by Amanda Quick
She crossed the hall and hesitated at the library. There was something forbidding about the firmly closed door. One would think that Artemas did not want company. It occurred to her that he might have come home quite drunk. She frowned. It was hard to imagine Artemas in his cups. There was an aura of self-mastery, an aspect of stern control in his nature that would seem to preclude that sort of weakness.
She knocked lightly. There was no response.
She hesitated a moment longer and then cautiously opened the door. If Artemas actually was in his altitudes, she would leave him alone and confront him in the morning.
She peeked around the corner of the door. A fire crackled on the hearth but there was no sign of Artemas. Perhaps he was not in the library after all. But why build a fire?
“I trust that is you, Madeline?” The low, dark voice came from the depths of the vast wing-back chair that faced the fire.
“Yes.”
He did not sound the least bit intoxicated, she realized. Relieved, she stepped into the library and closed the door. She kept her hands on the knob behind her. “I heard you return, sir.”
“And came straight downstairs for a report, I see, even though it is nearly three o’clock in the morning.” He sounded coldly amused. “I perceive that you are going to be an extremely demanding employer, Mrs. Deveridge.”
He was not drunk, but he was also not in a good mood. She pressed her lips tightly together and released her death grip on the doorknob. She walked across the carpet.
When she reached the rug in front of the fire, she turned to look at Artemas. At the sight of him sprawled with ominous grace in the great chair, she caught her breath. She knew at once that something dreadful had occurred.
There was a dark gleam in his eyes. He had removed his jacket. His cravat hung loose around his neck. The front of his pleated white linen shirt was undone partway down his chest. She could see the crisp, curling hair in the shadows.
In one hand he held a half-finished glass of brandy. The fingers of his other hand were clenched around an object she could not see.
“Mr. Hunt.” She stared at him in growing concern. “Artemas. Are you ill, sir? “
“No.”
“I perceive that something of an unpleasant nature has happened. What is it? “
“An acquaintance and I were attacked on the street tonight.”
“Attacked? Dear God. By whom? Were you robbed?” A thought struck her. She searched his face quickly. “Were you or your friend hurt? “
“No. The villain did not succeed in his goal.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank heavens. A footpad, I presume? The streets are known to be quite unsafe in the vicinity of the hells. You really should be more careful, sir.”
“This attack did not take place near a hell. It occurred very close to one of my clubs.” He paused to take a swallow of brandy. He lowered the glass slowly. “Whoever he was, he was Vanza.”
Her skin prickled. “Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Were you able to—?” She broke off, swallowed hard, and tried again. “Did you see him? “
“No. He wore a mask. In the end he fled into the shadows. I believe he may have worked his strategy with the aid of a prostitute who gave him the signal when she spotted us on the street. Tomorrow I shall see if I can locate her. She may be able to provide us with a clue to the identity of the villain.”
Madeline’s stomach clenched. “Another visit from the ghost of Renwick Deveridge, do you think? “
“I admit that I am not well versed in metaphysics, but to the best of my knowledge, ghosts generally do not rely upon knives.”
“He had a knife?”
“Yes. He gave an excellent demonstration of the spider-in-the-cloud strategy of attack.” Artemas swirled the brandy in his glass. “Fortunately, he lost the element of surprise because I had noticed that the prostitute’s candle had been put out.”
“Your friend was unhurt?”
Artemas tightened his hand around the object he held. “My companion was not a friend.”
“I see.” She sank slowly down onto a chair and tried to think through the implications of the shocking news. “This man who is playing the role of Renwick’s ghost is after you now, isn’t he? He must know that my aunt and I are staying with you. Perhaps he is aware that you have agreed to assist me. I did not realize—”
“Madeline, calm yourself.”
She straightened her shoulders and looked at him. “He no doubt intended to murder you tonight. We must assume that he will try again.”
Artemas appeared unimpressed by that deduction. “Perhaps. But not immediately. He will be far more cautious next time. He knows that after tonight I will be on my guard.”
“He knows more than that, sir. You fought with him. That means he is now aware that you are Vanza.”
“Yes.” Artemas smiled humorlessly. “And given the fact that he was the loser in our encounter, he also knows that I am more skilled than he is in the righting arts. I think we can assume that he will be considerably less reckless in the future.”
She shuddered. “What did you tell your companion? Did you explain any of this to him? “
“I explained nothing. He assumed the villain was a garden-variety footpad. I let that assumption stand.” Artemas contemplated his brandy.
“I see,” she said again. “I take it from your tone that you do not like this man who was with you tonight.”
Artemas did not respond. He swallowed more brandy instead.
She decided to try another approach. “Did you learn anything in your clubs or in the hells tonight, sir? “
“Very little. There were certainly no rumors of ghosts appearing in the libraries of any other gentlemen of the ton.”
“Most gentlemen of the ton would be highly reluctant to admit that they had seen a ghost,” Madeline pointed out dryly.
“True enough.” He raised the brandy to his mouth and drank again.
