“That is correct. There are portals scattered across the globe—” Madame airily waved her hand—“Marrakech, Constantinople, Florence, Cairo, New York, of course, and—”
“How about you send me back to the future right now and we call it a day? Sound like a plan?”
At hearing the detective’s earnest appeal, Lettitia’s stomach muscles painfully tightened. She had a dreaded fear that Madame might acquiesce to his demand. Although he was a bore, albeit a heroic one, Detective Giovanni had thus far shown greater investigatory skill than Inspector Abberline at the Whitechapel police station.
“Because Lettitia has urgent need of you, you shall return to the future in seven days’ time,” Madame Mazursky informed the detective as she deposited the time device in her ivory strongbox. “For your convenience, you may have the use of my landau during your stay here in London. And, of course, Babu will be at your service.”
“Bob-boo? Who the hell is Bob-boo?”
“Madame Mazursky’s coachman,” Lettitia answered testily. Turning to their hostess, she eased a smile onto her lips. “Your kindness is greatly appreciated. Having a vehicle at our disposal will enable us to conduct our investigation in a more efficient manner.”
“Whoa. Hold up. Did you just say our investigation? Who said anything about you helping with—”
“I believe it was implied,” Lettitia said above the detective’s stentorian bellow.
“Forget it. Nothing doing. You can hit the road, lady. The last thing I need is you tagging along, looking down your snoot, second-guessing everything I do.”
Detecting an insult buried within his gibberish, her ire rose another notch. “Enlighten me, sir. What, pray tell, is a ‘snoot’?”
“Children, children!” Madame chastised, clucking her tongue. “I insist that you use a civil tone with one another.”
Ignoring their hostess’ call for a détente, Lettitia stormed over to where the detective stood on the other side of the room.
“Shall I tell you why you need my assistance?” she goaded, defiantly thrusting her chin into the air.
Putting his hands on his hips, Detective Giovanni sniggered, “Oh, this should be good. I’m waiting with bated breath.”
“For your information, I have uncovered a vitally important clue that could very well help us find Emmaline.”
The smirk instantly vanished from the detective’s face. “What did you find?”
“Yesterday, I discovered Emmaline’s locket in a pawn shop window on Commercial Street. Given that it was Sunday and the shop was closed, I could not inquire as to how the shopkeeper acquired the locket.”
“How long will it take us to get to this pawn shop?”
Pleased that Detective Giovanni used the word “us,” Lettitia said, “With Madame’s vehicle at our disposal, no more than thirty minutes.”
“Then let’s nab Bob-boo and make tracks.”
Her expression having turned noticeably solemn, Madame Mazursky placed a restraining hand on each of their shoulders. “You do need one another. Remember, you have only seven days.”
Chapter 4
“Thank you, Molly. That will be all for now.”
Finished dismissing the chambermaid, Lettitia closed her bedroom door. Briefly resting her forehead against the door, she exhaled a pent-up sigh of relief. It had been hours since she last had the luxury of a few stolen moments to herself. Time spent with Detective Giovanni frazzled her nerves; the man tested her at every turn.
While anxious to interview the pawnshop owner regarding Emmaline’s locket, she’d proposed that they first stop at her Uncle Phidias’s townhouse. True to character, the detective had balked at the suggestion, only yielding after she’d pointed out that his unusual attire would attract unwanted attention.
Walking over to the window, Lettitia pulled aside the heavy drapery and stared pensively at the row of red brick townhouses on the other side of Pont Street. Although born and raised in Kent, she’d long considered London her home, having taken up residence with her mother’s older sibling, Phidias Darhypple, several years ago. Wounded in the Crimean War, her uncle was a semi-invalid and rarely left the Knightsbridge home, his sanctum sanctorum, as he called it. Lettitia loved him dearly. Unlike the other members of her family, Uncle Phidias gave her free rein to do and say whatever she pleased.
Which was why she wasn’t the least bit surprised when he’d welcomed Detective Giovanni into their household with a jovial slap on the back, clearly pleased to have a male visitor in the house. Lettitia suspected that her uncle would keep the detective up half the night, plying him with brandy and regaling him with his vast repertoire of war stories.
