by Mia Marlowe
“What are you thinking?” her voice floated up to him, small and surprisingly timid after the abandon of their love-making.
He ran his hand down the length of her spine and stayed to dally with the dimple above her round bottom. “Actually, given our most recent occupation and current situation, my thoughts are surprisingly ecclesiastical.”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s foolish really,” he said.
“Foolish or not, you can tell me.”
“Being here naked like this, makes me wonder how Adam and Eve felt. I mean, there Adam was, with none but the animals for company, all alone in an empty world and then suddenly he sees someone he recognizes without being introduced.”
“I suspect the Almighty provided the introductions,” she said with the practicality he’d come to admire.
“No, I’m inclined to think Adam saw Eve and knew right away who she was. Blood of my blood and bone of my bone and all that. Something in him called to her and she answered.” Trev dropped a kiss on the crown of her head. “And then, even in an empty world, suddenly he wasn’t alone anymore. I was just wondering if it felt . . . well, something like this.”
She was still for a few moments. Then she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. “I think it must have felt exactly like this.”
Trevelyn breathed deeply and realized, against all odds, he was happy. It was totally illogical. After all, his father, whom he’d never been able to please, had now disowned him. He was planning a burglary with naught but a duchess for assistance. And then a ransom that even with supreme good luck, stood little chance of success, but he couldn’t stop his mouth from turning up into an idiot’s grin. He was happier than he’d ever been in his entire life.
“You know,” she said, teasing the hairs whorled around one of his nipples, “even given, as you put it, our previous occupation and current situation, I don’t think it’s at all strange that your thoughts should turn spiritual. I mean, the way we lift each other out of ourselves, the giving and receiving of pleasure is no small thing. When we’re joined, it does almost seem supernatural. What we’ve shared has something of the Divine Spark about it.”
His grin grew even wider and a definitely more wicked. “Maybe that’s why you kept saying ‘Oh, God!’”
She snatched her pillow and pummeled him with it. At first he could only raise his hands in self-protection, he was laughing so hard. Then he found his own pillow and made a good bout of it, whacking her delicious bottom. Finally one, or maybe both, of the pillows burst open. A flurry of white feathers fluttered around them, coming to rest on their bare bodies, tickling their skin and catching in their hair.
Trevelyn threw down the empty casing and grabbed Larla around the waist. They collapsed together on the bed in a giggling heap.
He loved her laugh. It was no girlish twitter. It was the sound of a woman completely pleased with the world. He realized, with a great sense of accomplishment, that he was responsible for it. When he first met her, he’d have been satisfied just to make her smile. Now she was laughing like a fool and he loved it.
They rolled together on the bed and, as luck and superior strength would have it, Trevelyn managed to end up on top. His hips rested between her splayed legs. He took his weight on his elbows and looked down at her.
She was flushed with pleasure and the green depths of her eyes sparkled. Her little pointed tongue flicked over her top lip and she blew a stray feather away, her belly quivering beneath him.
Trevelyn stopped laughing. He could watch this woman for the rest of his life, he realized with a start.
“What is it?” she asked, obviously sensing his change of mood.
He lowered his lips to hers and took his time about kissing her. All the while his tongue made love to her mouth, his mind churned furiously.
This cannot be good, he told himself with sternness. You’re needed as soon as possible on the Indian sub-continent. A whole string of operatives are waiting, looking for some direction from London. There’s no permanent place for a woman in your life just now, old son. A romp, yes. A romance, emphatically no.
And yet the kiss went on, deepening and draining. He felt his soul pouring itself into her, seeking her secrets and loving all of them.
Love? Where in the name of perdition did that come from?
He pulled back from her sharply.
“Larla, I—” Trev caught himself before the words spilled out of his mouth. Suddenly, he knew what Larla meant, at least to him. Beloved. He laid his head between her breasts, too much a coward to meet her gaze.
