“What the devil are you doing?”
She should have screeched, should have at least been startled, but she was becoming accustomed to that booming voice intruding when she was in the midst of contemplation. Besides, she was too enamored with what she’d discovered. She glanced to the mantel, but no clock rested there. Somewhere in her life was a mantel with a clock. A gold filigreed clock. A hideous thing that ticked far too loudly.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” she said.
After snatching the clipping from her fingers, he refolded and returned it to the box. “You have no right to go through my things.”
“I was looking for something and found that instead. Who is Robert Sykes?”
“A murderer.”
“Yes I rather gathered that from the newspaper account, but why would you keep it as though it were a treasured keepsake?”
“Perhaps I’m macabre.”
“No, I don’t think so. I believe it’s something personal, something with meaning.”
Slamming down the lid, he glared at her. “I do not explain my possessions. You are to leave them be.”
As he was avoiding her questions, she could only assume it was indeed most personal, but he wasn’t going to share it with her, no matter how many times she asked. She decided it was best to justify her actions, or at least those that could be justified. “I was searching for my account book.”
“Your what?”
“According to Mrs. Beeton, I’m supposed to keep a detailed record of things ordered, purchased, received. I don’t even know what my budget for the household is so I’m at quite a loss regarding what I can purchase.”
“I handle all the purchases.”
“But I’m the housekeeper.”
“You have enough duties without worrying about that.”
“You don’t trust me.”
“I am very particular about how my money is spent.”
He studied the desk for a moment, then walked over to the shelves, reached up, and placed the box on a shelf that she would be unable to reach without a stool. She didn’t bother to point out that it wasn’t safe there. If she wanted to look at it again, she could drag in a chair.
“I don’t understand our relationship,” she said instead. “I think you’re purposely keeping things from me in order to ensure I don’t regain my memories.”
He prowled toward her. An image flashed through her mind of his doing that while shadows closed in around them. She dropped down into the chair, pressed her back into it. Stopping, he hitched his hip onto the edge of the desk and leaned forward slightly. “What would I gain by such underhanded tactics?”
“You’ve come at me before like that.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You were—” She shook her head. “In formal attire. That makes no sense. I wouldn’t be at a formal affair … unless I was serving, I suppose.”
His gaze roamed over her, taking in each detail. She remembered that action from another time as well. In the background had been music … a waltz. But she didn’t fear this man. She trusted him. So why this sense of discomfiture? Especially after all he’d done for her, all she’d done for him.
Abruptly, he stood. “You’ll need your shoes. We’re going out.”
“Going out? Where?”
“In search of your memories.”
Chapter 14
He’d hired out a hansom cab. She couldn’t recall ever traveling in one although she couldn’t put much stock in her recollections since most were missing. She was, however, acutely aware that it was an incredibly small vehicle. He sat beside her, leaving no room between their hips, thighs, shoulders.
“I know etiquette,” she said quietly, the small confines immersing her in his intoxicating masculine scent with its hints of tobacco and whiskey. But beneath it all was the distracting fragrance of rugged man, his unique blend. “And proper comportment. In a carriage, the gentleman travels backward, allowing the lady to travel forward.”
“You’re assuming I’m a gentleman.”
“Aren’t you?”
“You’ve called me a scoundrel on occasion.”
“And still you kept me in your employ?”
He flashed a self-deprecating smile. “I don’t know what possessed me,” he uttered.
“You needed someone to tidy up after you.”
He chuckled low. “Have you not noticed I am the one doing most of the tidying up?”
She had noticed. He was very particular about it, constantly picking up her discarded articles of clothing and folding them neatly, putting them away. It occurred to her that he wouldn’t have a cluttered home even after he finally began to fill it with furniture. He would have only the pieces he needed. He required space; he required order. He required someone more adept at caring for things than she’d been since her tumble into the river. If she didn’t regain her memories soon he might be forced to let her go. Although she’d made some progress today with Marla’s assistance, she wasn’t certain she’d made enough to be valuable.
“So where precisely do you think we’re going to find my memories?” she asked.
“I’m not really sure. I spoke with Dr. Graves earlier—”
“Graves? What an unfortunate name for someone who is supposed to keep people from the graves.”
“Yes, I suspect there are times when he regretted choosing such a somber name.”
“Wasn’t he born with it?”
“I doubt it. He began his life on the streets during a time when names were changed on a whim. Regardless of that, however, he is remarkably skilled, so I sought his counsel. He suggested the familiar might stir your memories back to life. I thought it worth giving a try.”
“But shouldn’t you be at the club?”
“It’s still early in the evening. Most of the business comes later and this shouldn’t take long.”
She could tell by the curtness of his words that he was still out of sorts about the newspaper clipping. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
She felt his gaze home in on her. “I beg your pardon?”
Had he not heard her or were apologies from her foreign? Had he never heard her utter one before, as the words did seem odd on her tongue? Or did he not know what she was apologizing for?
