The Trouble With Moonlight

by Donna MacMeans

  Six

  “I SHOULD THINK THIS WOULD BE LIKE CLOCK-work for an experienced thief such as yourself.”

  “I am not a thief,” she said, refusing to shift her concentration from the lock and lever before her. For two straight days, she had practiced her safecracking skills under Locke’s direction. The process had become more familiar, but certainly not easier. Her shoulders ached, the small of her back complained from her constant awkward positioning, and the compressed stays of her corset felt like Aunt Eugenia’s knitting needles poking into her skin.

  “Easy now. Don’t rush it.” His warm breath swirled about her inner ear, more distracting than his words.

  Having successfully raised the first three levers of the lock, she delicately twisted the pick while maintaining the elevation of the earlier jimmied tumblers. A slight smile tugged at her lips when she considered that, at least, her corset wouldn’t be an obstacle when she was cracking a real safe and not just practicing.

  “Concentrate,” Locke ordered off to her right. Although she never moved her eyes from the task at hand, she imagined her smile had triggered a narrowing in his eyes and a furrowing of his brow. After the past few days spent in such confined quarters, she could easily recall his facial expressions on command.

  A slight give of metal vibrated through to her fingertips. It was delicate work picking a lock. If she twisted just a tiny bit more . . .

  “Easy now,” Locke counseled. “Don’t rush the tumbler. Trust your fingers.”

  In a silent streak of black, Shadow leapt from the floor to the top of the safe. The sudden motion caused her hand to jerk, and the mechanism’s levers quickly fell back into place. She’d have to start all over again.

  “Bloody hell.” Locke slapped his hand on the desktop. “What is that foul demon of Satan doing in here?”

  Her fatigued arms fell to her side. She leaned slowly back in the chair, her stiff back complaining at the slightest movement. “I almost had the last lever. Perhaps when the time comes—”

  “That is not acceptable.” Locke glared at her cat, whose black tail idly swished on the side of the safe in total disregard of the commotion he had caused. “We can not rely on suppositions about ‘when the time comes.’ ”

  Lusinda stood and swooped Shadow up in her arms, letting the burglar tools fall to the carpet. She really didn’t expect Locke to harm the animal, but the murderous gleam in his eye suggested otherwise. “Shadow won’t be a distraction when I’m cracking a traitor’s safe.”

  “But you don’t know the type of distraction that might present itself.” He looked exasperated. “You must be prepared.” He stooped to the carpet to retrieve the fallen instruments. “You were rushing that last lever. Sit down and try it again.”

  She was so tired of safes and levers and pins and keys. However, after two long days of attentively following his instructions, she could honestly say she was most tired of Locke and very much in need of seeing her supportive family. Lusinda snuggled her cat, eliciting a slow rumble of appreciation. At least Shadow cared about her. She wasn’t certain of Locke.

  “Perhaps you should plan on inspecting secret confines without me,” she said. “You managed quite well at Lord Pembroke’s study. Indeed, I would never have recovered the ruby necklace if you hadn’t first opened the safe.” She glanced at Locke from behind Shadow’s twitching ears. Truly, he had functioned quite well without her for years. After the folly of the last two days, even the imperious Locke must recognize the foolishness of his plan.

  But as his thunderous gaze lifted from the cat in her arms to her face, she knew he recognized no such thing. Her confidence faltered. She bit her lip and swallowed hard, inching her way backward toward the door, toward escape.

  “I’m sorry to prove such a disappointment to you,” she offered, taking one step back. “I can pack my things and remove myself from the household within the day.” Please let me go. I’m so miserable here.

  He didn’t move. He didn’t reply. All visible signs of the congenial intelligent man she had known on occasion, vanished. A lump hardened in her throat, and she willed back the tears that burned the corners of her eyes.

  “Thank you for the money you’ve advanced my family.” Another step. “It might take an extended time but I promise to allocate a portion from my recoveries for repaying you.” Shadow boxed at the brooch pinned to her bodice. She reached for the moonstone to silence the bell’s annoying ring. “Thank you as well for this. I’ll return it, of course. It might help to offset my debt.” It certainly hadn’t helped to protect her from the danger of Locke’s displeasure, but that was all right. Just a few steps more . . .

