Lie by Moonlight

by Amanda Quick

  Concordia did not hesitate. “Absolutely positive. We may not be a real family but we have been through a great deal together. What we have experienced has formed a connection among the five of us that is every bit as strong as the bond of blood that unites those who are related.”

  Theodora smiled wryly. “It certainly feels stronger than the bond Edwina and I share with Aunt Agnes and Uncle Roger. They could not wait to get rid of us after our parents died.”

  Phoebe pushed her spectacles more firmly onto her nose. “What of Mr. Wells?”

  “What about him?” Concordia asked.

  “He has been very nice to us but he may not want to take us on permanently.”

  Hannah nodded somberly. “That is true. Why would he want to keep the four of us around after the two of you are married?”

  “That is quite enough of that sort of chatter,” Concordia said coolly. “Let me make something clear. There has been no talk of marriage between Mr. Wells and myself.”

  The door opened quietly. Ambrose looked at the group gathered around the fire. “Did I hear my name mentioned?”

  Hannah turned quickly toward him. “Miss Glade says that there has been no talk of marriage between the two of you.”

  The girls all looked at him for confirmation of that accusation.

  Ambrose folded his arms and leaned against the door frame. “Now that is a bold-faced falsehood. I distinctly recall a conversation on the subject. It took place in a cab on our way to interview Mrs. Hoxton.” He met Concordia’s eyes. “Don’t you recollect it, Miss Glade?”

  “It was a rather murky discussion, as I recall,” she said weakly.

  “There you have it,” Ambrose said to the girls. “Murky or otherwise, there has been a conversation.”

  “Thank goodness,” Theodora said, looking greatly relieved.

  “Excellent news,” Phoebe declared happily.

  “That settles it, then,” Edwina said.

  Hannah smiled. “For a while there, I confess I was concerned that there might be a problem in that direction.”

  “If you are all quite satisfied,” Ambrose said, “I think it is past time that everyone went to bed. No need to rise early. Breakfast will be served late tomorrow. Very late.”

  He stood to one side to allow Phoebe, Hannah, Edwina and Theodora to file through the doorway. When their footsteps sounded on the stairs, he looked at Concordia.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. He remained firmly lodged in the doorway, making no move to enter the bedroom.

  “Yes,” she said automatically. Then she wrinkled her nose. “No, actually, I’m not. I feel very much the same way I did the night we all escaped from the castle. Uneasy. Restless. I don’t know how to explain it.”

  “Perfectly normal,” he said. “I believe I explained that night that the sensations are a result of the danger and excitement you experienced. I am not immune to them, either.”

  “But you are obviously far more adept at dealing with such feelings.”

  His mouth curved faintly. “Merely a little more skilled at concealing them.”

  She looked at him. A tide of passion and a deep sensual hunger rose up inside, closing her throat so that she could not speak. She realized that she wanted him to kiss her more than she had ever wanted anything in her life.

  Control yourself, she thought. You cannot throw yourself at him. Not here in your bedroom, at any rate. The entire household would be aware of what was happening.

  She clutched her hands very tightly together in her lap. “Yes, well, I expect we both need a good night’s sleep.”

  “Very true.” He moved out of the doorway and into the hall. “But, like you, I do not think that I will be able to get much rest until my anxious sensibilities have been calmed.”

  “And just what do you intend to take to soothe your sensibilities, sir? Another glass of brandy?”

  “No,” he said, looking thoughtful. “I believe I will take a stroll.”

  “You’re going for a walk? At this hour?”

  “I will not be going far. I thought I would take my relaxing stroll in the conservatory. I find it a very soothing environment.”

  “I see.”

  He smiled slowly. “The conservatory is not only good for the nerves, it is extremely private. If two people were to meet there by chance at this hour of the night, for example, no one else in the household would be aware of the encounter.”

  He walked off down the hall.

  Concordia contemplated the open door of her bedroom.

