Noticeably absent were any books or reading material of any kind, and Evelyn assumed that Bess Whitfield hadn’t a care or use for them.
How odd, Evelyn thought, that Randolph, who was obsessed with books would have grown close to a woman who had no interest in them.
The hardwood floors gleamed from a recent cleaning and the smell of lemon polish filled the air. A bucket and mop rested in the corner, and it was clear that the landlord had made efforts to clean and stage the place to attract a new tenant and compensate for the fact that a heinous crime had occurred here.
“The bedroom must be in here,” Jack said as he opened the first door on the left.
She walked inside, and a canopy bed with a missing mattress met her eyes. Evelyn recalled Randolph’s description of the crime scene, how the mattress had been sliced down the center in search of what they now suspected was the diary. Here the floors did not gleam, but a dark stain in the center of the room drew the eye. A large bottle of white vinegar and a scrub brush rested by the stain—additional proof that the landlord was trying to remove evidence of the murder.
Her hand fluttered to her chest. This was where Bess Whitfield bled out.
Evelyn could imagine the blood splatter on the white walls and curtains . . . the gruesome killing as Randolph had described it. No wonder Randolph ran! If I walked in on a murder victim, would I have the fortitude to stay and explain myself?
She had always believed Randolph was wrong in fleeing out the window and climbing down the trellis, but now she wasn’t certain she would have done otherwise.
“Are you all right?” Jack asked.
She looked away, at the frame where a large mattress should be. “I . . . I was just thinking. Maybe Randolph’s reaction in fleeing wasn’t that . . . that cowardly.”
Jack’s hand cupped her elbow, and he turned her around. “People react differently under stressful conditions. But knowing you, I don’t believe you would have run, Evie.”
Her eyes snapped to his face, and her heart pounded an erratic rhythm. There was some tangible bond between them at the moment that was frightening.
“Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think,” she whispered.
His lips twisted in a smile. “In this, I’m sure. You wouldn’t run from a challenge, but would fight till the end. Randolph Sheldon has no idea how fortunate he is to have a woman like you stand by his side.”
His nearness, his words, kindled strong feelings of warmth. Her heart fluttered wildly in her breast.
“Come, Evie. Let’s search this place and be gone.”
She blinked, coming to her senses. “What should we look for? It’s obvious that the landlord cleaned the place. Do you think he found it?”
“I don’t think it was kept out in the open. Bess Whitfield was not stupid. She was cunning and would have hidden her diary where it would be least suspected.”
“I take it we’re to look for hidden compartments again?”
He flashed a grin. “You catch on quickly, Evie. Perhaps you should consider a future as an investigator for hire.”
At his humor, the tension in her shoulders eased a notch. “An unlikely occupation for a woman, Jack. I can only imagine my father’s reaction.”
She eyed a closet and a tall chest of drawers in the back of the room. She decided to search the chest first and walked over and opened the top drawer. Empty. Knowing the landlord had been through the place, she wasn’t surprised, but she checked the others just to be sure. All were bare. Starting over with the top drawer, she ran her fingers along each edge, searching for a crevice or nook out of place, but found nothing.
The sound of a chair dragging across the wood floor drew her attention. She turned to see Jack stand on the chair and reach up to the corner of the ceiling.
“There’s a patched seam,” he said.
Slipping a hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, Jack pulled out a small pocket knife. She watched as he inserted the knife into the seam and began to chip away. Bits of plaster fell on his head, and soon a small crevice became visible. Evelyn was surprised at Bess Whitfield’s ingenuity. A thick coat of plaster could easily conceal such a clever hiding place. An ordinary person would miss it, and only someone with a sharp eye like Jack’s could catch it.
Jack reached inside the crevice. His brow furrowed in concentration as his fingers searched inside. “Damn. It’s empty.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“There’s nothing here. She must have moved the diary and plastered over the crevice.”
“Why would she do that?”
