by Riley Cole
White paled and cowered behind Burke.
“Bloody earl’s git.” The giant spat at White’s feet. “Don’t mean nothing now. I’ll be the one ordering you about on the inside. See if I don’t.”
Burke urged the taller man ahead, toward the coach. “Enough of that. The two of you’ll have years to sort this out.”
The giant sneered. “If he ain’t dead soon.”
“There’s a comforting thought.” Sweet was leading White toward the carriage. His smile was the most genuine Spencer had seen from the man yet.
Once the group fitted themselves into the carriage and the houseman slapped the reins, Spencer and Meena were left alone on the quiet street. He held out his hand and was inordinately pleased when she slipped her smaller one in his.
They walked in silence for several blocks. The cobbles wove and dipped beneath them, pulling them farther apart, until their hands parted.
As each stride brought them closer to the pub, Spencer searched for to the words—and the courage—to voice the question that had been burning in his brain since he realized what an idiot he’d been to let her walk away.
“Fine night.” He thrust the words into the silence.
Meena turned to look at him. She leaned close, close enough for him to feel the soft puffs of breath as they escaped her lips. “Are you quite all right?”
“I am. Perfectly clear-headed.”
Her answering snort was somewhat disconcerting.
“That Burke’s a good man,” Spencer observed. “White’s done for this time.”
As they came into the yellow circle of a gas lamp, he saw she had her arms crossed over her waist, her head down, eyes on the street ahead. She seemed closed in, preoccupied, as if she were shutting him out.
Not the ideal situation, but it was the best he had. When they rounded the next corner, he spotted the familiar sign hanging over the dark doorway. The Town of Ramsgate.
He bit his lip, debating. He could wait, see her in the morning, after they’d all had a good night’s sleep. But after the horrors of the night, he couldn’t imagine spending even a few more hours without knowing she’d be his.
He cleared his throat.
Meena glanced up at him, but continued on.
He reached for her hand. So soft. So warm. So strong. He was glad she hadn’t seen fit to wear gloves.
His thumb traced circles over the back of her hand. He took her other hand, turning her until they were face to face, only inches separating them.
The light bathed her cheeks, her eyes, that delicious, sensuous mouth, in a warm glow. He couldn’t wait. He could not wait to know he’d wake up every morning and see the sun light her face.
As he spoke, his gaze slid away. “I’ve been a fool. I should have—”
“There’s no need to apologize. You couldn’t have known Ramsay would team up with that monster.”
He blinked, the spell broken. “I wasn’t going to apologize.”
She stiffened. “I see.”
Spencer squeezed her hands. He was making a hash of this. He shook his head and pulled her close, pressing her palms to the center of his chest. “What I’ve wanted to say… What I need to say is, I was wrong when I said we wouldn’t suit. I couldn’t have been more mistaken. We do suit. We suit in every possible way.”
He studied her face, desperate to read her response, but caught nothing. Her expression seemed a studied mask.
After a long, deep breath that sounded more like a sigh than a swoon, she responded.
“I see.”
There it was.
A second chance to have him. Her last chance. Her very last chance.
But it wasn’t right. He wasn’t right. Profound relief—and a good dose of Edison’s gas—were standing in for reason.
Not to forget guilt. He carried enormous guilt. They could’ve all been killed because he’d had the misfortune to cross Ramsay. That, too, was eating away at him.
She couldn’t look at him.
The weight of her own feelings crashed down on her. Sadness. Grief. Ever grief. The emotions racing around her brain made her dizzy.
Tipsy, exhausted, grateful Spencer wanted marriage. But once morning broke, clear-eyed, clearheaded Crane would not.
Much as she wanted her fairytale ending, she couldn’t hold him to it.
And so she spoke. “I can’t agree.”
She twisted her fingers together, her eyes focussed on the yellow flame of the street lamp. Anything but his face. She couldn’t look at his face.
