by Gina Conkle
While Lady Foster gave her particulars to the young man, the older Watchman took off his hat and brushed a hand over his balding pate.
“He’s a big one. Don’t know how you felled him, but I’d have paid a shilling to see how you did it. There’s not a speck of grime on you.”
Jack grinned and collected his horse waiting by the hack. “If you don’t need me, I’ll be on my way.”
“There is one thing. Gerry and I’ll have our hands full carting this one—” the Watchman jerked a thumb at the unconscious criminal “—I’d be grateful if you saw the lady home.”
Hair on Jack’s arms rose on end. Home. The word braided cozy domestic images with hot, late night kisses in unlit rooms. He and Lady Isabella alone. A bad idea. Even if she did have an army of servants sleeping under the same roof. Better to scour every public house the next Ward over and hire a carriage to take her home.
The plan was on the tip of his tongue when a violet gaze touched him. Lady Isabella’s eyes were crystal clear to in the pitch-dark alley.
He’d swear there was a message in their depths. Don’t leave me.
CHAPTER TWO
Choirboys sang an angelic Oh, Come All Ye Faithful, their voices floating onto the street from the bowels of St. Paul’s Cathedral. Isabella sat an awkward side-saddle on Jack’s horse, eyeing the Baroque edifice in need of repair. Wrong place to have improper thoughts about a man.
Thoughts like did he have more scars? Would he let her touch them? Would kissing him be a primal experience? Or a slow, titillating study of flesh?
And the most saddle-wriggling question: Was his hair the same shade of auburn everywhere on his body?
“What is it about Bow Street men that makes women weak-kneed?” she asked.
Jack’s long legs ranged forward. Wide shoulders filled a black wool great coat, the bottom tap, tap, tapping the back of scruffy black boots. He gave her his profile. Strong chin. Long nose with a pea-sized bump in the middle. And glorious, long lashes visible against the candle lantern he held on loan from the Watch.
“Can’t say that I know.”
She smiled, appreciating his faint Irish brogue. “Thank you for that.”
“For what, milady?” His breath puffed small nimbuses.
“For not playing coy with me about your…appeal with women. Every time you patrol St. James, you’d think a Roman god descended.”
“Not a Greek god?”
“No. Too capricious. The Romans may have copied the Greeks, but they were—” she took in his strong hand holding the reins “—solid.”
His laugh was very male and nonchalant. “I’ll consider that a compliment.”
Sweet shivers ran down her legs.
She squirmed. What would happen if he whispered in her ear? Jack Emerson was the perfect balance of acumen and courage. He spoke well but never minced words. The man lived in London’s shadows, watching, assessing, cataloging people and facts in his mind. His knowledge of chemistry was legendary, yet for all his intelligence the thief taker hung in the periphery. Never did he seek attention.
Was he equally reticent in bed?
She giggle-snorted.
“What’s this?” He asked, slowing his walk. “Are you laughing at me behind my back?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Because you have the courage to laugh at a fool face on, milady.”
How…nice.
A worthy compliment from a worthy man. She’d treasure his high regard the same as she treasured his smiles. Mr. Jack Emerson, rugged thief taker, was eminently approachable. Euphoria filled her chest. She could be a sixteen-year-old flirting with her first beau. She could push boundaries and ask a boon of him.
“Will you share what got you laughing?” He angled his head to her, the unscarred side.
Her breath was stuck. Yes. A Roman god.
Hazel green eyes bored into her. “Better yet, tell me what you were doing in Queenhithe on Christmas Eve?”
Horse hooves clip-clopped. The door of an ale house flew open. A pint-fueled rendition of Joy to the World filled the road. They were well along Fleet Street. Time for honesty was upon her. She smoothed her velvet-covered knee. It hooked over his saddle horn, an unnatural position for a seat designed to be straddled. The same was true of being alone and revealing her past. Both were unnatural for her to discuss.
It did surprise her when she answered stiffly. “I was visiting my cousin on Anchor Lane. Her husband is a vintner trader.”
