Twelfth Moon

by Lori Villarreal

  Not him.

  His gaze was sharp, intelligent, assessing, sending a quiver running down Emily’s spine. She fought the impulse to run her trembling fingers down the front of her plain gown, to raise them to check her bonnet, to reassure herself that not one stray hair had escaped. The bonnet was the ugliest contraption known to mankind – or womankind – but her goal was to obtain the services of an investigator, not model for a fashion plate.

  She’d come here looking for Mr. Roger Bellamy.

  He stood, unfurling from his large chair, his lithe movements reminding her of a dangerous predator, so very confident in its position at the top of the food chain.

  “And what is it, Miss Templeton, you wish me to investigate?”

  His voice was deep and rich as melted chocolate.

  She bolstered her courage. This was for Uncle Tobias. Her heart lurched with the familiar pain one feels at the loss of a loved one. She was no stranger to the feeling, having lost her mother at a young age, and then years later, her father. It’s the kind of sorrow that while no less devastating when fresh, only becomes muted with the passage of time.

  She had to do this…she owed her dear uncle that much.

  “Murder, Mr. Bellamy.” She held his gaze unflinchingly.

  “Murder? Ah, I can see by the look on your face that you’re serious. And who’s the unlucky person to have gotten himself murdered?”

  “My uncle.”

  “Your uncle,” he replied in that decadent voice. “Did he have many enemies that would wish to do him in?”

  Emily shivered involuntarily, for a moment feeling apprehensive about procuring the services of this man. That scar lent such a sinister quality to his countenance. His posture projected an air of underlying menace, one she was sure wasn’t just a surface affectation. Self-possession rippled off him in waves, along with the impression of a warning that seemed to say, “Don’t get too close.”

  She held no illusions that this man wasn’t capable of a great many things – dangerous things. She’d felt it from the very first moment she’d crossed the threshold of his office. It was in the way he held his head, the rigid line of his shoulders, the intensity of his stare.

  But it was the knowledge of this side of him, and his reputation for success, however, that she’d sought him out in the first place.

  Of course a man like Mr. Bellamy would ask about enemies. It was his line of work, after all – his forte. Snapping her attention back from her musings, Emily answered his question with barely leashed indignation. “My uncle was a scholar, Mr. Bellamy. He had no enemies.”

  “It’s always a possibility that one has enemies one may not be aware of,” he drawled.

  “I must concede your point, sir, since the one who murdered him was obviously no friend of his.”

  Mr. Bellamy motioned to the chair facing his desk. “Please sit down, Miss Templeton.”

  After waiting for her to be seated, he lowered himself into his own chair.

  Emily sat, adjusting her drab skirts, smoothing out the wrinkles, and then rested her hands in her lap. When she looked up, she found him staring at her. His unswerving gaze made her want to squirm like a child in the schoolroom being confronted by a stern governess. Mr. Bellamy was a most astoundingly handsome man – one could even say he was beautiful in a dark, fallen angel sort of way. She suspected there was a Spanish conquistador lurking somewhere in his lineage.

  Without dropping his gaze, he moved aside the only object on the desk besides the ink bottle and pen – the paper he’d been writing on when she’d walked in. Apparently it was to make room for his elbows, which he rested on the surface of the desk. He formed a steeple with his long, well-shaped fingers.

  She had his undivided attention.

  He most definitely had her undivided attention.

  “Maybe you should start at the beginning,” he suggested. “Before I agree to take on your case, I need to hear the details.”

  She swallowed past the annoying lump that had formed in her throat, licking her lips before beginning her story. There was an almost imperceptible flash in his piercing blue eyes when she did so.

  “Very well, then,” she began in a surprisingly steady voice. “It’s a relatively short story, really. A week ago I returned home from an errand in the village and found my uncle slumped in his chair, dead.”

  “And why do you believe he was murdered?”

  “There was this artifact, a very valuable artifact, which was missing from its usual storage place. It was there when I left and when I returned to find my uncle murdered, it was gone.”

