by Robyn DeHart
“No friends? Indeed?” Her head tilted slightly to the left. “How is that possible? You’re a pleasant sort.” She made her way to the sitting area and took c. seat on one of the leather chairs.
He released a low breath through his teeth. “I appreciate your concern, but I assure you, Miss Watersfield, I have no need for friends. My work keeps me very busy.”
“But don’t you ever get lonely?”
He opened his mouth to answer, then stopped.
No, he didn’t necessarily get lonely, not enough to notice, but there were times when he wished for someone with which to share. None of his friends from school had ever showed interest in the same sorts of things he had, and he found hunting, gambling, and womanizing to be a waste of time.
Primarily womanizing. He’d seen one too many men walk away from their aspirations because of a pretty face. But he was no such man. Which was why he needed to get the current pretty face out of his office.
“No, I don’t get lonely. I have Othello to keep me company.”
She frowned, and the result was nothing short of adorable, which, in and of itself, was annoying. Frowns were not adorable, nor was she. She was a nuisance.
Why, then, did his neck become hot and his hands all fidgety when she was near?
For the first time in his memory, Colin found a question he’d rather not investigate.
“Who is Othello?” she asked.
“My cat.” He nodded to the sleeping ball of fur currently occupying the rug in front of the fireplace.
“I find it rather fitting that you have a cat, Inspector.”
While he was mildly curious as to why that was fitting, it was more pressing to end this impromptu visit. Lest he begin to think her ears were more fascinating than anyone’s ears ought to be.
Accepting defeat that she was here to stay until she accomplished her mission, he took a seat in the chair next to her.
He cleared his throat before he spoke. “Why is it that you stopped by?”
She winced slightly, and a twinge of guilt gnawed at his stomach.
“I met with some of my father’s contacts, and I believe I might have uncovered a lead. Or at least a good place to find one.”
“Indeed.” Investigating on her own? She certainly had a wide streak of tenacity in her. It seemed grossly unfair that with his first case came an unwelcome, but most eager, assistant. Not to mention distracting. He tried not to notice that she looked rather fetching in her dress. He failed. Miserably.
“I went to an antiquities dealer that my father works with,” she said. “I’d never been into his shop or met him before, as all his work is generally done with couriers, and I’m not so certain it’s the sort of place a lady should venture alone. However, I braved the situation.” She paused a moment and frowned before continuing. “He wasn’t all that informative, but he did say he knew of some people who might be interested in such an artifact, and he would poke around a bit and let me know what he discovered.”
“Which antiquities shop was this?”
“Flinders’s Shop of the Old and Mysterious.”
“On Cambria Street?” he asked.
“Yes, that’s the one. Why?”
“I’ve seen that shop. And you’re correct, a lady should not venture there alone.” He’d not only seen the shop, he’d visited with Mr. Flinders as well. Apparently Flinders was looser with his information with the fairer sex. Colin hadn’t even been able to convince the old man to take his card, much less convince him to contact him should Flinders come across any information that would help the investigation.
“I also met with Monsieur Pitre at the London Museum. He’s the curator.”
Colin had planned to inquire about any contacts that Lord Watersfield might have at the city museums. But he hadn’t planned on doing so this soon. She had beaten him to it. “Tell me, Miss Watersfield, what made you decide to visit Monsieur Pitre?”
“He’s a frequent visitor to our house, a close friend of my father’s, and he’s familiar with most of the collectors and dealers in town.” She shook her head. “Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to give me any additional information, but I thought it might behoove us to apprise him of the situation. He’s quite familiar with my father’s collection and the piece in question. He, too, said he would ask about and see what he discovered.”
“Very clever,” he said.
She sat up straighten “Thank you.”
Her genuine smile seemed to warm his very blood. He shifted in his seat.
“You said he’s familiar with the other collectors? Perhaps he could provide me with a list of such persons?”
Her brow furrowed with small crinkles. “I’m not certain. Several of the collectors prefer to keep their privacy.”
“But they could be suspects.”
“Don’t be silly. Someone took Nefertiti to sell her. Surely she would bring a sizable amount.”
“Why are you so certain?”
“Because anyone who truly understood her, someone who appreciated her for what she was, would have been content that she was there available to be seen anytime they chose. My father has always opened up his collection to anyone who wished to view it. Not all collectors do such a thing. But my father said there was no sense in keeping his antiquities all to himself; others should be able to enjoy them.”
“Couldn’t someone have wanted her in his own collection?” he argued.
She thought for a moment, her teeth worrying the tender flesh of her bottom lip. Her lips were full and red, as if she’d been thoroughly kissed, which surely she hadn’t been, unless she’d been in a passionate embrace before coming here. With Monsieur Pitre, perhaps? Colin wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers and swallowed. Well, that was certainly a ridiculous thought.
“I suppose,” she said. “But that feels more unlikely to me. I’ve met other collectors, and they’re a gentle sort, Inspector, not a seedy crowd inclined to breaking into other people’s homes and stealing their prized possessions. They would consider that uncivilized—rude.”