  Someone, Mrs. Oates, no doubt, turned down the lamps in the library and the halls. The faint patter of the girls’ footsteps ceased on the floor above.

  The house gradually fell silent around her. She could not take her eyes off the empty doorway.

  39

  He waited for her in the shadows of a cluster of palms, not knowing if she would come to him, uncertain what he would do if she did not appear.

  The conservatory was pleasantly warm from the effects of the heating pipes that had been installed in the floor. Moonlight poured down through the glass panes of the high, curved ceiling and splashed on the leaves of the enclosed jungle. The scent of the rich earth and lush greenery filled his senses.

  It took far more willpower than it should have to stand quietly in the darkness. There had been times in the past when he had wanted a woman after a night of violence. But until he met Concordia he had not needed one, not with this desperate longing, at any rate. He was Vanza— master of his passions.

  But with Concordia everything was different. She threatened his self-mastery in ways that no one else ever had, and he did not give a damn.

  The moonlight shifted subtly. The last of the house lights went out. A bleak, melancholy sense of loss ghosted through him.

  She was not coming, after all.

  What had he expected? She had been through a harrowing experience tonight. She was exhausted.

  He heard the door of the greenhouse open.

  The despair of a moment ago was instantly drowned beneath the rising tide of exultant anticipation.

  He watched her come toward him, an ethereal figure in her pale dressing gown. When she moved through a swath of silver light, he saw that she had not put up her dark hair. It fell around her shoulders in lustrous waves, creating mysterious shadows that partially veiled her face.

  He could have sworn in that moment that he was caught in a spell cast by a sorceress.

  She moved cautiously down an aisle of thick greenery, pushing broad leaves aside with one hand.

  “Ambrose?” she called softly.

  It dawned on him that she could not see him. He broke through the shimmering trance she had created and walked out of the shadows of the palms.

  “Over here,” he said.

  He went toward her with the same sense of certainty that he had felt all those years ago when he cast his lot with John Stoner and the way of Vanza.

  When she saw him, she ran toward him without a word.

  He opened his arms and caught her close, glorying in the soft warmth and weight of her body against his own. Her arms went around him. She clung to him as though she would never release him and raised her face for his kiss.

  When their mouths came together, he knew that tonight her need was equal to his own. The realization that she wanted him with the same intense desire that he felt for her swept away the remnants of his self-control. There were things he had planned to say to her tonight if she came to him, but he could no longer think clearly enough to recall the words. Not that it mattered, he thought. Talking was no longer important.

  He stripped the robe from her shoulders and dropped it on a bench. When he undid the fastenings of her nightgown, her small, elegantly curved breasts fit perfectly in his hands. He could feel the tight, hard buds of her nipples against his palms.

  She tore at the fastenings of his shirt with trembling fingers. When she got the garment apart, she flattened her palms across his chest, covering the
Vanza tattoo. The heat of her hands on his skin caused everything inside him to clench with need and desire.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw a folded tarp on a nearby table. He seized the sheet of canvas and flung it full length on top of a large patch of young, green ferns.

  Concordia made no protest when he pulled her down onto the makeshift bed. She kissed his throat and sank her nails into his shoulders. He pushed the nightgown up around her waist and found the full, wet, voluptuous place between her legs. The scent of her created a fever in his brain.

  She pushed herself against his hand, shivering and urgent. He had to concentrate hard in order to open his trousers. She encircled him with her fingers and drew the tip of her thumb across the head of his erection, exploring and testing.

  The raging demands of his body overwhelmed him. He had to sink himself into her or he would not be able to breathe. Shaking with the effort required to control his entrance, he pushed into her tight, supple heat. She tensed, drew a deep breath and then raised her knees to take him deeper.

  When her release came upon her, he stopped fighting his own. Together they plunged into the whirlpool of sensation.