Emerson held his candle lamp higher. Auburn brows furrowed under the brim of his hat. “Anchor Lane.”
Anchor Lane was in Vintner Ward next to unsavory Queenhithe.
To have family in those environs…
She waited for the thief taker to ask more, but he didn’t. He walked backward, watching her, an easy thing on the wide, empty road. Dim light bathed the scar which slashed his brow and cheek. Metal glinted from leather arm braces peeking out from his coat sleeve. Emerson was medieval with his choice of weapons sheathed in his leather-wrapped wrists. Most men carried clubs or pistols.
A penetrating stare was his second weapon of choice, and he used it with precision. Just like his knives.
Whalebone stays squeezed her ribs. Everything was uncomfortable. “I know what you’re about,” she huffed.
“Do you now?” His smirk was as subtle as his brogue.
She was well-aware he used it to annoy men of consequence, let them know he didn’t care about status or wealth.
Her heart raced but for all the wrong reasons. She grabbed handfuls of mane to keep steady.
“Yes,” she said, getting comfortable with her own turmoil. “You want to know how is it a woman of my standing has family on Anchor Lane. You’re also wondering about my pocket pistol.” She leaned over the horse’s neck, her eyes level with Emerson’s. “And you’re wondering, ‘Would she have used it?’ But most of all you want to know why I was alone tonight.”
His eyes flared on the last point. Banked fire showed in hazel-green depths. Seeing desire on his face made pinched skin from too-tight stays worthwhile. Something good just happened between her and Bow Street’s best. His Do not touch! line budged. For her.
She sat up, her laugh robust. “Why Mr. Emerson, I do believe you and I have crossed a threshold.”
The lamp low at his side, shadows crossed his face.
“There’ll be no threshold crossing tonight, milady.”
His brogue was a sensual caress. Male lips opened wider. She felt his stare rake her skirts to her breasts, dally on her modest curves, and rise to her mouth.
Ohhhh, this was delicious. The thief taker was cracking under the hot pressure of lust.
The exchange heartened her. Tonight with Mr. Emerson made her feel alive…more than she had in a long while. She’d fended off an attacker, crossed paths with an exciting man who made her heart beat faster and her mind whirl from invigorating conversation, and they’d shared not a single kiss.
It was possible to enjoy the companionship of Mr. Emerson and not pour out her every secret. She didn’t have to be alone.
“I’ll tell you this,” she said, her voice a murmur in the night. “I was on my way to a Christmas Eve soiree at Ryland House.”
“Ryland House,” he repeated softly.
“Mrs. Ryland invited me. We’ve become friends. I would consider it a great kindness if you took me there now.”
“Instead of taking you home? After what happened to you?”
“Yes. I feel like celebrating tonight.” She stared at the road ahead and began to fix her hair. To add a festive note, she hummed God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.
Emerson was talented at walking backward, a half-smile ghosting his lips. Hazel-green eyes traced her attempts to pin a fallen curl as if she hadn’t a care in the world. The rough-edged thief taker spun aroun
d and quickened his pace, the candle lamp swinging at his side. He let her have this victory.
She wasn’t fooled. He wanted answers to his questions. When her defenses were weak, he’d come at her again and find out the truth.
What he did next nearly unseated her. He gave a gift.
Jack Emerson sang with her, his beautiful God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen filling the night and her heart.
CHAPTER THREE
The door to Ryland House opened, spilling cinnamon and nutmeg scents. Laughter and violin music poured out behind Belker. Even the dour butler couldn’t stop Christmas Eve cheer. And by his rosy cheeks, the upper servant had done a bit of dipping in the merriment.
“Lady Foster. Mr. Emerson.” Belker stiffened his shoulders. “Please come in.”
Lady Foster swept inside but Jack’s boots rooted in place. He grinned at the butler and tapped the corner of his own mouth.
“Is that a wine stain you have there?”
Belker’s hand clapped the side of his mouth. His eyes rounded. “I…I…”
“Like any good butler, you tested the mulled wine before it left the kitchen.” Jack’s grin widened. “For quality purposes only.”
