”
“Bah. That inquiry was conducted over thirty years ago, and bear in mind that it was held in Paris. I would not put too much stock in it if I were you. You will notice that it did nothing to lessen the public’s interest in animal magnetism.”
“I have noticed that fact,” Tobias said. “It says little for the intelligence of the general public.”
If she had any sense, she would let the conversation end there, she thought. But she could not resist probing deeper. “Your parents were students of science?”
“My father conducted researches in electricity, among other things. My mother was very taken with the study of chemistry.”
“How very interesting. Do they continue to perform experiments?”
“They were both killed in an explosion in their laboratory.”
She caught her breath. “How dreadful.”
“From what I was able to make out from their last letter to me, I believe they had hit upon the idea of combining their two fields of research. They decided to conduct a series of experiments involving certain volatile chemicals and an electrical apparatus. It proved disastrous.”
She shuddered. “Thank heaven you were not injured in the explosion.”
“I was away at Oxford at the time. I came home to bury them.”
“Did you return to Oxford after their deaths?”
“That was not possible.” Tobias cupped the glass in his hands. “The explosion destroyed the house and there was no money. My parents had used all of their financial resources to fund their last great experiment.”
“I see.” Lavinia rested her head against the back of her chair. “Yours is a very tragic story, sir.”
“It all happened a long time ago.” He took another mouthful of sherry and lowered the glass. “What of your parents?”
“They were invited to America to give a series of demonstrations of mesmerism. They accepted. Their ship went down. All aboard were lost.”
His jaw tightened. “I’m sorry for your loss.” He glanced at her. “You said you assisted them in their demonstrations. How did it happen that you were not with them?”
“I had recently married. The gentleman who had invited my parents to America was unwilling to pay for the cost of two additional passages. John was not keen on the notion, in any event. He was a poet, you see. He felt that America was not conducive to the practice of serious metaphysical contemplation.”
Tobias nodded. “He was no doubt correct in that assumption. When did your husband die?”
“Eighteen months after we were wed. A fever took him.”
“My sympathies.”
“Thank you.”
In the nearly ten years since his death, the sweet, gentle memories she had of John had taken on the wispy quality of an old dream, she reflected.
“Forgive me for asking,” Tobias said, “but did your husband ever publish any of his poetry?”
She sighed. “No. His work was quite brilliant, of course.”
“Of course.”
“But as is so often the case with true poetic genius, it went unappreciated.”
“I’ve heard that is a common occurrence.” He paused. “May I ask how you survived financially? Did your husband have another source of income?”
“During the course of our marriage, I supported us by giving mesmeric treatments. After John’s death, I continued in the profession for a few years.”
“Why did you stop?”
Lavinia took a sip of sherry and lowered the glass. “There was an unfortunate incident in a small village in the north.”
“What sort of incident?”
“I do not care to discuss it. Suffice it to say that I thought it best to pursue another career.”
“I see. And when did Emeline come to live with you?”
“Six years ago, after her parents were killed in a carriage accident.” It was time to change the subject, Lavinia thought. “Emeline said that after we viewed Mrs. Vaughn’s waxworks, we would understand why she does not receive many commissions for her sculptures. I think I know now what she meant.”
“Indeed.”
“There may be such a thing as art that is too true to life. I found her statues . . .” She hesitated, searching for the right word. “Disquieting.”
“Perhaps it is the very nature of wax.” Tobias studied the remaining sherry in his glass with a thoughtful expression. “The material is not innately cold like stone or clay. Nor does it allow for a two-dimensional image as is the case with a painting. Nothing looks more like human flesh when it is well modeled and properly painted.”
“Did you notice that Mrs. Vaughn went so far as to use real hairs on the hands and eyebrows and eyelashes?”
“Yes.”
“Her work is extraordinary, but I would not want any of her figures sitting here.” Lavinia shuddered. “It is one thing to have a painted portrait of one’s grandfather hanging over the fireplace. Quite another to have a life-size, three-dimensional image of him occupying a chair in one’s study.”
“Indeed.” Tobias gazed meditatively into the fire.