  His eyes narrowed, as if he suddenly realized her intent. He began to stride toward her, so she quickly turned and raced the few remaining steps to the door. The sway of her bustle and the stiffening in her back, however, impeded her progress. Her hand had reached the doorknob and she had barely begun to pull on the brass knob, when he reached around her side and shoved the wooden door closed.

  Her heart pounded in her ears. She couldn’t bring herself to turn and face him, knowing the anger and betrayal she had glimpsed earlier. He stood so close to her back, she could feel his heat, smell his faint scent of cinnabar. She continued to face the door and let her chin lower toward her chest. He pressed nearer, bringing his lips close to her ears.

  “Did I not inform you, Miss Havershaw, that I would not allow your talents to be used against the Crown?”

  She took a swift breath of air. Surely he didn’t think she would betray her own country? “Yes, but I would never—”

  “Did I not inform you that for the protection of those talents and your family, I would insist upon your residence in this house?”

  Her family . . . that was the crux of it. She never realized how much she needed her aunt’s sympathetic touch and wise counsel, or little Rhea’s gaze of admiration, or even Portia’s whining. Living without them left a hole in her heart. The realization unleashed the tears that had built earlier. She nuzzled the top of Shadow’s head, hoping to wipe the moisture before the embarrassing tears ran down her cheeks.

  “I didn’t know how difficult it would be,” she admitted, then drew a deep breath. “I miss my family. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  “No,” he said, his voice hard and cold. “I’ve never had the luxury of a family.”

  Luxury! Her family was a necessity. If he couldn’t understand that, well . . . there was no way to explain it. She turned around and crushed her bustle against the door.

  “Let me go home. You’ve made it plain that my skills are lacking. I can’t accomplish the task you’ve set before me. Please. You have no need of me.”

  He studied her a moment as if she were a new puzzle to solve, a new mystery to unravel. Then he grimaced and his face softened. He held out his right arm and opened his hand, palm up. The iron burglar tools that he had held in his grasp vibrated and clinked with his hand tremors. His lips twitched in a sad parody of a smile, before his voice dropped to an intimate level. “On the contrary, I have a very great need of you and your abilities.”

  Her eyes widened. Her fatigue and frustration fled in the face of his wretched disgust at his own condition. She had suspected he hid a slight difficulty with the hand, but this . . .

  “You could not have opened Lord Pembroke’s safe with such a condition.” Her breath caught with a sudden realization. “You’re a fraud!”

  His face twisted and his brows lowered in protest. “I opened that safe well enough. My reputation as a master cracksman has been well earned.”

  She could attest his knowledge on such matters was considerable, given that so much of that knowledge had been forced on her as late. Though tempted to place her hands in his to calm the quivering, she suspected he would not appreciate the gesture. Instead, she hugged Shadow tighter to her chest in spite of his yowl of protest. “Surely then, this is a passing disorder.”

  He shook his head. “I first noticed a
tremor several months after I was freed from the emir’s dungeon.” He adverted his gaze and flinched ever so slightly, as if the mere mention of captivity brought back a physical pain.

  “At that time, it was slight, easy to hide. I could still trip a lock, but it took more focus, more concentration.” His fingers curled over the metal tools, masking the proof of his affliction, but his anguish remained etched in his expression. “Of recent, the tremors have gotten progressively worse and more difficult to hide. My superiors don’t realize that I no longer possess the famed ability to open any safe I encounter. ”

  He lifted his tormented gaze, branding her soul with his agony. His lips tightened. “No one realized . . . until now.”

  “I would never tell,” she said to his unasked question. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  “It appears we hold mutual secrets that could each cause the other harm.” His lips quirked. “Now that you are privy to my secret, perhaps you might extend to me a little bit of your trust, Miss Havershaw?”

  His deep brown eyes reflected a vulnerability that she would have never suspected earlier. Suddenly, his brutal insistence on constant practice made more sense. This was more than the whim of a demanding professor on a recalcitrant student. His very livelihood was threatened. Shame warmed her cheeks at her own failure to progress under his tutelage.

