“… It really is breaking news, and we all know how much he’d want us to…”
The older I got, the more tedious I found casual dating to be. The endless pursuit of a sexual partner was exhausting when the work hours were long and my job felt much too important to waste precious free time. Freya had been right about my dry spell. It had been more than a year since I’d indulged in sex, and that event had left me unsatisfied and frustrated. Probably because it’d been a long time since I’d met a woman who inspired real lust—wild and uncontrolled. The more tightly I restrained myself, the less I felt like I deserved finding that in another person. Aloofness was my preferred armor. An unfortunate trait I’d inherited from my father.
“… Of course we’re coming up with a plan. Of course, Robert, let me finish…”
The woman shifted in her seat next to me, and I caught her scent—warm, intoxicating, sunshine through a dense forest, leaves and wildflowers. Why was I sitting here surrounded by deerstalker hats? Why wasn’t I taking this woman on a date at an elegant restaurant in this gorgeous fucking city?
“Bernard will be told,” Eudora said. I blinked, trance-like. Blinked again, re-focusing on Eudora with real effort. What was she saying? Did she say—
“Bernard Allerton, of all people, would want to know what was happening, yes of course.”
I snapped to full attention—although not before noticing that the woman, too, seemed to perk up next to me, a slight lean forward like she’d spotted a rare bird in the sky. Eudora was attempting to quiet an agitated crowd.
“Let me begin again,” Eudora said sweetly. “Ten years ago, there was a great debacle when Doyle’s last living child died at the glorious age of 100. His son’s will did not mandate that the private papers in his possession needed to stay within the family. Bernard was our president at that time, and he fought valiantly to gain control of those papers, rightly claiming that the Society had a responsibility to steward his works for both private and public admiration.”
Without realizing it, I was leaning forward in my seat.
The woman did as well, upper body tilting more dramatically now.
“We did not win that fight,” Eudora said. “And they are now in the care of The British Museum.”
I made a mental note of that outcome. Bernard wasn’t the kind of man who took losses lightly.
“However,” she said as the chattering intensified. “Right before coming here, I received a call from James Patrick, the president of the Kensley Auction House in London. Doyle’s great-niece has discovered an extremely large collection of her great-uncle’s private papers beneath a trap door in her attic—and is moving ahead with auctioning them to a private owner. These are never-before-seen and a complete mystery to Doyle scholars.”
There are rare moments during an investigation when a genuine clue drops in your lap as if from the fucking sky. A solid clue, heavy with implication, with edges you can grip.
This felt like that clue.
“The auction will happen one week from today,” Eudora said. Hands rose like a college classroom filled with eager students. “Yes, I will try and get a message to Bernard. The problem being that his sabbatical is off-the-grid, and he isn’t really available via the phone or the internet.”
An off-the-grid sabbatical. I shook my head, impressed at the man’s fucking gall. And curious to know how or why Eudora Green thought she could contact him, since he was technically in hiding from the authorities.
“Until I can get in touch with him, my decision as acting president is to work with Doyle’s niece and convince her to donate those papers to the Society. Obviously, if they end up in the hands of a private collector, we may never know what was on them. There could be entire Holmes stories that have never seen the light of day, other mysteries, other villains, other dreams we deserve to appreciate and care for.”
“What if they end up at auction?” A man in the front row asked.
Eudora’s lips pursed. “I truly do not know. We can see what funding we have in our war chest. I think we all know a treasure of this size will go for millions, which we absolutely do not have. I hate to be pessimistic, but I’d never lie to all of you.” A heavy silence hung over the crowd. “This is both the best and worst news.”
I scanned the crowd for a third time, noted real distress on their faces. Real distress on Eudora’s face. Next to me, the goddess seemed primed for movement, a runner waiting for the gun to fire.
That felt like a clue too.