  “An accusation of murder is serious business, Miss Templeton. What did the local magistrate have to say on the matter?”

  Emily snorted softly, waving her hand in dismissal before replying, “He ruled it a death by natural causes, more concerned about the pint of ale waiting for him at the local tavern than getting to the truth.”

  His sober mouth quivered at one corner. Was he laughing at her? And how would she know? There was barely a crack in his unbreakable expression. She maintained her prim and proper posture, perched on the edge of the chair, her spine straight as a lamp post. Her ability to keep her composure even under the most dire of circumstances had always been something she’d prided herself on.

  “So you believe whoever the thief was that stole the artifact, also killed your uncle?”

  “I don’t just believe it, Mr. Bellamy, I know it,” Emily answered with conviction.

  “Was there any sign of a struggle?” he asked. “Anything else out of place, or missing?”

  “No, nothing. Well, there was one thing that I found peculiar,” she said. Her brows knit together as she gathered her thoughts. “There was a small red mark on his neck, just below the ear, here.” She placed her fingers on her own neck to demonstrate the area she was describing. “It looked rather like a bee sting.”

  His attention seemed to be drawn to her slender neck, to the spot where she’d indicated, and Emily suddenly wondered what it would be like to have him place a kiss there. Somehow, she was certain it would elicit a breathy sigh of pleasure. Good Lord. Where had that come from? What was wrong with her?

  “Maybe he was stung by a bee and had a reaction.” His voice had lowered an octave. “It has been known to happen.”

  That voice of his, rich and hypnotic, stroked her senses in a most alarming fashion. And it was quite distracting the way his mouth vied for her attention. She had to mentally shake herself into concentrating more fully on the discussion. “I know for a fact he is not allergic to bee stings.”

  “It’s possible that he was poisoned,” Mr. Bellamy said. “But, it’s also possible he did die of natural causes, just as the magistrate ruled.”

  “I’m convinced his death was the result of foul play. Will you take the case?” Emily was impatient to hear his answer. Everything – her entire life, it seemed, depended on finding that artifact.

  “Have you no other relatives to turn to?” he asked. “No—” He hesitated. “—man in your life - a fiancé perhaps?”

  “No. No fiancé.” Several years ago she’d taken measures to prevent such an occurrence, ever since she’d experienced first hand what sort of effect her outward appearance could have on the opposite sex. Her dowdy exterior was a ruse that had so far successfully served its purpose.

  And now, at six and twenty, Emily was too independent, too scholarly for a woman, and she had no fortune. And since she’d already decided never to marry, her situation in life didn’t really bother her. Her devotion to her uncle and his research had taken her beyond the age for a coming out, to have a season – and as it were, to find a husband.

  Her uncle’s work had kept her so busy she’d had no time to think about marriage. Emily had quite enjoyed working with her uncle – was comforted by the routine, stimulated by the challenge. The rigid discipline of researching a subject gave her a sense of control over her small world, and she’d been in no hurry to give that up to a husband.<
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  Either way, her age, combined with her lack of fortune, eliminated her as marriageable material. Well, she was determined to remedy that situation. The fortune part of it, anyway. The sale of the artifact would bring enough to live in modest comfort for the rest of her life.

  “I’m on my own in this,” she continued, “and I’m determined to find my uncle’s killer as well as the artifact.”

  “My services don’t come cheap.”

  “Name your price, Mr. Bellamy.”

  He named his price.

  She agreed without hesitation.

  There was only the slightest of changes in his expression as he lifted one slashing-black eyebrow. “You are aware that the amount you just agreed to is only for the retainer fee, the remainder due upon completion of the investigation?”

  “Yes, of course,” Emily replied without blinking.

  He narrowed his eyes. “You will be responsible for the cost of my services, plus any additional expenses incurred along the way. You do have the funds, don’t you?”

  “I understand fully. Will you take the case or not?”