“I see you are still clinging to your assumption that a common thug came into your house and took the piece. Is that your official theory?”
“Yes.” She nodded once.
He had to admit conversing with her was entertaining. “Then can you explain to me how said common thug came and went unseen with Nefertiti under his coat?”
“That I cannot explain.”
“Of course not.”
“It’s merely a feeling I have/’ she said. “Do you ever have a feeling about something?”
“No, I do not. Feelings are fleeting and unreliable. I rely on factual information. It is the only way to discover the truth.”
She tilted her head to the left and was silent for a moment. Clearly she was studying something about him.
“You are a different sort, Inspector.” She placed a gloved hand on his arm. “That’s not a bad thing, necessarily. I suppose I should use a bit more caution when it comes to feelings. I tend to rely heavily on them. I’d wager you would say I was foolish.”
He tried to think of something to say, but with her warm hand on his arm, words escaped him. He looked down and took in the sight of her dainty fingers encased in the long kid glove. Out of the comer of his eye, he saw the parchment and ink and got a brilliant idea.
“Miss Watersfield, would you assist me with a bit of research?”
Her smile nearly blinded him. “Honestly? Oh, I would be honored. What sort of research?”
He grabbed her hand and led her over to his worktable. “An experiment.”
He tried to calm his racing heart, but the truth of the matter was he was excited. Up until now, he’d had no one with whom to share his research. Especially not anyone who appeared to be interested. All the others he had taken samples from had been bored by the whole matter. Not one of them had even raised an eyebrow in mild interest at the process.
But Amelia, she was different.
Turning her arm so
that her wrist faced upward, he trailed his finger to the top of her glove. Twelve buttons. His mouth went dry. More from the excitement of the experiment, he assured himself, than from the sight of those tiny twelve buttons. What could possibly be so appealing about buttons?
Chapter Four
“Always look at the hands first, Watson.” ~The Adventure of the Creeping Man
One by one, he unhooked them, revealing tiny portions of her silky smooth skin as he worked. Surely it shouldn’t take this long for only twelve buttons, but granted, he’d never before un- hooked a woman’s glove. He found himself lingering over her tender flesh. Finally he was done and was able to slide the fabric off her hand.
He examined her wrist and hand. Gently, he ran his finger across her palm to open it to him. She released a tiny “Oh,” and the muscles across his abdomen tightened.
He swallowed and licked his lips before he spoke. “I am studying fingerprints. I have a small collection, but all have been male. I haven’t had the opportunity to have any female volunteers.” He moved his gaze from her hand and settled on her face. She stared up at him intently.
“It will take ink to do it, so I’m afraid you will get your hands soiled,” he said.
She swallowed visibly. “They will wash.” Her voice was quieter now. Devoid of the typical chipper tone, it was instead laced with a sultry undercurrent that quickened his blood.
“Your hands are tiny,” he said.
Brilliant observation. Nothing like stating the obvious.
Rather than check her reaction to his foolish comment, he turned his attention to preparing the ink. He poured a small amount in a dish, then placed a sheet of parchment in front of her.
“What precisely are fingerprints? And why are you studying them?” she asked.
He turned her wrist so that her palm faced upward. “Do you see there ... ?” He ran his thumb over the tip of her index finger. “These swirls and lines are unique to each person. At least that is what I am hypothesizing.”
Carefully, one by one, he dabbed her fingers into the ink, then pressed them to the parchment.
He could hardly wait for the results. Perhaps conversing with a woman, despite the distraction, would benefit him after all.
She peered over the paper, scanning each image. “Each finger is different from the others.”
Her observation shot excitement through his gut, which only increased his awareness that he was thoroughly aroused at the moment. “Exactly.” It was only because he hadn’t touched a woman in such a long time. He needed some distance, some perspective.
“Look here, these are mine.” He placed a second sheet of parchment on the table. Then he grabbed the entire stack—there were only twenty or so—but he laid them out in front of her.
She examined them for a while, then turned to face him. “I see the differences, but what is the purpose? Why does it matter that the tips of our fingers are unique? Are our hair and eyes not different from one another as well?”
“Yes, they can be. But it is not uncommon to have siblings with the same shade of hair or eye color. For too many people, brown is brown, when we clearly have differing shades of chestnut, sable, mahogany, and russet.”
“Or chocolate?” she suggested.
“Correct.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Color matching is helpful, but it is not science. It is all too often based on one’s perception, whereas this is truth—no one can change the imprint of their fingers.
“Right now criminal investigation is built on hunches rather than science. This is a disservice to all the people of England,” he said. “Having a consistent method to identify people will promote using solid evidence rather than gut reactions. Relying on one’s feelings is simply not good enough when it comes to the law.”
She looked him straight in the eye as he spoke, as if she sincerely wanted the information he was sharing. As if she sincerely were interested in the subject.
“You do all of this research to assist the police in solving crimes?” She frowned slightly and he found himself rather fascinated with the tiny creases between her eyes.