“I will take questions after we end here if you want to come find me,” Eudora said. “If not, the next two days are my shift at 221B Baker Street, giving talks to the tourists. Please come visit. I’ll have a pot of tea waiting for all of you.”
The maps I’d studied had pin-pointed Bernard’s possible sightings within a two-mile radius of this hotel and that museum on Baker Street. And Eudora happened to be at both of them.
The stranger altered her posture slightly, releasing a wave of body heat that snatched my attention away from Eudora and back to her enchanting scent: sun-drenched branches, the hint of autumn in the air. I wanted to hear her smoky voice say more than May I?
So I turned, intending to adhere to the advice screamed at me for the past twenty-four hours and actually talk to a woman. Yet the moment I did just that, she vanished. I found her in the crowd immediately, striding with an obvious confidence toward the podium. Toward Eudora. I admired her bare, beautiful neck before I noticed the body language between the two. The woman was being greeted by Society members like a cherished friend. To Eudora, she appeared open, touching the other woman’s elbow, smiling with a charm I felt all the way in the back row. Every ounce of light in the room seemed to emanate from her.
I swallowed the beginnings of an impatient sigh—stood instead. There was a bar in the far corner and a glass of whiskey was shouting my name. And as I moved through the crowd in the opposite direction of the raven-haired beauty, I was careful to keep my eye on the interaction between her and Eudora Green. Because something didn’t feel right—and I was pretty damn sure she’d reacted at the use of Bernard Allerton’s name.
And I was pretty damn sure Bernard would want to know about this auction.
As the bartender poured my order, I leaned against the bar and caught the attention of the goddess yet again. For a brief, thrilling second, her lips parted in recognition. I raised my glass from across the room and maintained eye contact as I took my first, burning sip.
What had Eudora said in her speech?
True coincidences rarely exist.
5
Sloane
“Oh, Devon, of course. I’ve heard so much about you,” Eudora said. The president of the Sherlock Society of Civilized Scholars looked matronly and projected a naïve, eager innocence from her frumpy sweater to her earrings shaped like cats.
Beyond her sweet smile, I sensed a flash of pointed teeth and a suppressed snarl. The wolf dressed in the grandmother’s clothing, perhaps. At the many afternoon teas and cocktail hours I’d had with Society members, it was clear her secret reputation was more canine-like than motherly. They were a social group, and chatty during dinners and lectures, so it was easy to take advantage of their gossipy nature when it came to their thoughts on Eudora.
“A snarling dog off the leash” was one of the descriptors I’d heard. Of course, it was sandwiched passive-aggressively between two compliments, and the person who’d said it blushed furiously afterward and begged me not to repeat.
I’d just watched Eudora mention speaking with Bernard Allerton like he wasn’t, in fact, a criminal in fucking hiding. Tea with Eudora suddenly seemed even more vital.
“And you as well,” I demurred, shaking her hand. “The Sherlock Society has been so welcoming to me on my pilgrimage throughout London. It’s been so inspiring. And to think I haven’t even gotten a chance to meet the president yet.”
She touched her hair. “In certain circles, I’m well-known. But I don’t consider myself
a celebrity. Merely a devoted fan of Doyle and his brilliant creations.”
I smiled at her, already mentally sketching her vulnerabilities, the points I could press and poke tomorrow to open the door and see what she really knew about Bernard Allerton.
“Well this devoted fan can’t wait to see you tomorrow,” I said. “Tea at the Sherlock Museum, 10:00 a.m.?”
A flood of people were starting to rush toward her, no doubt as intrigued as I was by the news of the auction and those private papers. Just the kind of thing a criminal mastermind might come out of hiding for.
“Of course, it would be my honor,” she said, waving as I backed away. She was swarmed immediately, her posture straightening with every person attempting to speak with her. Eudora had only become president once Bernard had “gone on sabbatical”—which was intriguing as hell. To watch her now, my guess would be she’d been yearning for that position for years.
And I wondered what she knew about where her current vice president might be.