  He studied her for a moment longer before replying. “Yes, Miss Templeton, I’ll take the case.”

  Emily released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, brightening at the prospect of finally finding her uncle’s murderer, along with the artifact. “Very good, then.” She held out her gloved hand over the desk toward him.

  Mr. Bellamy stared at her outstretched hand as if it were an oddity on display at a traveling carnival. Emily had often seen her uncle and his cronies do the same when entering into an agreement, and felt it was the appropriate thing to do. Belatedly, she realized the gesture was unacceptable, a breach of womanly manners and etiquette. Her cheeks flamed at her mistake.

  His face showed no evidence of disapproval, but his hesitation and the way he gazed at her suspended hand, made her want to snatch it back. But then his eyes turned the color of the Egyptian sky at high noon, burning through her kid glove like the hot sands of the desert. Suddenly, the air in the room seemed heavy and stagnant, time halting with a barely whispered hush.

  Heat traveled up her arm to the rest of her body, a flash of fire rushing to her belly. And before she could retract the offending appendage, Mr. Bellamy reached over, clasping her hand in a firm grasp. She’d thought his gaze warm…his hand was like a branding iron, nearly searing her skin to cinders right through the thin leather. My goodness!

  “We have an agreement, Miss Templeton,” Mr. Bellamy said huskily. He released her hand as they both stood, time resuming its normal pattern of forward motion. “I’ll need a list of all your uncle’s acquaintances. Every single one, even if you believe them to be insignificant.”

  “Yes, of course, I’ll get on it straight away,” Emily said as she prepared to leave. She felt strangely out of sorts from her unexpected reaction to him. “I thank you, Mr. Bellamy, for agreeing to help me.”

  His expression suddenly turned hard and forbidding. “I’m not agreeing to help you, Miss Templeton,” he said in a wintry voice that matched the frigidness of his pale eyes. “I’m agreeing to accept your payment in exchange for services rendered.”

  Emily straightened her spine – outwardly this time – in an attempt to make herself appear taller than she really was. The effect was lost, however, since the top of her head barely reached his chin. He seemed quite perturbed at the moment, for reasons she couldn’t even begin to fathom.

  She bristled at his sudden change in demeanor, putting her on the defensive, making her feel like she needed to exert some form of authority. “I’m quite aware that you are being paid for your services, Mr. Bellamy and, quite exorbitantly, I might add,” she said curtly. “Just remember that you work for me.” With that, she turned and walked briskly from the room, leaving him staring at her retreating back.

  “Just remember that you work for me.” Emily nearly groaned aloud. Good Lord, what had come over her? Everything had gone well until she’d blurted that nonsense! Unfortunately, the years she’d spent working with her father and uncle in a male dominated arena had influenced her personality in ways that were not always considered suitable.

  She was accustomed to digging in crates, cataloging artifacts, and researching antiquities. She was more comfortable with the many intellectual debates she’d had with Uncle Tobias and his colleagues than was spending time with younger people. On their expedition to Egypt, she’d organized their travel plans, hiring guides and workers, and ordering supplies – everything a male assistant would have done. Her uncle hadn’t seemed to notice – or care – that she was a woman. He collaborated with her as though she was his equal and, in turn, everyone from his learned friends to the lowest worker took their cues from him, treating her with the same respect.

  Except one man.

  There was one man from her past who hadn’t respected her at all. And it was because of him and his actions that she was now uncomfortable around handsome men. She didn’t trust them – didn’t trust their motives.

  Emily was definitely not used to a man like Mr. Bellamy. But she had just hired him, so in effect, didn’t that make him…dare she say it – or think it, rather…her employee? He certainly didn’t appear to be the kind of man to be ordered, or controlled.

  A rush of guilt assailed her for the lie she’d perpetrated. She had enough to pay for the retainer, but as for the rest of it – well, she just hoped that medallion was found. She would have the money as soon as she found the relic and a buyer. Mr. Bellamy just didn’t need to know that at the moment.