Unbuttoning her gray kid gloves, Lettitia laid them on top of the bureau. She then removed the moonstone-studded pin that secured the black toque to the top of her head, carefully setting her hat beside her gloves. She next undid the row of jet buttons that ran down the front of her Directoire jacket. Hazarding a glance in the mirror, she noticed that her cheeks were stained with heightened color. Since traveling through the time portal, it seemed that she’d been wearing a perpetual blush.
Disconcerted by her flushed appearance, Lettitia seated herself at the dressing table. Opening the top drawer, she retrieved a small, silver case from which she extracted a slender cigarette. Sliding it under her nostrils, she sniffed appreciatively; the heady scent of her favorite blend was as fragrant as any perfume. From a smaller case, she withdrew a match and struck it, wrinkling her nose at the sulfuric burst.
Shoulders slumping ever so slightly, she closed her eyes as the pungent smoke filled her lungs. Given her rank and position, she would be ruined if anyone ever discovered that she smoked the occasional cigarette. Not only was smoking a guilty pleasure, it was a forbidden one as well.
Hearing a knock at the door, Lettitia willfully chose to ignore it, confident that the maid would not enter the room unbidden. As a calming wave washed over her, she closed her eyes, luxuriating in the self-indulgent moment. Tobacco was a panacea, a soothing balm that—
“Bus-ted!”
At hearing a deep-throated, sing-songy voice, Lettitia’s eyes snapped open. Smirking like a jackanapes, Detective Giovanni plucked the cigarette from her lips.
“What are you doing in here?” she shrieked, lunging to her feet.
“Making sure this thing is legal.” Still grinning, he stuck the cigarette between his lips.
“I have committed no crime. It is merely social convention that forbids women from smoking,” she retorted, outraged by the trespass. “Although I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to learn that a narrow-minded jurist had enacted a legal prohibition.”
The detective yanked the cigarette from his mouth. “What kind of tobacco is in this thing anyway?”
“It is a blend of Virginia and Russian tobacco,” she informed him. As he continued smoking, Lettitia watched, fascinated, as the muscles in his cleanly shaven cheeks flexed ever so slightly with each inhalation.
“You wanna join me?” he asked, holding the cigarette aloft.
Wondering at his game, she shook her head. “As I said, it is a forbidden pleasure.”
“Those are the best kind.” In tantalizing slow motion, he moved the cigarette back and forth in front of her lips. “I won’t tell if you don’t tell.”
For some inexplicable reason, Lettitia suddenly felt like Eve in the Garden.
Annoyed, she slapped his hand away. “That is surely a one-sided enticement if ever there was. You are a man. You can smoke as many cigarettes in public as you like.”
“Actually, I can’t. I gave ’em up about a year ago and—Damn. What am I doing?” Muttering under his breath, the detective leaned over and crushed the smoldering cigarette in a crystal dish. “You, lady, are having a detrimental effect on my health.”
She lifted her nose in the air, not about to accept blame for his weakness. “I did not force you to smoke that cigarette.”
“Yeah, just like you didn’t force me
to travel through the time portal.”
“I have had quite enough of that conversation for one day. Surely, there are better things to talk—Good heavens! You closed the bedroom door,” she exclaimed shrilly, having been unaware until that moment that they were sequestered behind closed doors. It would be scandal enough if she was caught smoking a cigarette; to be caught with an unmarried man behind a closed bedroom door would turn her into a social pariah. “Have you lost your mind? Why didn’t you leave the door open when you entered the room?”
“Why do you think?” Waggling an eyebrow, he said, “It’s so I can have my way with you.”
At hearing that, Lettitia grabbed the edge of the dressing table, afraid that her legs would buckle beneath her. “You go too far, sir!”
The fiend actually had the audacity to chuckle, clearly amused by her flustered state. “Jeez, you take everything so literally. You need to learn how to take a joke.”
Annoyed with his insolence, Lettitia folded her arms over her chest. “That does not answer my question: Why did you enter my bedroom unannounced?”