“She must have feared it would be discovered,” Jack said as he stepped down from the chair.
“It all makes sense now. No wonder Bess wanted to give the diary to Randolph, her only living kin, for safekeeping. She was murdered before she could tell him where she hid it.”
The distinct noise of a door closing downstairs and the sounds of the stairs creaking jerked their heads around.
“Someone’s here. We have to leave,” she whispered urgently.
Jack shook his head. “No time. In the closet. Now.”
He took her by the arm, jerked open the closet door, and thrust her inside. He stepped in but left the door slightly ajar.
It was a small, cramped space with shelves on both sides. The cracked door allowed a thin shaft of illumination. Lily sachets could be dimly seen, hanging from overhead hooks and filled the space with a cloying, flowery scent. Evelyn was pressed close to Jack, aware of his strength and warmth.
Heavy footsteps echoed off the hardwood floors, coming closer. Her heart thundered in her chest and perspiration trickled between her breasts. She strained to see, all the while praying the intruder stayed out of the bedroom.
But the footsteps came closer, stopping on the threshold.
Jack pressed a finger to his lips, warning her to keep quiet, a moment before the intruder entered the bedroom. Jack shifted to the side, and she saw his pocket knife clenched in his fist.
Evelyn bit her lower lip to stay silent.
Through the small crack, she was able to make out a face.
Viscount Hamilton.
Dear Lord, what is he doing here?
The question barely registered in her mind before he spotted the chips of plaster on the floor beneath the chair Jack had used. Hamilton strode to the corner and looked up at the damaged ceiling. But instead of investigating the revealed hiding place, he whirled around to face the closet.
Icy fear twisted around her heart.
She was certain he would march over to the closet and tear the door open.
Hamilton strode forward with purpose, but stopped short in the center of the room. Standing in apparent contemplation, he rocked back and forth on his feet.
Her mind whirled, wondering what he was doing, and then she heard it: a creaky floorboard.
Hamilton dropped to his knees, withdrew a chisel from his coat pocket, and began to pry up the board.
He worked for a full minute, curses tumbling from his lips, until the board came loose, snapping in half, the sound reverberating like a gunshot off the bare walls.
Evelyn watched as he reached down below the floor. He’s looking for the diary!
More curses, louder this time, and he withdrew his hand.
Empty.
Hamilton’s face turned a mottled shade of red, his nostrils flaring with fury. A vein in his forehead swelled like a thick snake. His mustache twitched, and he slammed the chisel on the floor. Muttering beneath his breath, he rose, picked up the chisel, and stomped out of the room.
Seconds later, they heard another door open down the hall.
Jack opened the closet door and took her hand. “Quick. Before he returns.”
She followed Jack out of the bedroom and they crept past another room where Hamilton was on all fours, his back to them, as he pried another floorboard loose.
Together they fled Bess’s second-floor lodgings, and Evelyn rushed down the stairs behin
d Jack. Holding her skirts high, her heart pounded so loudly she feared Hamilton would hear it.
The vestibule came into view. Almost there . . .
Halfway down the stairs, she tripped, a surprised screech escaping her. Jack’s reflexes were lightning quick, and he whirled around to steady her.
For a heartbeat they stared at each other. Then the dreadful sound of pounding footsteps above.
Hamilton was in pursuit.
They flew down the remaining steps, and Jack opened the front door. But instead of hurrying outside, he turned around and dragged her into the far corner. Pulling her into his arms, he covered her with his body and kissed her firmly on the mouth.
Chapter 25
Jack’s hand slid onto Evelyn’s nape and held her close. Her bonnet, which had loosened during her mad flight down the stairs, fluttered to the floor. He entwined his fingers in the silken mass of hair, and his thumb found the rapid beat of her pulse.
Her body was soft and warm pressed against his. For a moment, he could easily forget the imminent danger—then the sound of Hamilton’s heels thudding on the wooden steps pierced his consciousness.