“The box. I should have never opened it, should have left it be.”
“Yes, you should have let it alone. I suppose you have no recollection of Pandora and the harm she caused.”
She felt light-headed for a moment with the realization that she did indeed know the story. “Why would you keep that particular clipping and no other?”
Reaching up, he opened a hatch and shouted, “Here!”
The hansom came to a stop, and she wanted to scream because she knew he would ignore the question now. She heard the clank of the driver releasing the levers, and the doors sprang open. Drake stepped out, then reached in and took her hand. She’d placed her foot on the first step when he squeezed her hand, stilling her actions. They were on eye level now, something she doubted they often were. Little light was out this time of night, save the lantern hanging on the side of the cab, but it was enough for her to see into the coal-black depths of Drake’s eyes, to see his battle, to recognize when it had ended, and to wonder briefly why it appeared he’d lost.
“While you are striving to recall your past,” he replied quietly, “there are parts of mine that I would rather forget, and yet I believe it imperative that I not.”
“Was this Robert Sykes a friend of yours then?”
“No, never a friend.”
“Who then?”
“Leave it be, Phee.”
Only she didn’t know if she could. His eyes had held more than anger at her opening the box. She’d seen torment there. She wasn’t certain how she’d recognized it, only that she had experienced it herself before—shame, humiliation, pain. She wanted to console him, but instinctively she knew that would only worsen things between them. He was a man of immense pride, a man
with demons.
After handing her down, he took the lantern from a hook on the outside of the conveyance and led her off the road onto a path. As she spied the river, a shudder went through her. Taking her arm, he stopped her progress.
“There,” he said, pointing. “That’s where I found you.”
She could see the water lapping at the bank, so dark, so shadowy. It was a wonder he’d seen her at all. “How did you get me to your residence?”
“I carried you,” he said offhandedly. It wasn’t far, but still she thought it a great distance to carry someone. “Is anything familiar?”
“No.” She looked up and down the river, glanced around. Shook her head and repeated, “No.” She peered over at him. “Why were you out here walking?”
“This exercise isn’t about me.” He spun on his heel and started off so quickly that it took her a few seconds to realize he was done here. Perhaps he was done with her. She hurried after him, not able to catch up until he was already at the cab and hanging up the lantern. He held the door open for her.
“You can be quite vexing,” she said as she stepped into the conveyance and settled on the seat.
“St. James,” he called up to the driver before settling himself beside her.
This time without alarm or disquiet she accepted his body touching hers. She wouldn’t admit it to him but she found comfort in his nearness. Being so close to the river had unsettled her, formed a cold knot in the center of her stomach. Something had happened there, something she didn’t think she wanted to remember.
“Perhaps the secret to unlocking the door to my memories is through you,” she said. “If you were to share more about yourself, rather than striving to remain so mysterious, everything I know might suddenly gush forth.”
“Nice try, sweetheart.” She could hear the humor laced in his voice. She liked it. She liked when he wasn’t quite so somber and serious.
“Sweetheart is an endearment and I don’t believe I am endeared to you in any manner whatsoever.”
“Yet here I am giving you time that should go to my club.”
“Because you want me properly tending to your needs.”
Since they were crammed together, she was quite aware of his stiffening beside her, and she wondered what in her words had caused the reaction.
“What do you know of my needs?” he said, his voice low and dark.
“I know you need your clothes laundered and your bed made and your boots polished. Mrs. Beeton obviously had a dislike for idle hands. Mine shall be truly busy from dawn ’til dusk and then some.”
“You’re not to do anything that causes you to hurt yourself further. I don’t have time to be tending your wounds.”
“You’re so gruff, but I believe you’re all growl and no bite.”
“Oh, I bite, sweetheart. Ladies beg for it.”
Something dark and tempting wove through his rough voice and caused a pleasant shiver to race through her. She should let it go, and yet, curiosity, the cat, and all that. “Why would ladies want to be bitten?”
He lowered his head, as much as he was able in their cramped confines, and she inhaled the maleness that was him, all him. “Doesn’t hurt. A little nip on the lobe, the lips, the collarbone. It can be quite provocative if done right.”
“Bite me and you’ll find that I scratch.”
Chuckling darkly, he straightened. “As though I didn’t already know that.”
“Have you tried to bite me?”
“If I had you’d have remembered.”
“When I had forgotten everything else, I’d have remembered that? Are you that arrogant?”
“I’m that good of a lover.”
She was finding it very difficult to draw in air. How had the conversation gotten off course? “Why St. James?” she asked, striving to sound nonchalant, not to give the impression that she was on the verge of asking for a nibble. “Why are we going there?”
“Some of your references came from people who lived in the area. I don’t know the exact residences but I thought perhaps you would see something that would spark a memory.”
Taking a shaky breath, she wondered why she was suddenly dreading what she might discover.