The flames l
eaped into the next pool of silence.
After a while, Lavinia got to her feet to fetch the sherry decanter from its cupboard. She refilled the two glasses and then sat down again. This time she left the decanter on the table next to her chair.
She thought about what it was like to have Tobias here in her study. They had nothing in common, she told herself. Unless one counted a murdered blackmailer, a missing diary, and a business arrangement that would eventually end.
It was difficult not to count those things, she discovered.
After a while, Tobias stretched out his left leg in what appeared to be an attempt to make himself more comfortable.
“I suggest we return to the problem at hand,” he said. “I have been thinking of how we should proceed in this matter. It strikes me that Mrs. Vaughn was not terribly helpful today. All that blather about love turning to hate was useless.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“It certainly did not give us any clues. I’m not at all sure this business of interviewing the proprietors of waxwork museums will lead us in the right direction.”
“Have you got a better notion?” she asked bluntly.
He hesitated. “I have put the word out to my informants that I will pay well for any information on the diary. But, at this moment, I must admit I have heard nothing from that quarter.”
“In other words, you do not have a better notion of how to proceed.”
He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. Abruptly he pushed himself to his feet. “No,” he said. “I do not have a better notion.”
She watched him warily. “Then we may as well talk to the other museum proprietors.”
“I suppose so.” He gripped the edge of the mantel and looked at her with an enigmatic expression. “But it might be best if I handle the remainder of the interviews alone.”
“What?” She slammed the sherry glass down on the table and leaped to her feet. “Do not even think about proceeding on your own without me, sir. I will not hear of it.”
“Lavinia, this situation grows more complicated and dangerous by the hour. It is clear to me now that it will not be easily resolved. I do not like the idea of your getting more deeply involved.”
“I am already involved, sir. Lest you forget, in addition to having a client who has given me a commission to conduct inquiries into this matter, I was one of Holton Felix’s blackmail victims.”
“I would, of course, continue to consult with you and keep you advised.”
“Rubbish. I know what this is about.” She fitted her hands to her hips. “You’re trying to steal my client, are you not?”
“Bloody hell, Lavinia, I don’t give a damn about your client. I’m trying to ensure the safety of your person.”
“I am quite capable of looking out for myself, Mr. March. Indeed, I have been doing so very successfully for a number of years. This is a ploy to get your hands on my client, and I will not allow it.”
He took his hand off the mantel and caught her gently by the chin. “You really are the most stubborn, most difficult woman I have ever met.”
“Coming from you, sir, I must take that as a compliment.”
The warmth of his fingers held her as motionless as any mesmeric trance. An awareness that was almost painful in its intensity fluttered through her. She suddenly felt light-headed.
He was too close, she thought. She really ought to step back and put some distance between them. But oddly enough, she could not seem to summon the willpower to do so.
“There is something I have been meaning to ask you,” he said very softly.
“If you think to talk me out of my client, think again.”
“My question has nothing to do with Joan Dove.” He did not take his fingers away from her chin. “I want to know if you truly despise me for what happened in Italy.”
Her jaw would have dropped, she thought, but for the fact that he held it fast in his hand. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
“You heard me.”
“I do not comprehend what you are about,” she muttered.
“That makes two of us.” He raised his other hand and cradled her face between his palms. “Do you despise me for the events in Rome?”
“You certainly could have handled matters in a less outrageous fashion.”
“There was no time. I explained that I had very little warning that Carlisle intended to make his move the same night.”
“Excuses, sir. Nothing but excuses.”
“Do you despise me for them?”
She threw up her hands. “No. I do not despise you. Mind you, I believe matters could have been handled in a more civil fashion, but I can see that good manners are not your strong point.”
He brushed his thumb across her lower lip. “Tell me again that you do not despise me.”
“Oh, very well. I do not despise you, sir. I am aware you were overwrought that night in Rome.”
“Overwrought?”
She felt a little dizzy. Too much sherry on an empty stomach, no doubt. She moistened her lips.
“I realize that, in your own demented fashion, you had concluded Emeline and I were at some risk. I have made some allowance for your state of mind at the time,” she said.