The flame swirled and danced through unshed tears. “You were right before. In the park? When you said we don’t suit? You were right.”
She risked a quick glance in his direction. He nodded thoughtfully. Again and again and again.
A bruised hand reach up to tug at his collar as if it were choking him. As if he were imagining the noose from which he’d just escaped. “Perhaps we don’t.”
The sad smile that tugged at his lips broke her heart.
Spencer lurched on toward the pub, his gait more that of an old man than the strong, confident Jonquil.
He looked back at her from over his shoulder. “It would have been a great deal of fun to find out.”
His words sank into the mud between the cobbles and seeped between the bricks of the storefronts, closing in around her, surrounding her with regret.
Regret. Regret. Regret.
She couldn’t move. Her legs weighed a hundred stone. How exhausting it was to be so very sensible. Exhausting, and so terribly lonely.
22
“That’s it then.”
Burke reached across his desk for the statement Spencer had just completed. He glanced it over as if it were nothing but a tailor’s bill and set it to the side of his desk. “That’ll do.”
Spencer grimaced. “I only hope White never sees the outside of a prison.”
Burke’s smile was more rueful than genuine. “I’m counting on the old earl turning his back. Murder and extortion won’t be easy to sweep aside.”
“We can hope.” Spencer rose from his seat, eager to put the station and everything else associated with the past few weeks behind him as quickly as possible.
“Crane, wait. So that’s it then?” Burke’s question stopped him before he reached the door.
The detective pushed himself away from his desk and flung his arms wide. “With Miss Sweet, that’s it? You’re going to take no for an answer?”
Spencer opened his mouth, but found he had nothing to say. He shook his head miserably.
The inspector looked disgusted. “I hope I never let a woman that brilliant slip through my fingers. Not without a fight.”
“The lady made her thoughts clear.” Spencer closed his eyes against the memory. “She agrees we don’t suit.”
Burke tapped a finger on the desktop. “That doesn’t sound like a proposal. Did you ask her? Did you come straight out with it and ask for her hand?”
Spencer studied the tips of his shoes. “I can’t be sure.”
“You can’t be…? What the hell does that mean, man?”
“It was all a bit fuzzy, what with the gas and the headache.” Spencer touched the welt above his ear and winced. “It’s possible I didn’t ask… as such.”
Burke slammed his hands down on the desk and jumped up, startling him. “Christ in a cart, man, let’s get to it then.”
“Get to?”
“Proposing.”
The detective grabbed his coat off the rack behind him and shrugged into it. “Lord, you’re thicker than I expected. Seems to me the lady should at least have the pleasure of turning down a proper proposal.”
His mind blank, Spencer watched Burke gather his badge and his wallet. Perhaps she did. And perhaps, in the light of day, if she realized he was serious, she might, possibly, maybe, accept his offer. The idea energized him, dissolving the sluggish fog he’d been trapped in since his sleepless night.
Giving it one more chance didn’t seem so futile.
Still, Burke’s sudden burst of activity had him puzzled. “Where are you off to?”
Burke rolled his eyes. “I’m taking you to the Sweets. I can’t very well loan you a police carriage.”
Before Spencer could form an intelligent response, the inspector had him out of the station, and bundled into a coach, a uniformed constable driving them through mid-morning traffic toward Pimlico.
They arrived more quickly than Spencer had been prepared for. Several slow miles through the congested streets, and he had yet to decide what to say. Not that it mattered. She’d made her thoughts quite clear last night, hadn’t she? But then Burke put a different spin on things, made him wonder if he’d gotten it all wrong.
Could it be that blasted simple? Could he still convince her he was utterly, completely, inescapably in love with her?
Maybe. Possibly.
But not without broaching the subject that lay at their feet like a stinking pile of garbage. If he didn’t kick it over, she’d never accept him. He realized that now.
By the time the carriage stopped, he’d resolved to do his best. Burke was right. She was worth it. She was worth any amount of work it might take to convince her.