He loved her and he shouldn’t have her. The life in India ahead of him was too uncertain, too full of potential danger to include a wife. It wouldn’t be fair. And maybe he couldn’t have her even if he offered. Hadn’t she proclaimed in no uncertain terms that she’d never marry again?
“Oh, God,” he said.
This time, Trev figured, the words counted as a prayer.
* * *
The night was more than half-spent when Artemisia and Trevelyn reluctantly left his well-used bed. They dressed in near silence in the moon-washed room. Trevelyn assisted her with her laces without being asked, and she helped him tie his cravat in a fashionable knot.
Just like an old married couple, she thought absently. But most old married couples don’t lark about breaking and entering, do they?
“I counted at least six servants in the ambassador’s townhouse. It won’t be easy to slip passed them unnoticed.” She adjusted her bonnet over her hastily swept-up do. “Have you thought about how we’ll do it?”
“Not to worry, madam.” He cavalierly offered his arm. “A Deveridge always has a plan. Do you still ride?”
“Not nearly often enough, but yes.” She switched to a whisper as they entered the hall. The common room below was empty, but she reasoned they may as well begin as they meant to continue this night. Stealth was the watchword. “Remember, Mr. Beddington started out as my pony.”
“So he did.” He chuckled softly as they made their way down the stairs. He helped her avoid the third step from the bottom.
“Squeaks abominably,” he whispered. “I keep a horse in the stable out back. We’ll have to ride double. It may be hard on the nag, but frankly, there’s nothing I’d rather have between my knees than your well-rounded bottom.”
His words sent a rush of remembered pleasure over her. With a sigh, she pushed the sensation aside. The time for love games was done. Now they played for keeps.
Trevelyn saddled the sturdy-looking cob, mounted him in a fluid motion and held a hand down to Artemisia. She used his booted foot in the stirrups as a step and sidesaddled herself before him. He wrapped an arm about her waist and snugged her in tightly before chirruping to the gelding to urge him into a brisk trot.
Artemisia leaned back into Trev’s chest. He planted a quick kiss on her neck as they rounded a gas-lit corner. She’d had very little sleep the night before and only a few snatches amid their lovemaking this night, but she was too excited to be sleepy.
Every fiber in her body hummed with well-being and the after-glow of pleasure. Surrounded now by his strong arms and sharp male scent, Artemisia wished the ride to the ambassador’s townhouse was much longer.
After all, if they were successful tonight, if they recovered Mr. Beddington and used him to free Mr. Shipwash, then Trevelyn would be off to India at the first opportunity. Her chest ached. She wondered if he’d miss her, even a little, but she couldn’t ask him.
“You realize that we can’t actually give the key to the ruffians holding Mr. Shipwash,” Trevelyn said as their destination came into view. “We’d be signing the death warrants of all your father’s contacts.”
“Then what is your plan?”
“We retrieve the key and substitute it with a decoy. Chances are the kidnappers don’t know exactly what the key is. They only know it was important enough for your father to send it to safety.”
Artemisia nodded. Her father wo
uld counsel the same, she was sure. She just wished she didn’t feel so responsible for her assistant’s abduction. If she’d never masqueraded as Beddington, none of this would have happened.
“But we will still free James,” she said emphatically.
“Of course,” Trev said. “We’ll have all day tomorrow to come up with a substitute and I will make the exchange for you at St. Paul’s tomorrow night.”
“But Felix said I was to come alone. I mustn’t call in the authorities, they said.”
“No, Beddington is to come alone. And since no one but we knows who Beddington really is, there’s no reason I can’t be him for the exchange. They’re expecting a man, after all.”
Trev reined in the horse and guided him down the narrow alleyway behind the ambassador’s row of townhouses.
“But, this is my responsibility,” she said.
“We’ll discuss it later.” He slid from the saddle and then lifted her down lightly. “Other matters are more pressing at present. Come.”