  His last coherent thought before he was lost in the waves of satisfaction was that, whether or not Concordia was right when she told him that he was in the business of finding answers, one thing was certain. She was the answer to the questions that had awakened him in the middle of the night for most of his life.

  40

  The household did not sit down to breakfast until eleven o’clock the next day.

  “Mr. Oates says that someone must have left the door of the conservatory open last night,” Mrs. Oates announced. She plunked a heavy pot of tea down on the breakfast table. “The dogs got in and trampled a bed of young ferns. Smashed the whole lot, he says.”

  Concordia’s fork stilled in midair. Heat warmed her cheeks. She hoped she was not turning an unbecoming shade of pink. She looked down the length of the table at Ambrose, who was calmly eating eggs.

  “It’s the nature of dogs to dig in the earth if they get an opportunity,” he observed with a philosophical air. “Phoebe, would you please pass the jam pot?”

  “Yes, sir.” Phoebe picked up the dish and handed it to him. “You must not blame Dante for the damage to the ferns, though. He was in the library with us all evening until you and Miss Glade returned. He spent the rest of the night in the bedroom that Hannah and I are using. Isn’t that right, Hannah?”

  Hannah looked up. Her face crunched into a perplexed expression, as though she had been distracted from other, more pressing thoughts. “Yes, he did.”

  “Must have been Beatrice,” Mrs. Oates said.

  “She was in the room with Theodora and me last night,” Edwina said helpfully.

  John Stoner used a small knife to spread butter on a slice of toast. “So much for blaming the dogs. I wonder what happened to those poor ferns?”

  Concordia saw the amused gleam in his eye and knew that he had a very good notion of the dire fate that had overtaken the ferns. She beetled her brows at Ambrose in a warning frown but he paid no attention. It was clear that he did not appear overly concerned with the unfortunate direction of the conversation.

  Anticipating a disaster, she pulled herself together and took over the task of changing the subject.

  “A stray must have somehow got into the garden and found its way into the conservatory,” she said crisply. “Now then, I think that is quite enough on that topic. Hannah, are you feeling ill? Did you have one of your bad dreams last night?”

  “No, Miss Glade.” Hannah straightened quickly in her chair. “I was just thinking about something else, that’s all.”

  Concordia did not entirely trust that response but she let it go. The breakfast table was not the place to question the girl.

  “Now that the danger is past, it is time that I take the girls out for some fresh air and exercise,” she said. “They have been confined indoors far too long. The garden is very pleasant but it is not large enough to provide room for an invigorating walk.”

  Edwina brightened. “Can we go shopping, Miss Glade? That would provide excellent exercise.”

  “I want to go to the museum,” Phoebe announced. “One can get a great deal of healthy exercise walking around a museum.”

  “I would rather go to an art exhibition,” Theodora chimed in.

  Hannah stirred her scrambled eggs with the tines of her fork, saying nothing.

  Ambrose picked up his teacup. “I think the park is far enough for today.” He looked at Concordia. “You will take the dogs, of course. They need the exercise.”

  It was an order, not a suggestion, Concordia realized with a start. A trickle of dread went through her. She wanted to ask him why he insisted that they have the protection of the dogs, but she dared not do so in front of the girls.

  “May I wear my trousers for our walk, Miss Glade?” Phoebe asked eagerly.

  “Only if you are willing to go to the trouble of putting up your hair under a cap and masquerading as a boy,” Concordia said. “A girl dressed in boys’ clothes would draw attention. We do not want to do that.”

  Phoebe beamed. “I don’t mind, so long as I can wear my trousers outside.”

  “I am going to wear my new blue walking gown,” Edwina announced with an air of anticipation.

  “I must remember to take my sketchbook and a pencil,” Theodora added. “It has been a long time since I have had an opportunity to do some landscape work.”

  Hannah set down her fork. “Would you mind very much if I went up to my bedroom? I do not feel like going for a walk.”

  Concordia frowned. “What is wrong, dear? Do you have the headache?”