  “Stay, Lusinda,” he whispered. The need evident in those two words pulled at her heart. He searched her eyes as if the key to a mystery lay hidden there. She held his gaze, feeling a need of her own build deep inside.

  She was about to answer when a commotion outside the door interrupted. Locke hid the tools and his right hand in the pocket of his jacket. Lusinda quickly stepped away to a respectable distance when the anticipated rap sounded on the door.

  “Come.” Locke scowled.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt.” Pickering, Locke’s sometimes butler, sometimes valet, stood in the hallway with a peculiar smile on his face. She’d noticed that he was generally respectful and even affectionate toward Locke, but rarely even acknowledged her presence. “There’s a gentleman here who insists—”

  “Gentleman! Only a blind goat would call me a gentleman. ”

  The voice was familiar. She glanced to Locke and noted his demeanor instantly changed. His shoulders relaxed, while a grin split his face in two. Whoever belonged to the booming voice was an old friend, she surmised. Locke nodded to the smirking Pickering, who turned and left.

  “Locke, you old dog—” The newcomer glanced in her direction. “Hello . . . What have we here?”

  “Miss Havershaw,” Locke said, bowing slightly toward her, “allow me to introduce my oldest friend, Mr. Marcus Ramsden.”

  Her glance darted to Locke, horrified that he’d used her real name. She had thought that when the moment arrived when she had to be introduced, some fictional identity would be arranged. It was not a matter she could discuss, however, before a stranger. Her gaze returned to the newcomer.

  Ah, yes, the midnight caller from several nights ago. Of course, she had been transparent at the time so he wouldn’t recall their earlier encounter. Once again she was taken aback by his attractive appearance. The two men when together must have made an extraordinary pair, the boisterous Mr. Ramsden and the subdued Mr. Locke.

  “Miss Havershaw.” Ramsden gallantly bowed before her and extended his hand for hers. Unfortunately, she realized with a stab of embarrassment that her gloves lay on Locke’s desk. To offer her bare hand for his kiss . . .

  Shadow resolved the issue by swatting a paw at his extended hand. Ramsden laughed and glanced up at Lusinda.

  “Your friend appears to be a protective beast. Perhaps he knows my bite is worse than my bark.” He winked before straightening.

  Her cheeks heated. What must he think of her? Alone, in a bachelor’s house, behind closed doors, with gloves removed. She glanced to Locke, but he seemed unaware of her discomfort.

  “Locke, old man, I have stories to tell and a thirst to quench. I hadn’t realized you were otherwise engaged.” Ramsden slapped Locke on the back of his shoulder in a masculine greeting. Lusinda caught the slight wince in Locke’s eye, though the slap was not of an overtly forceful manner. “I had thought to invite you as I reacquaint myself with some of our old haunts, but as you seem to be occupied . . .”

  Lusinda stood and removed the gloves from the desk. “Please, there’s no need to leave on my account. It is time for me to return home.” Her gaze drifted up to Locke’s lifted brow. “I can see myself out.”

  Something in his gaze made her chest flutter beneath a suddenly too tight corset. He tilted his head in a most disarming way. He hid one arm behind his back, the one that shook at inopportune moments, while the other rested idly on his desk.

  “I will see you again, Miss Havershaw?”

  “I believe so, Mr. Locke.” She nodded, understanding his question was not a question at all, but a command. The stranger’s arrival gave her an excuse to leave the residence. She missed her family too much to pass on the unexpected opportunity. Locke may not like that she was taking advantage, but she smiled at him and left anyway.

  IT WAS ALL HE COULD DO NOT TO RUN AFTER HER. THE room seemed a darker, colder place without the warmth of her smile, the bright beauty of her golden hair, the scent of her exotic perfume. He stared at the door softly closing behind her.

  “Now that’s a nice bit of skirt,” Ramsden said after the knob turned back into place. “How cozy just the two of you. All alone in this empty house.”

  James’s spine stiffened, but he was careful to keep his annoyance from his face. “Were you planning to visit the Silken Chamber, or was it the Velvet Slipper this time?”

  Ramsden grinned, exposing two dimples in his cheeks. “For all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never known you to entertain a woman at your residence, at least not outside of a bedroom. ” His eyes narrowed. “She’s special to you, isn’t she?”