“What about my state of mind right now?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I must be just as crazed this afternoon as I was that night in Italy.” He leaned closer. “But for entirely different reasons.”
His mouth closed over hers.
She really ought to have taken that step back, she thought. But it was too late to do so now.
His powerful hands tightened on her face. The kiss seemed to explode through her senses. He deepened the embrace. Intense sensations swept through her. She could hardly stand. It was as if she were a wax sculpture that had been placed too close to the fire. Something inside her threatened to melt. To steady herself, she was obliged to curl her fingers around his shoulders.
When he felt her clutching him, he groaned and folded her into his arms, tightening his hold until her breasts were crushed against his chest.
“God help me, I don’t know why, but I have been wanting to do this since Italy,” he muttered against her mouth.
The words were hardly poetic, she thought. But for some reason she found them almost unbearably thrilling. She was stunned by the violent strength of the emotions flooding through her.
“This is madness.” She would have fallen had she not clung to him. “Absolute madness.”
“Yes.” He wound his fingers in her hair and tilted her head back so he could nibble on her ear. “But we both agreed that I may be demented.”
She gasped when she felt him kiss her throat. “No, no, I think it’s the sherry.”
“It’s not the sherry.” He slid a knee between her thighs.
“It must be the sherry.” She shivered beneath the wave of ravenous hunger she sensed burning in him. “We shall no doubt both regret this when we have recovered from the effects of the wine.”
“It’s not the sherry,” he said again.
“Yes, of course it is. What else—ouch.” She flinched as his teeth closed ever so carefully but very deliberately around her earlobe. “Good heavens, sir. What do you think you’re doing?”
“It’s not the bloody sherry.”
She was quite breathless now. “I cannot think of any other reason for us to be behaving in such an odd fashion. It is not as if we were actually fond of each other.”
He lifted his head abruptly. In his eyes, irritation warred with another, more heated emotion.
“Must you argue every damn point, Lavinia?”
She finally took the step back that she ought to have taken a few minutes ago. She struggled to catch her breath. She could feel tendrils of hair straggling down the nape of her neck. Her fichu was askew.
“It would seem, sir, that you and I cannot even do this sort of thing in a polite and civilized manner,” she muttered.
“This sort of thing? Is
that what you call what just happened between us?”
“Well?” She stabbed a pin back into her hair. “What would you call it?”
“In some quarters it is known as passion.”
Passion. The word stole her breath again.
And then reality crashed through her.
“Passion?” She glowered furiously. “Passion? Did you think to seduce me into letting you have my client? Is that what this is all about?”
A terrible stillness gripped the study.
For a moment she thought he did not intend to respond. He contemplated her with unreadable eyes for what seemed an eternity.
He moved at last. He walked to the door of the study and opened it. He paused for a moment on the threshold.
“Believe me, Lavinia,” he said, “it never once occurred to me that I could employ passion and seduction to influence you in any way. You are clearly a woman who puts matters of business ahead of all else.”
He went out into the hall and closed the door much too softly.
She listened to his booted footsteps ringing on the wooden floor. She could not move until she heard him leave the house. When the front door closed behind him, she felt as if she had been released from a mesmeric trance.
She went to the window and stood looking out into the rain-soaked garden for a long time.
Tobias had been right about one thing, she thought after a while. It had not been the sherry.
The kiss had been a mistake, he thought as he went up the steps of his club. What the devil had he been thinking?
He winced. The problem was that he had not been thinking clearly at all. He had allowed the seething brew of anger, frustration, and desire to get the better of his common sense.
He tossed his hat and gloves toward the porter and made his way into the main room.
Neville was slumped heavily in a chair near the window. He had a glass of claret in one hand. The bottle stood nearby. At the sight of him, Tobias paused, wondering if it was too late to escape back into the street. Neville was the last man he wanted to deal with today. There was no good news to give him, and Neville did not like bad news.
As if on cue, Neville raised his head at that moment to take another swallow from his glass. He caught sight of Tobias. His dark brows bunched together in a scowl.