“Yes, for the quality,” Belker sniffed. “We have high standards at Ryland House.”
Lady Foster passed her cloak and gloves to a footman. “Aren’t you coming inside Mr. Emerson?”
Heel strikes banged marble floors behind Belker. Cyrus Ryland and his flaxen-haired wife filled the entry.
“Of course, he’s coming in,” Ryland put in smoothly. “It’s Christmas Eve and Bow Street’s best thief taker is on our doorstep.”
Jack touched his hat, his gaze colliding with Ryland’s amused grey stare. He and the well-heeled man of business had a bumpy history, but Jack gave a respectful greeting.
“I’m delivering Lady Foster safely to your door. She had an…unfortunate incident.”
Three curious pairs of eyes blinked at the lady. “What happened?” Mrs. Ryland asked.
“Nothing of import.”
“Just an overturned hack and a dockside ruffler bent on thievery.” Jack added with pride, “She had the matter well in hand by the time I arrived.”
Mrs. Ryland gasped. “Are you hurt?”
“Not in the slightest, but I could do with a brandy or a cup of your mulled wine.” Lady Isabella’s violet gaze landed on Jack. “As would Mr. Emerson.”
She wanted a drink after her ordeal, but her eyes said, I want you most of all.
Longing hit him square in the chest. He pulled his great coat tighter, fighting winter’s chill. His Hammersmith garret was dark and empty. He could grab a pint at The White Dove and talk to friends and neighbors. Ryland house with its evergreen boughs and holly sprigs was light and inviting—especially with the raven-haired widow waiting for him to join her.
“Oh look.” Mrs. Ryland was a swish of emerald silk. “It’s snowing.”
Fat snowflakes fell on Jack’s boots. Two. Then three and four. White sprinkled the ground like grains of sugar, much of it melting on contact.
Mr. Ryland set a protective hand on his wife’s shoulder and checked Piccadilly. “More like a dusting. We need to go north if you want proper snow.”
Jack grinned against his collar. Ryland spoke like a man who’d move heaven and earth to give his wife whatever she wanted—proper snow included. Dubbed the King of Commerce, London’s wealthiest commoner could buy heaps of the white stuff and have it delivered on the canals he built.
“It’s settled then.” Mrs. Ryland hugged herself against the cold. “You can’t ride off in weather like this. Come inside. I insist.”
She backed away to give him room and there was nothing for it. He caved.
Inside the grand entry hall, candles blazed from three sparkling chandeliers. Belker took his hat and great coat. A footman materialized with a tray of cups brimming with mulled wine. Jack took a cup and drank. Hot, clove-flavored wine tripped over his tongue. He’d stay for one drink.
Mrs. Ryland steered them through the cavernous entry. Pine boughs swathed every cornice. Oranges and holly berries dotted the greenery. Violins played Hark the Herald Angels Sing from the ballroom. A younger set dashed about a drawing room where the furniture had been pushed against the walls. Youths crowded the room. Gangly lads of twelve or thirteen years all the way to university age young men. Beribboned girls cupped their giggling mouths as they dodged a blind-folded boy.
“My nieces and nephews,” Ryland explained with a nod to the drawing room dripping with festive pine boughs.
“They’re playing blind man’s bluff,” Mrs. Ryland added. “You’re welcome to join them or come to the ballroom. Dancing will start up again.”
Jack tensed at the mention of dancing, quickly tending to his mulled wine. He wasn’t staying long enough to dance.
“Or if you’re hungry…” Mrs. Ryland pointed to a pair of gilt edged doors opened wide.
Guests milled about a long table spread with the finest fare of plum puddings and cakes, three roasted geese, a pyramid of macaroons, and another tower of oranges and dates. A white-gloved footman sawed slices of ham for those needing a hefty nibble.
“I say, Ryland, I’ve been looking for you.” A man with perfect sausage curls above both ears traipsed through the entry.
“Baron Atal seems most insistent,” Mrs. Ryland murmured against her husband’s shoulder.
“If you’ll excuse us.”