“Hey, it’s not like I didn’t knock. Since I can’t find Porter, I came to ask you what I’m supposed to do with this thing.” He lifted one side of the striped tie that hung limply around his stiffened shirt collar. Her uncle’s valet had managed to put together a suitable wardrobe. While the cut of his gray-striped trousers and black frock coat were hardly au currant, at least he was presentable now.
Thinking his quandary without merit, she shrugged and said, “You tie it, of course.”
“Duh. I know that. I just don’t know how to knot this kind of—Oh, never mind.” He yanked off the offending accessory and flung it onto her bed. “I hate wearing those things anyway.”
“I will ring for Porter,” she told him, choosing to ignore the outburst. The day was nearly half over and they’d spent a good deal of the time arguing with one another.
“I don’t need a valet. I can dress myself,” he muttered disagreeably, not nearly as amused now that the joke was at his expense.
“Nonetheless, I shall send Porter to your room. If we are to question the pawnshop owner before the close of the business day, we mustn’t tarry. We have only seven days to find Emmaline. If she isn’t located within the week, I fear that—” Catching herself at the last, Lettitia clamped her mouth shut. She refused to put so dreadful a thought into words.
Reminded anew that her sister had vanished without a trace, she took a deep, fortifying breath, trying to stave off the sting of tears. For the past three months, a dark fear had lodged within her heart. A sinister intruder that continually lurked, threatening to tear her asunder.
The detective placed a solicitous hand on her shoulder. “Hey, we’re gonna find her, okay?”
“Ever since Emmaline disappeared I’ve felt like Sisyphus, eternally condemned to push the boulder up the hill, only to watch it continually roll back down.” As she spoke, a tear slipped loose from its mooring.
Without uttering a word, Detective Giovanni swiped a finger across her cheek, catching the errant tear.
“Forgive me,” she murmured.
“For what? A few stray tears? Happens to the best of us. What you need is a little tension-busting massage.” Spinning her around so that her back was to him, he began to knead her shoulders.
Although Lettitia knew that she should rebuke him for touching her person in so intimate a fashion, she could not bring herself to do so. Instead, she took the comfort that he freely gave. Since her sister’s disappearance, he was the first person to have offered any.
As he continued to massage her shoulders, neither of them spoke, the silence alleviated only by the ticking of the mantel clock.
Lettitia closed her eyes as a small, contented sigh escaped her lips. To her consternation, as one type of tension eased, another took its place. In fact, she was acutely aware of a strange, pleasurable heat coursing through her lower body.
Somewhat awkwardly, she turned around and placed a restraining hand on Detective Giovanni’s forearm. “Thank you, sir. That is a sufficient amount of—”
Just then, the bedroom door was flung wide open. Molly, her arms laden with a stack of fresh linens, stood in the doorway. At catching sight of the two of them in a near embrace, the maid loudly gasped.
As did Lettitia.
Horrified to have been caught in such a compromising position, Lettitia turned to Molly and said, “Have Babu bring the carriage around. We shall depart in fifteen minutes.”
* * *
The landau carriage forcefully rocked from side to side as one of the wheels struck another pothole.
“You know, I’ve got a funny feeling Babu doesn’t know how to drive this thing,” Mick muttered, the last pothole nearly throwing his back out of alignment.
Sitting on the opposite carriage seat, Lettitia idly picked a piece of lint off of her brown striped skirt. “I can not say with complete certainty that he does.”
Mick groaned, unnerved by the idea of a ninety-pound Indian guy handling two thousand pounds of horseflesh. “Thanks for the reassurance.”
“Though he does seem to be improving somewhat.”
“Yeah, that was a close call with those folks coming out of the church, what with the bride having to hike her skirts up to her knees so that she could leap out of the way.”
Lettitia put a gloved hand to her mouth to stifle a ladylike giggle. “An incident that is perhaps best forgotten.”