Instead of approaching the rear of the ambassador’s home, Trevelyn led her to the adjoining townhouse. He tried the door, which was locked, and then worked to jimmy open a window.
“You are aware this is the wrong house,” she whispered.
“Yes, but it works to our advantage. This whole row of townhouses is built just like my father’s pied de terre. There’s a little known design flaw about them.”
A strained look passed over Trevelyn’s face that had nothing to do with his exertions with the window. It occurred to her that Trev had never mentioned his father or mother. She knew very little about his home life, save that he was the second-born of twins. She supposed that made him as expendable in the currency of progeny as a first-born daughter when one is hoping for a son. Not that her father ever said so in so many words, but the fact that he had raised her as if she were a boy spoke volumes about his secret hopes.
And his disappointments.
“These residences share a common attic.” Trevelyn winced as the window frame budged only fractionally. “We can enter here, make our way to the attic and then into the ambassador’s residence from the garret.”
“What if the people who live here catch us?” Artemisia asked.
“Take a peek in the window.”
In the pale moonlight, Artemisia saw only ghostly shapes dotting the room. The furniture was all draped in white muslin to protect it against the sooty London air, a sure sign the owners were not in residence.
“I noticed this house was closed down when we were here earlier.” Trev ran his penknife’s blade around the edge of the window casing to free it from the coat of paint that held it closed. “But we’ll have to be quiet, just in case.”
He drew a deep breath and gave the sticky window another shove. This time it gave, rising with a creak of wood on wood. Trevelyn disappeared into the opening and waggled his fingers for Artemisia to follow.
Well, he is trained in this sort of thing, she reasoned. She hitched up her skirt and followed him through the dark portal.
Chapter 25
“Careful,” he whispered as her feet touched the floor. “We still need to move quietly. If there are any servants left, they’ll most likely be in the rooms off the cellar kitchen.”
“Not in the garret?”
“My father’s servants who live in the highest rooms of his townhouse suffer with cold or bake with heat depending on the season, but the ones housed near the kitchen are comfortable year round,” Trev explained. “The earl and I battled over this several times, but he refuses to do anything about it.” He shook his head, as if to clear his mind of thoughts of his sire. “If you had your choice of a cold garret or a cozy kitchen fire, which would you pick?”
“I see your point.” Her manor house was arranged differently from the earl’s townhouse. Her home had a multitude of fireplaces and windows, even in the topmost storey. Surely Cuthbert would have spoken up if there was a problem. The stiff-lipped butler certainly never restrained himself when he thought her behavior required comment. But just in case, she made a mental note to see to the condition of her own servants’ rooms as soon as possible.
Trev bent to unbuckle his boots. Then in his stocking feet, he picked Artemisia up and sat her down on the flat broad top of a grand piano. The strings inside the casing vibrated softly in a cluster of tones as air currents soughed over them.
“Oh!” Artemisia felt Trevelyn’s hand on her ankle. He started to remove her slipper. A fizz of excitement shot up her leg and stayed to simmer in her feminine core. Part of it was his casual familiarity, the way his fingers lingered over her instep in a caress. But part of her prickling skin was the excitement of the forbidden. Cuthbert had chided her for scandalous behavior often enough. This was the first time she could rightly be accused of something criminal.
Trevelyn was right. Danger was exciting. The fact that breaking and entering set her pulse dancing might trouble her if she examined it long enough, so she shoved the thought aside.
“Come.” Trev lifted her from her perch and set her back on her feet. He dropped a quick kiss on her forehead and then took her hand to lead her through the stark landscape of gray shadows and white muslin, ghostly in the moonlight.
They slipped wraithlike between the lumps of covered furniture toward the base of the stairs. Just like the ambassador’s residence, this home was organized around the central staircase. Artemisia placed a hand on the smooth brass rail and followed Trevelyn up the curving stairway.
A round window at each landing lit their way. They climbed past the parlor that was the mirror image of the ambassador’s and past the floor that held the bedrooms. Their trek came to a dead end in a locked door.