Buoyed by what felt like a tiny victory, I turned back around, toward the bar, and was taken aback by Hot Guy in a Suit, raising a glass of alcohol toward me in a silent cheer.
From the moment I’d stepped into the ballroom, my eyes had been drawn to Hot Guy’s like we were two powerful magnets, desperate to snap together. As he leaned against the bar like he owned it, I noticed how tall he was, how broad those shoulders were, his long limbs in a suit clearly tailored to make others envious of his body. Hot Guy watched me walk through the crowd, watched me walk toward him, and I wasn’t used to feeling so fucking fluttery around a man.
I now had a new understanding of the phrase devastatingly handsome. It was a cheesy line, bandied about in romance novels and movies. Definitely not anything I’d ever witnessed before in reality. His face devastated me. My immediate attraction to him ripped through me like a summer storm, all dangerous heat and crackling lightning. The man was white, with a strong, clean jaw, a strong nose. Dark black hair with silver at the temples, a few lines around the eyes making me guess he was a decade older than me, at least. The curve of his lips was downright sinful.
And if I hadn’t been so mesmerized by his mysterious presence while we sat together earlier, I wouldn’t have observed his physical reaction to the sound of Bernard’s name. Which meant Hot Guy could know something—making him even more intriguing.
I placed my arm on the bar, leaned in a perfect mimic of his pose. His brow raised at my sudden nearness, one hand gripping a glass of whiskey.
“Hello again,” he said. A deep voice. Melodic with a sexy rasp along the edges.
I held up a finger, ordered a vodka martini from the bartender. “Hello,” I said. “I pegged you for a whiskey drinker.”
My martini appeared in front of me. I stroked the stem with one finger, caught him following the movement.
“And I pegged you for a gin-drinker, not vodka,” Hot Guy mused.
I lifted a shoulder. “I’m full of surprises.”
The cold liquor burned all the way down. And he watched my mouth while I sipped.
“It’s nice to meet another American staying at The Langham,” he said.
I wasn’t staying at The Langham Hotel. I was staying twenty minutes away at a cheaper motel that better fit my budget. But if this man knew Bernard Allerton, maybe I’d see about getting a room.
“And it’s always nice to meet another Sherlock Holmes enthusiast,” I replied. I held out my hand for him to shake. “Devon Atwood.”
“A man on vacation,” he replied. “Happy to meet you.”
He shook my hand with pure professionalism—no stray touch or lingering—but the second our palms touched, I felt an electric bolt of desire. From the flaring of his nostrils, I guessed he felt it too.
“Man on vacation is an odd name,” I mused.
Hot Guy gave me a half-smile but no reply. Instead he sipped his whiskey, swirled the liquid around the glass. “Are you a member of the Sherlock Society?”
“I’m member-adjacent,” I said. “Not official. I do attend their meetings and lectures when I’m in London, however.”
“Here on business?”
“Of a sort,” I said. “So tell me, man-on-vacation. Do you think Doyle should have stuck to his guns and kept Sherlock dead? Or are you a fan of his triumphant resurrection?”
“I’m the minority opinion here, unfortunately,” he said. “I think he should have kept him dead.”
“Don’t say that too loudly in this room.” I took a step closer, bringing our bodies mere inches apart. Dropped my voice. “You could get us both killed.”
He cracked that half-smile again. “I’m not one to boast, but I feel confident in my physical prowess against Sherlock fanatics. What’s your take?”
I took another long sip of vodka. “Why would you have kept him dead?”
“Why did you evade my question?”
“Because I’m a woman of mystery.” I placed my arm on the bar, close enough to feel his body heat. “Would you like to buy me another drink?”
Sharp eyes on mine, he called my order to the bartender without missing a beat.
“Sometimes it’s best to say goodbye,” he said. “Sherlock Holmes was no longer serving him. Public outcry or not, I think Doyle should have kept him dead. Easier for everyone to move on.”