  She was desperate to find her uncle’s killer. Uncle Tobias was a gentle scholar who wouldn’t have harmed a soul and now it was her duty to find whoever had committed the crime, and bring him to justice.

  She just didn’t want to find out what Mr. Bellamy would do if she couldn’t pay him in the end. She shivered at the thought as she bustled through the labyrinth of hallways and out onto the sidewalk, the gray, two-dimensional sky reflecting her abrupt change in mood.

  “JUST REMEMBER THAT you work for me.” Why, that little termagant! And yet what a sweet morsel she’d turned out to be. When she’d first entered his office, Roger had barely glanced at her. But her straight posture and direct eye contact had caused him to take a second look. Her frumpy gown and wrapped head hadn’t fooled him one bit. He knew there was a beautiful, passionate woman lying dormant beneath that dowdy affectation.

  And if she had the sort of money it took to pay him, why did she dress so plainly? If she had the money. She had better, or he would take it out of her luscious hide, which actually sounded like a much better way of extracting payment. He would discover the truth about Miss Templeton in due course.

  It sounded like her uncle had died of natural causes. Roger wondered if she were possibly unbalanced. She hadn’t looked unbalanced. Her gaze had been clear and steady, possessing a sharp intelligence rarely found in any female he’d ever known.

  He thought of the way she’d reached over his desk to shake hands like a gentleman would and, decided the gesture was charming, rather than vulgar, coming from a woman. He admired her tenacity, as well as the way her mouth formed that perfect rosebud when it wasn’t pressed in a grim line. She was such a small thing, yet possessed an intelligent confidence that was inexplicably alluring.

  But Roger had detected an almost imperceptible flicker of hesitation in her eyes when he’d named his price. Most people would never have noticed it. His highly attuned senses picked it up as if her thoughts had formed written words on a sheet of vellum.

  How did a woman who wore such unfashionable attire come up with the amount of money he asked? The cost of his services was high for a reason. He was the best. His ability to read people had always come naturally and, in more than one instance, had even saved his life.

  Did she have the blunt? Her direct stare indicated her earnestness, but what he’d seen in her eyes told him that she was holding something back.

  She’
d been dressed in a plain brown wool gown with an endless number of buttons all the way up to her chin. The hideous bonnet she wore on her head covered every strand of hair like a nun’s habit. It had forced him to acknowledge her deep brown eyes and the exquisite fullness of her lips, which revealed a row of straight, white teeth whenever she’d spoken.

  His loins had tightened in an age-old response, which surprised him. She’d been costumed like an aging spinster twice her age, yet there was something about her that had intrigued him. He’d sensed that beneath the slightly loose material was a body lush and ripe, with womanly curves in all the right places. And when she’d described the mark on her uncle’s neck by pointing to her own, he’d wanted to put his mouth there and taste her.

  But what he’d really wanted to do was kiss those soft lips, and strip that ugly gown off to see if what lay beneath it was what his imagination had conjured. He was certain her skin would be smooth as satin, and would taste like peaches and cream. He would lick every inch of her, taking extra care with her deliciously rounded breasts. Her hair color was a mystery, though, covered as it was. It was difficult to guess by the brown shade of her brows and sable lashes that seemed too long and thick to be real.

  The woman was an oddity, and he had no explanation for his reaction to her.

  He had to get a grip on this attraction to her. Better to nip it in the bud now – stay cool and businesslike. No sense in encouraging any fanciful notion she might have of knights in shining armor.

  Roger wondered why, after all these years, he could be so intrigued by such a nondescript woman. What was it about this dowdy woman that elicited such an uncharacteristic response from him? It had been years since he’d allowed a woman to affect him this way.

  Not since…her.

  But Miss Templeton wasn’t so nondescript, not upon closer observation, that is. She was like a delicious present, wrapped in a plain brown wrapper. There was an aura of secrecy about her that was artless in its surety. It was there, just under the surface.