“Here you go.” Burke practically shoved him out door. “Best of luck.”
The coach rolled off.
He stared up at the house front, marveling at how such a staid, nondescript home could hide such a raucous group of individuals. Raucous and riotous as they might be, Meena was the glue. The steadying force for the lot of them. Himself included.
He wiggled his shoulders and circled his head, trying to calm the butterflies flapping about in his stomach. Once he realized he couldn’t stand about on the pavement all day, he tucked his shirt into his trousers, straightened his collar and tie, and plucked at his jacket so it hung neatly from his shoulders.
None of which made him any less afraid.
His heart pounding wildly in his chest, he strode to the door and knocked, perhaps more forcefully than was strictly necessary.
Hapgood swung open the door. When he saw Spencer, his gray eyebrows rose to his hairline. His mouth turned down in a deep frown that made Spencer’s stomach plummet toward his feet.
Gaze firmly over the houseman’s shoulder, he shuffled from foot to foot, unsure whether to enter.
A low growl rumbled in the older man’s chest. He waved Spencer inside. “Was hoping one of you ninnies would get it right.”
Spencer tugged at the hem of his jacket. “Yes, well. I thought I might—”
The older man sighed, cutting off his fumbling explanation. “You are going to ask her, aren’t you? If not, I’m slamming this door straight in your face.” He squared his shoulders and pinned Spencer in place with a piercing glare. “But not before I knock you down those stairs, boy.”
“I am going to ask her. Most definitely. Yes.”
Hapgood grinned and stood aside. “Well get on up there and do it, then.” He gestured up towards Meena’s room. “The two of you’ve wasted enough time. Silly gits.”
Spencer swallowed, his throat suddenly dry as dust. Having her trusted factotum urge him on had to be a good sign, didn’t it? The thought injected new strength into his legs, and he strode quickly toward the stairway.
As his hand hit the banister, Mrs. Hapgood rushed out of the parlor. She covered his hand with her own and squeezed. “Don’t you take no for an answer. She doesn’t always know what’s good for her, that one. Stubborn as hammered brass. There’s no doubt she fancies you. You remember that.”
A different sort of fog began to settle over him. Not exhaustion, or despair, but a strange spell crafted by so much enthusiasm. How was it everyone but he and Meena thought this all so simple?
Still cogitating, Spencer nodded his thanks and started up the stairs.
“Crane, a moment.”
Spencer cringed. Sweet’s deep voice slashed through the hopeful fog. He stiffened, waiting for her cousin to carve out his pound of flesh.
Covered in plaster dust, with his hair sticking out in all directions, Sweet glared up at him. “Good luck.” He nodded solemnly and turned on his heel.
Spencer swayed on the step. Sweet’s approval all but knocked him off his feet. Wasn’t it just a few days past the man had threatened to knock his head off? Obviously, his read on the entire extended family had been gravely wrong.
Still, Sweet’s tacit permission did nothing to dampen the anxiety making his heart pound harder with every step upward. This was it. Really and truly it.
He climbed the last few steps to the landing and stopped in front of her door, hands balled into fists at his sides. Raising his arm to knock required an act of super human strength.
He clenched his fists and prepared for battle. He’d leave this house riding on the clouds, or swimming in despair.
Either way, he’d leave a different man.
Sunlight, clear, clean, placid sunlight streaming in from a crack between the drapes woke her. She yawned and stretched beneath the crisp sheets. A night of dreamless sleep had refreshed her body. Not so her mind. Grief, still hot and sharp and heavy weighed her spirit down.
It would for a long, long time.
She sank back into the pillows, wondering if she could skip today. Maybe tomorrow, and the next day as well. Couldn’t she stay in bed—ignore the world—until the sharpest of the pain passed?
A soft wrap at the door delivered the answer. Obviously, the universe disapproved.
“Are you decent?”
Meena shot straight up. That voice. That deep, devilish voice that made her body pulse in the most wicked of ways. It couldn’t be.