A martini appeared in front of me. I clinked it against Hot Guy’s glass. “To moving on.”
He studied me over his glass. His fingers were strong. Confident. Was he a source or a suspect?
“I would have kept him dead too,” I finally admitted. “Severed ties completely.”
When you had the kind of chaotic, ramshackle childhood that I’d had, letting go of dead weight always made the most sense. You couldn’t flee in the night unless you packed light.
“So we’re in agreement,” he said.
“Appears that we are, man-on-vacation.” I flashed him a full smile, teeth and all. “Are you used to traveling alone? Or are you not…”
“I’m alone,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “And used to it. Preferred, actually. Especially while traveling. There’s no better way to truly learn what you want, what you desire, than being on your own.”
I agreed again, held my tongue.
“Are you alone?” he asked.
I stepped closer, drawn into his orbit. “I am.”
He placed his glass carefully on the bar. “And what do you desire, Devon?”
I ran my tongue along my lower lip, just to gauge his reaction. Felt absurdly pleased at the severe clench of his jaw.
“To find what I came to London for,” I said. “I lost something a month ago. I’m currently trying to track it down.” It was a partial truth at best.
“What did you lose?”
“That’s not for the telling.”
“And why not?” he asked. There was no push to his words, only a strangely appealing curiosity.
“Would you be completely honest with a man who won’t even tell you his name?”
“Fair point,” he said. “Have you had any luck finding what you lost?”
“I’m not sure yet.” I slid even closer to this man, this complete stranger, heard his breathing hitch. The compulsion to kiss him crept into my thoughts, swept through the stress of this case, the fear of failure. Devastating. There’d never been a need for me to seek out a romantic partner in this world. My parents hadn’t been a model for love. And marriage itself seemed to combine the very dangerous elements of trusting someone with needing someone.
If you were alone, you could only disappoint yourself.
Sex was a necessity, but I scratched that itch with one-night stands or short-term flings, the less personal the better. Whatever was happening between this stranger and I didn’t feel like standard sexual attraction. It felt impulsive and primal.
“How long will you be in London, man-on-vacation?” I asked.
And his steel eyes blazed with a real hunger now. “For nine more days. M
y employees will fall to pieces if I leave them for any longer.”
“And you’re staying here at The Langham the whole time?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
I pressed my body lightly against his surprisingly strong one. Tipped my mouth up so it danced close to his. He went still as a statue, like he was assessing me for risk.
“Maybe my luck is changing,” I murmured.
“How so?” His hand landed firmly on the small of my back, fingers spanning across my skin. Those same fingers roamed idly along my spine. A caress between lovers, not strangers. It felt utterly divine. And it must have been the vodka and his body and a wayward craving to keep him… but I did something I hadn’t done since I was sixteen years old.
I dipped my fingers into his jacket pocket and snatched the first thing they brushed against. A business card, by the feel of it. Slipped it into my purse.
“That thing I was looking for? I might have found it,” I said. “Which makes me a very lucky woman, indeed.”
The animal prowling behind his measured gaze gave me actual goosebumps.
“Who are you really?” he asked softly.
“Devon Atwood. Who are you really?”
“I don’t think you are.” His expression remained mildly curious. “You see, in my other life, I was trained by the best lie-detectors in the entire world. And while you are very, very good, you are also lying to me.”
I was momentarily stunned.
A first.
“Spoken by a man who has perpetrated a sin of omission,” I countered.
A slight arch to his brow. “I know a thing or two about sin. And that’s not what I’ve done.”
Desire twisted in my belly. Those strong fingers flexed—only once—along my spine, drawing me closer. “Do you always try and kiss liars?”
His lips quirked at one end. And then he stepped back, letting me go. I had to steady myself against the bar and prayed he didn’t notice. “Don’t you worry. You’ll know for certain when I actually kiss you.”
In the Clear (Codex Book 3) Page 4