“Oh dear! Will we have to break it down?”
“Not as long as we have the right tools.” Trev produced a slender pick to work in the keyhole. The lock proved only a minor deterrent. Trevelyn Deveridge indeed had skills that didn’t become a gentleman, but his bow as he held the door open for her would have done credit to a prince.
“Ordinarily, I’d defer to a lady, but in this instance perhaps you’ll allow me to go first,” Trevelyn said with a light-hearted attempt at gallantry.
Artemisia appreciated the effort. Staring into the gaping blackness, she dimly made out a set of ladder-like steps disappearing into the rafters. She wondered if there might be bats. With a shudder, she waggled her fingers toward the entrance. “No, by all means, please lead the way.”
Trevelyn lit the candle in the tin stand that had been left at the base of the steps and then climbed into the void. The small flame sent shadows dancing into the rough timbers under the eaves. Trevelyn disappeared from her view for a moment, and then the light stopped wavering when he’d obviously set the candle down. His shadowed face appeared in the opening, backlit by the guttering flame. He reached a hand down to her. “Coming? Or have you changed your mind?”
As an artist, she was creature of light. She even preferred to sleep with a low fire or a lamp burning should she wake in the night. Strange dark places always made her uneasy. And dark places that might house flying rodents were even worse.
“No, of course I haven’t,” she snapped, more brusque than she’d intended. She tried to disguise the tightness in her chest as pique rather than fear. “You need me.”
“Yes, I do,” she thought she heard him mutter softly before raising his voice in a stage whisper. “Give me your hand and don’t mind the cobwebs, then.”
He grasped her wrist and neatly lifted her up with him in a single motion so that her feet barely grazed the steep stairs. A sticky strand tickled across her cheek. Definitely cobwebs, but nothing with wings that she could detect. For as far as the meager light of the candle shined, she saw only odds and ends of household goods—a dress-maker’s dummy propped against a rafter, a canting spinning wheel, and countless dusty trunks.
“Careful now.” Trev retrieved the candlestick and took her hand. “Watch your step. There’s no flooring her
e, just open joists. Try not to slip between them. There’s no guarantee you won’t go right through the ceiling plaster.”
His hand was a warm anchor. Toes curling to grip each step, she moved from timber to timber behind Trev as he led the way down the long dark space toward the ambassador’s residence. At one point, he stopped and swept the candle behind him, indicating with a jerk of his head that she should look downward. Thin cracks of light were visible in the plastered space between the timbers.
A gas lamp was burning below them. Someone was still awake in Kharitonov’s home.
Trev put a finger to his lips and settled into a crouch, cocking his head to listen. Artemisia lowered herself to sit on a chest balanced on two timbers. She strained to hear.
At first, there was only the creaking groans of settling lathe and plaster common to all houses. Then came small skittering noises of tiny claws scurrying away from their source of light. A mouse she could stand, though she didn’t want to be surprised by one. The dust cloud she raised from sitting on the chest tickled her nostrils. She brought a scented hanky to her nose and successfully fought back a sneeze, but only by intense concentration.
Then she heard the voices. They were muffled, but one of the speakers became agitated and the decibel level increased appreciably. She followed the conversation beneath her feet with horrified fascination.
“I tell you, there’s no point in torture. Shipwash either doesn’t know or can’t be broke,” a voice she thought she recognized was saying. “There are some who can’t, I guess. If you want my advice—“
A vicious smack stopped the speaker. Artemisia flinched at the sound.
“When we need adwice from traitor, we tell you,” Ambassador Kharitonov said, no longer the charming diplomat. “If Lubov and Oranskiy force information from Beddington’s man, I will not make—how you say?--fuss over how.”
“But the duchess might not make the trade if you’ve abused him.” The speaker sniffed loudly. “She’s on good terms with the Queen on account of her art. She’ll make trouble for you once she learns you’re behind this.”