Madeline cleared her throat. “While you were out, that young man you employ to bring you information came to the kitchen door.”
“Zachary? What news did he have for us?”
“He said that Eaton Pitney has not been seen for several days. The neighbors believe that he has gone to his estate in the country. The housekeeper, who apparently goes in only twice a week, has been told that her services will not be required until sometime next month.”
Artemas gazed into the flames. “Interesting.”
“Yes, I thought so.” She hesitated. “I do not know if this is a good time to discuss our next step in this affair, sir, but I did a great deal of thinking after I spoke with Zachary. I find it rather odd that Mr. Pitney left town at this particular time. He does very little traveling these days, yet he chose to go to the country shortly after sending that note to me.”
“Odd indeed,” Artemas said in melodramatic accents. “One might go so far as to say it is all deeply suspicious.”
She frowned. “Are you mocking me, sir?”
His mouth twisted slightly. “I would not dream of doing such a thing. Pray, continue.”
“Well, it struck me that Mr. Pitney may have left town because of some new incident. Perhaps the intruder returned and frightened him. In any event, I have concluded that there is only one logical course of action.”
“Have you indeed?” A dangerously laconic gleam lit Artemas’s eyes. “And what is that, madam?”
She paused, uncertain of his mood. Then she leaned forward slightly and lowered her voice although there was no one else about. “I propose that we search Mr. Pitney’s house while he is in the country. Perhaps we shall find something of interest, some clue that may tell us why he left town.”
To her surprise, Artemas nodded in agreement. “Excellent notion. The same idea occurred to me earlier this evening.”
“You heard that he had left town?”
He shrugged. “Someone mentioned it in passing over a hand of cards.”
He gave her an enigmatic look. “Not as satisfying as other forms of alignment might prove to be.”
She elected to ignore that remark. He really was in a most extraordinary mood, she thought. But then, she did not know him all that well. Perhaps this strange aspect of his temperament was customary for him. She decided it would be best to keep the conversation on a businesslike footing.
“I suppose we shall have to go to Pitney’s at night,” she mused aloud.
“And risk having the neighbors notice strange lights in his house? No, I do not think that would be a wise plan.”
“Oh.” She pondered that for a moment. “You are suggesting that we enter the house during the day? Won’t that be somewhat risky? “
“There is a very high wall around Pitney’s garden. Once I am inside, no one will be able to see me.”
It took a second or two for his meaning to sink in. When it did, anger shot through her. “Hold on, here, sir. You are not going to go about this alone. This is my plan and I intend to carry it out.”
His eyes narrowed. “I will take care of the matter. You will remain here while I search Pitney’s house.”
His arrogant assumption of authority was too much.
She leaped to her feet. “I insist upon accompanying you, sir.”
“This habit of arguing with me at every turn is becoming irritating, Madeline.” He set aside the empty glass with grave precision. “You have engaged me to conduct this investigation, yet you quarrel with every decision I make.”
“That is not true.”
“It is true. I weary of the process.”
She fisted her hands at her sides. “You forget your place, sir.”
Artemas did not move so much as an eyebrow, but she knew at once that she had made a dreadful mistake.
“My place? “ he repeated in a terrifyingly neutral tone. “I suppose it is difficult for you to consider me your equal in this affair. After all, I am in trade.”
Her mouth went dry. “I refer to your place in regard to our bargain, sir,” she said hastily. “I did not mean to infer that I consider you anything less than a gentleman simply because . . . uh—”
“Simply because I am the Dream Merchant?” He got to his feet with the languid air of a cat that has spotted a small bird in the garden.
“Your business affairs have nothing to do with this,” she said with what she hoped sounded like great conviction.
“I am delighted to hear that, madam.” He opened his left hand.
She heard a tiny clink and saw that he had tossed aside the small object he had been toying with earlier. It landed on the table. She could not tell what it was from where she stood, but she thought she saw the glint of gold.
Artemas closed the distance between them. She jerked her gaze back to his face.
“Artemas? “
“It is very kind of you to overlook my unfortunate connections to trade, madam.” He smiled coldly. “But then, you really cannot afford to be too choosy, can you?”
She took a step back and found herself up against the wall next to the marble fireplace surround.
“Sir, I perceive that this is not a good time to continue our conversation. Perhaps it would be best if I went upstairs to bed now. We can discuss our plans for searching Mr. Pitney’s house at breakfast.”
He crowded in very close and flattened his big hands against the wall on either side of her head, caging her. “On the contrary, Madeline. I really think we ought to discuss your views concerning my proper place.”
“Some other time, sir.”
“Now.” His smile was cold. His eyes were not. “In my opinion, you do not have the right to object too strenuously to my unfortunate drawbacks. After all, they say you murdered your own husband and burned his house down around his body to conceal the crime.”
“Uh, Artemas—”
“I will admit that your particular reputation may put you ever so slightly above the social level of a gentleman who has gone into trade, but surely no more than a step or two at most.”