  The words smacked him as if he’d dunked his head in the horse trough. “Special to me? No, I wouldn’t say that.” He couldn’t say that. Entanglements of that nature were unsafe to both parties. “She has some unique qualities.” He averted his eyes and found a paperweight on the desk worthy of inspection. “But I’d hardly call her special.”

  “Good.” A slow smile spread across Ramsden’s face. “Then, you won’t mind if I call upon Miss Havershaw. I should like to sample some of her ‘unique qualities’ myself.”

  Ramsden’s gaze settled on the map spread upon the desk. His lips tightened as he casually ran his finger across the stretch from the Tigris River to the Indus. “If you’ve been entertaining Miss Havershaw with tales of central Asia, she might be ripe for some nonintellectual pursuits.”

  James set his teeth on edge, feeling a smoldering anger burn a path up his spine. It took a bit of effort not to wrap his hand around Marcus’s throat to make him eat those words. Still, anger would validate an attachment he wouldn’t allow himself. He waited a moment for his head to clear, then carefully rolled the map to remove it from view.

  “I don’t think Miss Havershaw’s qualities would be to your liking. Besides, you’ve mentioned an appetite for a woman of a different sort. There’s a new establishment on Haymarket that you might find rewarding.”

  Marcus narrowed his gaze. “I know you, Locke, better than your own mother. Have you forgotten that we spent a year in that hellhole in Bokhara? This one is special.”

  James chuckled. “A common dog would know me better than my mother. I was raised in an orphanage, remember?” James secured the rolled map in a marked tube, mindful that Marcus’s point was well taken. He did know him better than anyone else, and concealing his emotions would take extra vigilance.

  “In deference to our long-standing friendship, I shall keep my hands off the beautiful Miss Havershaw, but should I find her alone under a romantic full moon”—he twisted his lips in a leering smile—“all bets are off.”

  James couldn’t keep the smile
from his face. “Agreed.”

  “Unfortunately, I promised to go to some dreary piano recital this evening, and I had hoped you might keep me company, old man.”

  “Won’t the hostess insist upon some sort of invitation?” James asked, hoping that the lack of an invitation would ensure a quiet evening alone with Lusinda.

  “Bachelors are always welcome. More fodder for the flame. Indeed, I’m hoping your presence will take a little of the heat off of me.” He turned from his preening and looked over his shoulder. “You owe me. I saved your life. Remember?”

  James sighed, cognizant of the stripes on his back and the events that put them there. “How can I forget? If you’ll allow me the opportunity to freshen my attire, I’ll accompany you to . . .” He stood the map tube in the corner. “Where precisely are we going?”

  “Didn’t I mention?” Marcus issued a victorious smile. “The Farthingtons.”

  AFTER THE LONG DAY OF STRAINING TO TRIP STUBBORN tumblers into submission, Lusinda rejoiced in the handsome stranger’s interruption. She relaxed against the cushions in Locke’s well-sprung carriage, reflecting on how quickly her life had changed in the course of a week. Closeted away with Locke for several days, she’d had the opportunity to observe him, study him. Her original impression of intelligence was correct. One could see it, sense it really, in the easy manner he absorbed details, in his patience while she fumbled with his lessons of skill, in the soft quirk in his lips when her pronunciation mangled some Asian ruler’s name. He’d pretend that she mispronounced it on purpose in an effort to entertain them both, when in reality he must know she hadn’t mastered the language as well as he.

  He was gentle and kind when he was with her, but still there was something in his manner that suggested he was not at his ease, even in the library he so loved. He kept his distance almost as if he were afraid to touch her. Although, he certainly hadn’t been afraid to touch her the night he caught her in his net. Her lips turned up at the memory. Her gentle, confident, and distant Locke had been quite shocked when he confronted her bare chest with his nimble fingers. Fingers that could sense the slight shift in a tumbler with perfect acuity, or feel the subtle change in the density of wood that would signal a secret drawer or compartment. Did those fingers feel her response, she wondered? Did they feel the tingling transformation of the tip of her breast when it encountered his flesh?