Evelyn made a small incoherent sound.
Jack used his weight to pin her in the corner, and shielded her body with his. Increasing the pressure of his lips, he smothered her protests.
From the corner of his eye, Jack saw Hamilton step into the vestibule.
Hamilton glanced in their direction, then his attention snapped to the open front door. He bolted out the door, his footfalls echoing down the street.
Jack raised his head, but his body stayed pressed to Evelyn’s.
“He’s gone, Evie.”
Evelyn’s full lower lip trembled, her azure eyes wide with fright. “What happened?”
“We fooled him into thinking us lovers in the midst of a passionate embrace. Obviously, he has no idea the third and fourth floors are uninhabited. When he spotted the front door wide open, he must have assumed we fled, and he followed in pursuit.”
“That was so close. If he is the murderer, we could have been his next victims,” she said in a small frightened voice.
A wave of protectiveness hit Jack in his chest. The thought of Hamilton—or anyone—hurting Evelyn made his blood boil. There was no doubt in his mind that he would have killed to protect her.
“Don’t even consider it, Evie. I wouldn’t have let him touch you,” he said in a harsh, raw voice.
He was aware now of her soft, full breasts pressed against his chest.
“Jack, I—”
His eyes lowered to her mouth. With Hamilton gone, he wanted to kiss her for real, to trace the soft fullness of her lips with his tongue. To unbutton the bodice of her gown and trace her breasts, to hear her moan for him . . .
She rested her hand against his chest where his heart pounded. He waited for her to push him away, but her resistance never followed.
“Jack,” she breathed.
She tilted her head to the side, exposing the slender column of her throat. He couldn’t help himself. He kissed her neck, the wildly beating pulse that matched his own.
She was pliant against him, pliant and receptive.
But he was aware of their surroundings. Aware that they had illegally entered a private dwelling and were completely exposed with the front door wide open. His overheated and aroused body raged against logic and caution.
He took a step back, away from Evelyn and temptation.
“We should get you in the hackney.”
Her eyes were glazed. She blinked, and he saw the moment her thoughts cleared. “Do you think Hamilton will return?”
“He wasn’t carrying anything, and I don’t think he found the diary. I want you safe and away from here.”
She nodded woodenly, and followed behind him. Jack left the house first, looking about from left to right until he was certain Hamilton was gone for good. Only then did he motion for Evelyn to follow, guiding her across the street and into the waiting hackney.
Her skirts brushed his trousers as she settled on the bench across from his. Her blue eyes were wide, her disheveled hair loose around her shoulders. His fingers itched to touch the golden mass. She licked her lips, and despite the threat from Hamilton, and their near escape, his arousal throbbed in his trousers.
Jack gave the driver instructions to Evelyn’s home, and then made to step out of the cab.
“You’re not coming with me?”
“I have to go back.”
“Back? Why on earth? You said Hamilton didn’t find the diary.”
“Yes, but we interrupted his search, remember? I want to take another look around. See if I can pick up where he left off.”
She grasped his sleeve, her eyes imploring. “What if he returns? There’s a good chance he is Bess Whitfield’s killer, Jack.”
He touched her face, his fingers lingering on her cheek. “It’s unlikely he’d risk returning here today. And if he does, I can take care of myself, Evie.” He gave her a sly wink. “Don’t worry. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”
As soon as the hackney drove out of sight with Evelyn safely ensconced within, Jack slipped back into Bess’s home. He studied every creaky floorboard, every seam of plaster with a keen eye, but detected no other hidden compartments.
Dropping to his knees, Jack examined the board Hamilton had been in the process of prying up when he had stopped to pursue them. Hamilton hadn’t finished with the board. Jack pried it off and reached within.
Nothing.
So Jack’s assumption had been correct. Hamilton hadn’t found the diary.
But the man clearly desired to find it, and badly.