She thrust her fingers into her tangled hair. If that didn’t tear it. Now she was going insane, like the worst of Caldwell Nance’s heroines. Her mind was breaking apart along with her heart.
Another soft rap. “Meena? May I come in?”
She clenched her jaw and pulled the covers up to her chin. Much as she wished it to be so, Spencer Crane was not standing outside her bedroom door. Hoping to put paid to the illusion, she flew out of bed, stalked across the room, and yanked the door open.
He was not—
Meena let go of the door handle and rocked back on her heels. He was. Spencer was standing in her doorway. Her mouth agape, she stared up at him.
Simply stared.
Oh, she’d pay for the sight later, but now she intended to feast her eyes on his wide chest, his slim hips, his ever-so-kissable lips. Only his expression was new. She’d never seen him look so guarded. So unconfident.
“May I come in?”
His request snapped her back to reality. She stepped aside, arms moving to cover her body as she realized she was in nothing but a thin summer nightgown. “This is highly inappropriate.”
A devilish smile replaced guarded diffidence. “We’re long past inappropriate, aren’t we?”
That grin sparked memories of just exactly how inappropriate they’d been. Meena’s cheeks flamed.
His eyes were hooded, giving nothing away. “I need to talk to you. Just talk. I swear.”
Meena crossed her arms over her chest. “No charming.”
He hung his head, like a schoolboy being chastised. “No charming.”
“No grinning. No laughing.” She ticked the requirements off on her fingers. “No touching. Absolutely no touching.”
Spencer lifted his head. A spark of humor shown in his eyes, bringing the greener tones to bear, but his expression remained solemn. He pressed a hand to his heart. “Agreed.”
Leaving the door ajar, she turned back to her bed. “Come in then.” She sank down on the mattress, curling up her legs and crossing her arms over them, as if she could fold herself into a comforting ball.
For his part, Spencer remained standing. He strode across to the window and stared out.
She waited, trying to tamp down the small spark of hope flickering deep in her heart. What else could they possibly have to discuss? Certainly nothing so important h
e needed to invade her bedroom.
He ran a finger along the window frame as if fascinated with the enameled wood. “I’ve never apologized to you. Never told you how sorry I am that I—” He stopped, his head bowing. “That I bedded that actress.”
His shoulders rose, then slumped as he sighed. “I won’t insult you by saying it meant nothing.”
Meena froze. Every muscle tensed until she felt like her limbs were made of stone. She wondered if she were going to fly straight out of her body.
This was not what she’d expected. So he’d been in love with that woman all this time? Why in God’s name was he torturing her with it now?
He swung toward her. The anguish on his face warned her how hard his next words would be to hear.
She braced herself—as much as she was able—for the coming pain.
“I bedded that woman because I was frightened. Terrified. Out of my mind with fear.”
“Of?” Meena could barely get the word past her frozen lips.
“Of you. Of us.” He screwed his eyes shut, obviously trying to capture the words that were escaping him.
When he looked up, captured her gaze, it made her heart do an odd little lift, as if hope were poking at her, prodding her to listen. “I was terrified I wasn’t good enough for you, so I made damned sure I wasn’t.”
Mouth wide, he shrugged. “I know it makes no sense. I just thought you deserved an explanation. An apology.” He lifted his hand, then let it slap down against his thigh. “It wasn’t you. It was never about you. My lapse—my… dishonorable choices—were about my own inadequacies.”
Once his words penetrated her numb brain, once she realized he wasn’t trying to tear apart her soul, Meena relaxed. She wrapped her arms more tightly around her legs and dug her chin into her knee, rocking gently back and forth. His logic made a strange kind of sense, the kind of sense that came from the heart, not the head.
A kind of sense she’d never considered in her quest to keep the world firmly black and white.
He’d turned back to the window, allowing her time to let his words sink in. Time to fashion the words to thrash him with.