It took everything within Drake not to yell up to the driver to release the blasted doors so he could leap out and run until his muscles ached, until he collapsed in exhaustion, until he was too tired to be so acutely aware of the woman next to him. He’d never been coiled so tightly in his life. She didn’t have her perfume and yet he could still smell the orchids. Her thigh, her hip were pressed to his. When they hit a rut in the road, his arm brushed up against her breast. When she had mentioned taking care of his needs, his mind had raced up a path that it should have steered clear of. He’d almost taken that lobe that was visible—because her hair was pulled back in a braid—and worried it between his teeth until she was moaning for him to never stop. The Ophelia he knew would have slapped him for his innuendos but Phee—Phee, bless her—was too innocent to know better.
He had no business talking to her as he had.
Until she regained her memories she was too naive, too easily taken advantage of. For all of Ophelia’s harshness, she was no fool. She knew how to stand up for herself. Until he knew for certain she would be safe, he couldn’t return her to Somerdale. He had considered taking her to the Duchess of Greystone, but a part of him wasn’t yet ready to let her go. She was in no danger as long as she was with him.
With her there, his residence echoed less. He found himself beginning to like the woman who was in the hansom with him. Perhaps being with him was dangerous after all—dangerous to them both.
They traveled through random streets. He didn’t feel that he could very well point out the home in which she resided with her brother because then he would have to explain about her brother and she would no doubt want to go inside. Nor could he point out Mabry House where she had often visited with Grace. Pointing out anything at all meant explaining. If she remembered on her own, he would release her. If not—
She cooked one hell of a pheasant.
“There’s a park near here, isn’t there?” she asked, dragging him from his thoughts.
“Yes. Do you remember it?” He wanted to help her remember, and yet he experienced a tinge of disappointment that perhaps tonight he would return her home. That her fragrance would no longer be wafting through his residence, that she would no longer smile at him. That everything between them would return to what it had been.
“Not really. But can I see it?”
He called up to the driver to take them to St. James Park. This time of night it would be fairly empty. When the cab came to a stop at the park’s entrance, she simply sat staring at it, not moving a muscle, and yet he was acutely aware of the tenseness vibrating around her as though she dreaded regaining her memory.
What the bloody hell had happened?
Finally she released a long slow breath through slightly parted lips. “Perhaps it would help to walk for a bit.”
Her voice was faint and he wondered if she was hoping he wouldn’t hear her.
“We can if you want to,” he said. “Or we can carry on.”
She turned to him. The streetlamps provided enough light that he could see the well of tears in her eyes. His chest tightened painfully. He didn’t want to see her as vulnerable. He didn’t want to see her scared.
“I’m not certain I want to remember,” she said softly. “Yet I don’t want to be a coward. For some reason, it’s more important to me not to be seen as cowardly. I think I’ve done things before that I didn’t want to do, but I did them because I was told that I must.” He heard her swallow, saw her nod. “I must go into the park.”
Her resolve astounded him. Had she always possessed it? “I’ll go with you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Whatever demons you think you might face in there, you’re not going to face them alone. Besides, my legs are cramping from these close confines. They’re in
need of a stretch.”
“Why do you strive so hard not to appear kind when you are indeed very nice?”
Because he had spent a lifetime living in a world where he had feared revealing his true self. With her especially he’d put up an additional wall. It kept threatening to crumble and he had to reerect it. Rather than answer her, he knocked on the roof and the driver released the latch holding the doors secure. Drake stepped out, handed her down, then grabbed the lantern. Without thought he offered her his arm. Without thought she took it.
Phee took it. Ophelia never would have. Where did one lady end and the other begin? Were memories so crucial?
They walked in silence for long moments. He assumed she was drinking in her surroundings. He wasn’t concerned that the people they passed would recognize her. She was not dressed as a lady. He was not dressed in aristocratic finery. No one would give them a first glance, much less a second. Besides, most of the aristocracy would be at some dreadful ball or boring dinner tonight. Her absence would be noted. Her brother would explain she was in the country.
He should have had Gregory check with a servant on the health of the aunt. He supposed he could send him back. Or he could wait and see if she remembered.
He enjoyed walking beside her, this woman who did not hold her posture so stiffly and yet she did not slouch. He imagined she had spent long hours walking with a book perched on her head. A slackness characterized her gait as though she knew she wasn’t on display, being watched. She had no need to put on airs. He wondered if he’d ever known the true Lady O. He’d questioned why Grace would hold her as a dear friend. Perhaps they each saw a different side of the same woman.
“Is it familiar?” he asked.
“Yes, I’ve walked here before but I can’t remember with whom. Someone I cared for. Only if I really cared for him would I have forgotten him?”
“Dark hair?”
“I can’t recall his features at all. To be honest I don’t even know if it’s a man. Could be a woman. I know I laughed. I yearn to laugh again. I love to laugh. I’d like to hear you laugh.”
Once More, My Darling Rogue Page 16