Viscount Hamilton had been deeply involved with Bess Whitfield. The actress’s dresser, Mary Morris, had told them as much. The letters Jack had found hidden in Hamilton’s library attested to their tumultuous relationship, and Hamilton’s presence here today confirmed he was desperate enough to burglarize a private residence to get his hands on that diary. Hamilton also had motive and opportunity for the murder.
He was, without a doubt, their most likely suspect.
It would be extremely convenient for Viscount Hamilton should Randolph Sheldon be tried and hanged for the crime. Hamilton could continue to search for the diary without the watchful investigative eyes of the Bow Street constables.
Jack frowned as an image of Earl Newland circling Bess Whitfield’s grave, madly muttering, came to mind. Viscount Hamilton may be the most likely suspect, but Newland could not be entirely ruled out.
Jack recalled James Devlin’s comment. Newland’s motive in finding the diary wasn’t as strong as Hamilton’s, but insanity went a long way in justifying murder.
Jack finished his search of Bess’s home and hailed a hackney cab. He gave the driver directions to his chambers at Lincoln’s Inn and sat back in his seat. Thinking back, Jack recalled the number of times both aristocrats—Viscount Hamilton and Earl Newland—had come close to identifying Evelyn. Newland easily could have seen her face at the cemetery, and Hamilton had almost caught her here today. The threat of near discovery made Jack’s temper flare.
Holding Evelyn in his arms, kissing her, had heightened his attraction for her. He wanted more, needed more. He wanted to watch her disrobe for him, to savor the feel of her naked flesh against his, wanted to be inside her so badly he could taste it.
He didn’t know how much more he could stand. Working close by her side, yet refraining from touching her. Worse still, knowing she meant to give herself to Randolph Sheldon.
Again James Devlin’s words came back to him. It had been too long since Jack had been with a woman. That was his problem, and it could easily be rectified. This fierce response for Evelyn must be due to a combination of the excitement of danger comingled with an overly long dry spell without a willing woman in his bed.
His last mistress, Molly Adler, was outrageously curved, hedonistic, and beyond eager to do anything in bed to please. Focusing on Molly’s image, lyin
g in bed with her legs splayed wide open, he couldn’t remember why he had ever grown bored. He shook his head at his foolishness.
Why was he torturing himself when sexual release could be easily bought?
It was time to pay Molly a visit.
Jack had sent a note in advance. After all, he wasn’t a fool, and he had no desire to knock on his former mistress’s door only to find her entertaining another man. It had been a little over four months since he had last seen Molly Adler, and he hadn’t a doubt that she had found her next lover and benefactor.
Jack stood on a porch of an elegant town house—a residence he had helped purchase for her—and raised the brass knocker.
The door opened and Molly stood on the threshold, her servant nowhere to be seen.
“Jack,” she sighed in a husky voice that oozed sensuality and promised all sorts of bedroom sport. Dressed in a sheer concoction of scarlet that outlined every womanly curve, she leaned to the side, and her rich curtain of mahogany hair draped over a bare shoulder. It was a well-practiced stance, calculated to enhance her physical assets and simultaneously tease and arouse.
“It’s been a long time, Molly,” Jack simply said.
She pouted, her painted, red lips portraying disappointment while her shrewd, black eyes raked over his body. “I was quite upset with how you ended things.”
Despite her words, she stepped back and opened the door wide. “But I’ve decided to forgive you, darling.” She smiled slyly and raised her hand to show the emerald bracelet he had sent along with his note.
Ah, Jack thought, predictable as always.
Jack strode inside, and she closed the door behind him and leaned against it. “I’ve missed you, Jack,” she drawled. “I haven’t met a man that can compare to you.”
His gaze lowered to her large breasts. She had rouged her nipples and they stood out like drops of dark chocolate through her sheer gown.
“I regret staying away,” he said gruffly.
She sashayed forward and rested her arms on his shoulders. “We have much time to make up for, don’t we, darling?”
In the Barrister's Chambers Page 15