“Enjoy the party.” Mrs. Ryland spoke over her shoulder as her husband whisked her away to greet the lace-cuffed baron.
Lady Isabell sipped her wine, amusement glinting from her violet eyes.
“What’s got your humor up?” Jack asked.
“You.” She held the cup to her mouth. Steam curled past her nose.
“What about me?”
“You’ve crossed a threshold after all.” Her minx-ish smile widened. “Not the one I had in mind, but it’s a start.”
He grinned, recalling her quip when he nearly kissed her in the Queenhithe alley. But this wouldn’t do. He was a stranger in a strange land. He protected West End homes. He didn’t hobnob in them.
“I’m not one for parties, milady.”
“Parties? Or dancing?” A winged brow arched. “You paled at the mention of dancing.”
He winced. “Was I that obvious?”
“I’m certain no one else noticed.” Her tongued flicked delicately over wine-stained lips. “Your Irish brogue becomes more pronounced. At certain times.”
“You’ve noticed that, have you?”
Lady Isabelle’s nod was slow and her voice for his ears alone. “When you’re vexed. When you tease.” Her breath hitched. “When you’re…aroused.”
Her last word burned him. It went from his brain, tripping through his body like a hot coal. Pricking his skin. Heating his abdomen. And landing between his legs in the most pleasant way. They stood in an entry hall bigger than his garret, surrounded by guests meandering from one entertainment to the next. Yet, he and Lady Foster could be on an island alone. Etched marble underfoot was their land and the lovely, raven-haired widow his sole companion.
She could be a Christmas Eve gift.
He downed the last of his wine. Fanciful thinking like that was trouble. Best he remember his place. He was a Bow Street thief taker, a commoner while Lady Isabella was far beyond his reach. Time he left.
Jack clunked his empty cup on a table festooned with holly. “Where’s Belker? I need my coat and hat.”
“No,” she cried. “You can’t leave. You barely warmed up.”
Creamy mounds plumped over Lady Isabella’s velvet bodice. He stared at them. Hard. He knew what would warm him best, but he was smart enough to keep that to himself.
“I’m good and warm, milady.”
He should’ve pinned her to the
alley wall when the moment was ripe. The lady had been more than willing. But diamonds twinkled above her tempting flesh. What other proof did he need that she was not for him?
If he removed lust from the equation, he was faced with an undeniable fact. He genuinely liked Lady Isabella. One misstep could ruin their budding friendship. And get him dismissed from Bow Street.
Some distance was required. He was about to make that point when feminine fingers touched his sleeve.
“Would you consider a proposition?”
CHAPTER FOUR
Mr. Emerson’s face was a fierce study in scowling. Hazel-green eyes narrowed. His jaw flexed under a day’s growth of auburn whiskers. If she had a fan with her, she’d use it to cool her cheeks…or fan the flames sparking from the thief taker’s eyes.
“Allow me to explain,” she began.
“Please do, milady.”
He set a fist on his hip, and for the first time, she saw him. Really saw him. Scuffed boots. Black wool breeches mended in two places. An ill-fitting black coat. And a forest green waistcoat hugging a trim mid-section. Jack Emerson dressed like an upper servant on his half day. None could accuse him of foppery. Though his shoulders were broad, he was more lean-framed than bulky. A man always on the move.
When he wanted the truth, he spoke less. When he wanted others comfortable, he spoke more. A gentle humor. The kind one found in a smart but unassuming gentleman.
And he made her heart flutter.
She swallowed the dry lump forming in her throat. “I meant a trade of sorts.”
“What kind of trade?” His scowl deepened.
Though the hour was late, more young Ryland nieces scurried through the entry hall, their braids flying. Heels clicked fast. Dancing started in the ballroom.
She met his gaze with a level one of her own. “You may ask me anything you want—”
“As in your family in Queenhithe?”
“—as in anything you want, and I shall answer.”
His jaw ticked faster. “Truthfully?”
Nothing stripped a woman better than the truth. It freed her. Left her shaky but stronger for it.