To Mick’s unmitigated surprise, he found the sight of that gloved hand touching those incredibly beautiful lips highly erotic. So erotic, in fact, he had to pull his caped overcoat over his lap. Ever since he’d caught Lettitia red-handed with the cigarette, he’d been in a state of semi-arousal.
“I knew if I worked hard enough eventually I’d get a laugh out of you,” he said, trying his damnedest to ignore the insistent throb in his pants. No easy undertaking given that the object of his desire was sitting a mere arm’s length from him.
Lettitia smiled, a dimple making an unexpected appearance on her left cheek. “Truly, sir, I am not the ogress that you believe me to be.”
“I never said that you were,” he countered, willing to let bygones be just that. “And while we’re setting the record straight, I’m not the overbearing tyrant that you had me pegged for.”
“That remains to be seen,” she retorted, the dimple in her cheek deepening.
From out of nowhere, Mick had an X-rated vision of his tongue laving her dimple.
He shook his head to clear the sexual fog, at a loss to understand the attraction. The last person he’d want to get it on with was Lettitia Merryweather. Yeah, sure, she had an incredible rack and a mouth that looked like it could suck a man dry. But given that she was an old maid, she was more than likely—
Christ. A bead of sweat trickled down his brow, as Mick surmised that Lettitia was a virgin. That realization, along with another lurid fantasy about her lips on his body, produced a serious, blood thumping, pulse-racing hard-on, the likes of which would embarrass him to no end if he had to remove the overcoat from his crotch any time soon.
A split second later, proving that God does, indeed, have a perverse sense of humor, the carriage came to careening halt.
“I believe we have reached our destination,” Lettitia chirped, all smiles.
Tossing his overcoat into the corner—like he would ever be caught in public wearing a coat that had a cape attached to it—Mick opened the carriage door and jumped to the pavement. He quickly buttoned his frock coat to hide the incriminating evidence before helping Lettitia out of the carriage.
“Sir, you forgot to don your hat and gloves,” she said, gesturing to the rounded derby and gray gloves that he’d left behind on the carriage seat.
“We’re only gonna be gone a few minutes.”
“But a gentleman does not promenade without—”
“This gentleman does,” he insisted. “Now, when we get inside the pawn shop, I want you to let m
e do all the talking. Capiche?”
“I am perfectly capable of speaking for myself.”
“That’s not the point. Or maybe it is,” he grated between clenched teeth, already regretting that he’d agreed to let her accompany him. “I don’t want this guy to get suspicious. If you ask the wrong questions, he’ll clam up tighter than a Jersey oyster.”
“I only intend to ask him if he’s seen Emmaline in the last three months. Surely, there is nothing objectionable about—”
Mick grabbed Lettitia by the elbow and pulled her into the passageway next to the pawn shop, away from prying eyes and ears.
“I thought we had this settled: I’m in charge of the investigation.”
“Yes, I concede that you are in charge. But as your partner, I am—”
“You are not my partner.” My partner is dead, Mick nearly roared, catching himself at the last. “You’re my sidekick, maybe. But you are most definitely not my partner. Understand?”
“I understand perfectly,” she intoned, the dimple nowhere in sight.
Too late, Mick realized that he’d come on way too strong. Feeling like a tyrannical shit, he put a conciliatory hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. Okay? I didn’t mean to jump—”
“That’s the way to put it to ’er,” a drunken voice suddenly called out from the depths of the darkened passageway. “A man ought to get ’is money’s worth.”
“God, I hate this place,” Mick muttered as he took hold of Lettitia’s elbow and ushered her back to the pavement. Seeing a shop sign emblazoned with three bronze balls, he headed in that direction.
Moments later, the tinny peal of bells announced their entry into a small shop crammed to the rafters with every kind of Victoriana imaginable: Chinese bric-a-brac, candlesticks galore, marble busts, gilt mirrors, a medieval suit of armor. There was even a lion rug hanging on one wall. Most, if not all of it, was the pawned treasures of those who had seen better days.
A heavily whiskered man wearing baggy check trousers and a plaid vest scurried forward to greet them. In any time, in any place, the guy had sleaze written all over him.
A Love For All Time Page 5