  “No. I’m just tired, that’s all. I did not sleep well last night.”

  “ALLOW ME to congratulate you, Ambrose.” Stoner settled his long frame into an armchair, put his fingertips together and regarded Ambrose with an expression of pleased satisfaction. “The young ladies informed me that you and Miss Glade are to be wed soon.”

  “The matter is not entirely settled.” Ambrose walked to the far end of the library and stood looking out into the garden. “I am still waiting for Miss Glade to ask for my hand.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Miss Glade is an unconventional lady. She holds modern views on the relationship between the sexes.”

  Stoner cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon, but I understood from my conversation with the girls that there was a matter of ravishment involved.” He paused a beat. “To say nothing of the unfortunate disaster that overtook the ferns late last night.”

  Ambrose turned abruptly and went toward the desk. “Miss Glade certainly has a lot to answer for in this affair. I can only hope that she will eventually come to feel the weight of her responsibilities in the matter and do the honorable thing.”

  Stoner raised his brows. “The weight of her responsibilities?”

  “Precisely.”

  Stoner watched him steadily for a long moment. “Damn it to blazes, you’re afraid to ask her, aren’t you? You think she might turn you down.”

  Ambrose gripped the back of his chair very tightly. John Stoner knew him very well, he thought. “Let’s just say that I do not want to make her feel that she must marry me for the sake of her own reputation.”

  “Ah, yes, I comprehend now.” Stoner smiled and inclined his head. “You are employing the Strategy of Indirection.”

  “More like the Strategy of Desperation.”

  “But what if Miss Glade remains true to her unconventional modern principles and never asks you to marry her? Surely you do not intend to carry on a clandestine affair with a professional teacher? Not indefinitely at any rate.”

  “I will take Miss Glade any way I can get her. And that is enough on that topic.” Ambrose removed a sheet of paper from the center drawer. “The subject of my forthcoming nuptials or lack thereof is not what I wished to discuss with you this morning. I would like your
advice on another matter.”

  Stoner looked as if he wanted to argue the point, but in the end he merely shrugged. “Very well. How can I assist you?”

  Ambrose studied the notes he had made on the paper. “There is something that feels . . .” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “Unfinished about this case.”

  “A question or two not yet answered?”

  “Yes. And it may prove impossible to obtain answers because Larkin and Trimley are both dead. Nevertheless, I mean to try.”

  Stoner settled himself more comfortably in his chair. “What is it that still bothers you?”

  Ambrose looked up from his notes. “The question I find myself asking over and over again is, what, exactly, did Larkin and Trimley plan to do with Hannah, Phoebe, Edwina and Theodora?”

  Stoner’s silver brows bunched together. “Thought you said they planned to auction off the girls as exclusive courtesans.”

  “That is the conclusion that Concordia and her predecessor, Miss Bartlett, came to, and there is a certain logic to it. But what disturbs me is that Larkin already had financial interests in several brothels, one or two of which catered to an exclusive clientele. As far as Felix can determine, he had not bothered to concern himself with the day-to-day operations of those businesses for the past several years. So long as they made money for him, he remained in the background. He considered himself an investor, not a pimp.”

  “Your point?”

  Ambrose lounged back in his chair. “My point is that he appears to have taken an exceedingly personal interest in the scheme involving the four girls. I find myself wondering why he did so when, from all accounts, it was not his customary manner of dealing with his criminal affairs.”

  “Perhaps he considered the potential profits justified his personal involvement in the plan.”

  “Perhaps,” Ambrose allowed. “But there are other aspects of the case that make me curious, as well. One of them is the rather high number of murders committed in the course of this affair. While it is true that Larkin was quite ruthless and certainly did not hesitate to get rid of anyone he believed was a threat to his empire, he did not climb to his position by leaving a lot of dead bodies around for people like Felix to find. At least not the bodies of people who were considered to be members of the more respectable classes.”