But she’d asked him a question. “Partially,” he said. “I know there are new and better methods we could use. For example, I read a fascinating journal entry on analyzing the droplets of blood at the scene of a crime and how they can reveal possible methods and directions of attack.” And then he realized it might be harrowing for her to hear of droplets of blood. “I beg your pardon, Miss Watersfield, I should not speak of such things with a lady.”
She shook her head. “Oh, no, please. I find it vastly intriguing,” she said, her eyes wide with interest.
“Indeed.” His pulse rose ever so slightly. “I must confess, though, I am not compelled to do this research purely for investigative work, I enjoy the process. I find it enthralling the way we are all different. Perhaps there is a connection within these lines that reveals bits about our character. As it stands right now, there is no scientific evidence to point to this, which is why I’m performing my experiment.”
“How did you know how to begin?” she asked.
“Have you never done an experiment, Miss Watersfield?”
Her eyebrows arched high above her expressive eyes. They were blue, he realized now, a very dark blue. The same blue the ocean turned right before a heavy storm. “No, I don’t believe I have.” Her voice had taken on a softer, breathier quality.
“It is exhilarating. You formulate a hypothesis, and from this you develop your plan for research. Next you follow through with the experiment, and then you record your findings to see if they support your hypothesis.”
She took a moment, presumably absorbing it all, before she spoke. “Indeed. I do believe I have a hypothesis right now.”
“You catch on quite quickly, Miss—” but before he could finish his sentence, she had placed her hands against his chest, and pressed her mouth against his. Her lips were soft. It had been so long since he’d been this close to a woman that he’d forgotten how amazing lips felt. Everything about her was his opposite. She was soft where he was hard. Light and welcoming to everyone who stepped into her world, while he was content to stand in his darkness alone.
He tried to step back, to end her sudden kiss, but she released a satisfied sigh that had blood surging into his loins. So instead of walking away, he returned her kiss. Firmly.
He slanted his mouth across hers, moving gently before teasing her lips with his tongue. She made a tiny noise before allowing his tongue entrance. He explored her warm mouth, loving the feel of her, the taste of her.
Her fingers clenched against his chest, causing his erection to throb against his trousers until he thought he might completely lose control. But he couldn’t afford to lose control. Especially over a kiss. Rather than risk it, he ended the kiss abruptly and took several steps back.
She nearly fell over from his hasty release, and grabbed the edge of the table to steady her balance.
“Why would you do that?” he asked.
“I wanted to know what it felt like.”
“Kissing? Has no one ever kissed you before?”
“A few suitors. But I wanted to know what it felt like to kiss you. I hypothesized that you would be the greatest of all kissers.” She gave him a shy smile. “I believe I was right.”
He felt his pride swell at her glowing compliment, but tried desperately to swallow it. Damnation! Besides, weren’t men supposed to be the ones doing the wooing in a courtship? Granted, this wasn’t a courtship, and despite recent events, there would be no wooing on either of their parts.
“Are you always this bold, Miss Watersfield?”
Her nose wrinkled, and she thought for a moment before speaking. “Not especially. I’ve never exactly had the desire to kiss a man before, but today it was more than I could bear. I simply had to know.”
What kind of game was she playing? Women of good breeding did not go around kissing strange men. Especially a man like himself—who
had never generated much attention from the fairer sex.
Admittedly, he did not put himself in a position to see said sex very often, but it was his experience that women were more trouble than they were worth, and it was in his best interest to stay clear of them.
Today confirmed that theory. He’d nearly lost control. He never lost control. Ever.
“It was quite the kiss,” she murmured softly, more to herself than to him.
He tried hard to ignore his pride swelling at her glowing compliment. What did it matter if this girl thought him to be the best kisser in London or all of England? It did not. Not one bit.
He almost convinced himself.
He shifted his stance. His arousal made the entire situation vastly uncomfortable. He looked down and noticed her smudged handprint on his shirt. In all their discussion, he must have forgotten to wipe her hands clean of the ink. And there it was on his shirt, evidence of her fascination or curiosity or whatever she had been feeling. But more than that it was evidence of his flagrant lack of control.
His shirt was ruined, but that was the least of his worries.
“Might I offer you a piece of advice, from a gentleman?” he asked. “It might not be the wisest choice for you to go about London acting upon the urge to kiss men you do not know. Not all of them will be as respectful as I am.”
She stood there looking up at him without her usual smile lighting her face. Instead her wide mouth sat in a line and she looked very much chastised. He simply could do nothing right.
“That being said,” he added, “I should apologize for my behavior. It was very inappropriate for me to kiss you.”
She frowned. “But you didn’t kiss me. I kissed you.”
“Yes, but I kissed you in return.”
“It would have been rude not to.”
He nearly smiled at her simple logic. “Better to be rude than to put a lady such as yourself in an awkward position. Rest assured, it will not happen again. Now, if you will excuse me, I should be getting back to my work.”