She took a deep breath and immediately decided that was another mistake. The scent of him, a mix of dried sweat, brandy, and the indescribable essence that was unique to him, sent a frisson across her senses.
“Sir, you are obviously not yourself tonight. I suspect that the encounter with that Vanza villain has unsettled your nerves.”
“Do you think so?”
“Only to be expected,” she assured him earnestly. “Indeed, if it was Renwick who attacked you, you are fortunate to have survived.”
“That was no ghost I tangled with tonight, Madeline. And with all due modesty, I would remind you that I did more than merely survive the skirmish. I made the bastard take to his heels. But my nerves are definitely inflamed.”
“My aunt has some wonderful tonics for that sort of thing.” Her voice sounded much too high. “I could dash upstairs and fetch a bottle or two for you.”
“I know of only one cure.”
He angled his head and kissed her; it was a heavy, drugging, demanding kiss that flung her senses to the four winds. She was left shaken and breathless. A shiver of excitement swept through her.
She knew immediately that he had felt her response.
He groaned and moved in closer, deepening the kiss. She was gripped by a rising tide of longing and urgency, the same dizzying brew of emotions that she had experienced when he had kissed her the first time outside the Haunted Mansion.
“Madeline.” He muttered her name against her mouth. “Bloody hell, woman, you should not have come in here tonight.”
A sudden recklessness blossomed within her. It was as though she had just learned that she might be able to fly if she only put her mind to it.
He is the Dream Merchant, she warned herself. This sort of fantastical illusion is part of his stock-in-trade.
But some dreams were worth the price.
“I make my own decisions, Artemas.” She put her arms around him and sank into his heat. “I wanted to come into this room.”
He raised his head just far enough to meet her eyes. “If you stay, I will make love to you. You do comprehend that, do you not? I am in no mood for games tonight.”
The fires that burned in him were hotter than those on the hearth. Indeed, she seemed to be growing very warm herself. Something that she had believed forever dead inside her was coming alive. But there was one thing about which she had to be certain, she thought.
“This inclination you have, sir—”
He brushed his mouth across hers. “I assure you, my desire to make love to you is more than an inconvenient inclination.”
“Yes, well, the thing is, it is not just because there is something about a widow, is it? Because I really couldn’t bear it if I thought that was—”
“There is something about you, Madeline.” He kissed her hard and deep, underscoring every word. “God help me, there is something about you.”
The low, grating urgency in his voice sent a rush of womanly power through her. She suddenly felt lightheaded. She put her hands against his shoulders and spread her fingers wide. Beneath the fabric of his fine shirt she could feel muscle and bone. She smiled slowly and looked up at him from beneath her lashes.
There was something about being a widow, she decided. Something that made her feel quite bold tonight.
“Are you certain that you wish to take the risk of making love to the Wicked Widow? “ she asked softly.
His eyes darkened at her sultry, provocative tone. “Is it as dangerous to be your lover as it is to be your husband?”
“I cannot say, sir. I have never had a lover. You must take your chances.”
“I must remind you, madam, that you are dealing with a man who used to make his living in the gaming hells.” He speared his fingers through her hair, dislodging her little cap. His hand closed around
the back of her head. “I am willing to take a risk if the stakes are worthwhile.”
He swept her up into his arms and carried her to the wide crimson settee. He put her down on the cushions and turned away.
She watched him walk across the room, listened as he turned the key in the lock. Another shiver of anticipation shot through her. She had the sensation that she was standing at the edge of a cliff looking down into the very deep waters of an uncharted sea. The urge to leap was almost unbearable.
Artemas came back toward her. His hands were on the fastenings of his shirt. By the time he reached the settee, the garment was on the floor.
In the glow of the hearth she saw the small tattoo on his chest. She recognized it as the Flower of Vanza. But curiously the sight of it did not bring her crashing back to earth. It did not trigger old fears or bad memories. Instead, all she could concentrate on was the powerful contours of Artemas’s chest. The strength in him was both thrilling and alluring and inexplicably satisfying to all of her senses.
He sat down on the cushion near her slippered feet and yanked off his boots. One at a time, they hit the carpet. The soft thuds were like the peals of a warning bell.
But the sight of his broad shoulders warmed to a golden bronze by the firelight muffled the alarms. He was lean and hard and devastatingly male. She was in the grip of a sweet, heady swell of excitement that was infinitely more potent than any drug Bernice had ever concocted.
Unable to resist, she put out a hand and trailed a finger down the curving muscle of his upper arm. Artemas caught her hand, turned it, and kissed the sensitive skin of her wrist.
Then he came down on top of her, crushing her into the cushions. He wore only his trousers, which did nothing to conceal his heavily aroused body. He slid one leg between her thighs. She felt her robe come undone at his touch. Her thin nightgown was no barrier to his hand. His palm closed over her breast. She felt feverish.
He kissed one nipple and then the other, dampening both through the gossamer lawn fabric. His fingers moved on her, gliding down over the curve of her hip. He tightened his palm around her thigh and squeezed slowly, gently.