by Robyn DeHart
“So perhaps he took her photograph; that would mean her relationship with him was probably not unlike your own mother’s.” Her tone graduated up the scale as she spoke. This was not happening. Not to her mother.
“Yes,” James said calmly, “but he did not write of my mother repeatedly in his journal.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you found the journal? You said you would share information with me. To make the wager fair.”
He said nothing—only looked at her. Evidently he didn’t think his dishonesty meant he owed her any explanation.
“Sir, I don’t think you understand the situation,” she continued. “My mother is…” She grappled for the right word, not wanting to say too much. “Delicate. This sort of thing is precisely the reason we keep her at home. To shield her from the ugliness of the world.”
He said nothing for a moment but simply gazed at her with those green eyes of his. “Your brother explained your mother’s condition.” His tone was calm. “I understand your concern, but I must run the investigation as I see fit and that means questioning all families who had business with Mr. Drummond.” He reached out and put his hand on her arm. “Your mother is a delightful woman; you have nothing to worry about.”
She got caught in his glance and tried to determine what it was she saw hidden in their depths. Concern? Pity? She pulled away from him.
“Well, I hope you are satisfied that my parents were not involved with such a dastardly crime and will leave them in peace in the future.”
“Willow, I have to go where the clues lead me, and if that is back to your door, then so be it. Surely you can’t argue with justice.”
She couldn’t argue with him about that point, damn him. She wanted desperately to beg him to turn the other way when it came to her family. Surely they weren’t involved.
It seemed as if her heart stopped beating. How could this be? She shook her head in disbelief. “I don’t understand.”
He grabbed her elbow and pulled her further away from the parlor door. “On the day of his death, he was writing about your mother.”
That was it. She felt weak, but she steeled herself and kept her feet planted. She might have entered this investigation with a point to prove, but everything was different now. It didn’t matter which method they used to uncover the clues. All that mattered now was finding out who the murderer was, to make sure her mother wasn’t involved any further.
“If you would please wait here a moment,” she said, then turned and entered the parlor again. She had a few words with her father, then stepped back into the hall. It occurred to her that the inspector had no reason to wait for her, but surprisingly enough, he still stood there.
“She wants to take a rest,” she said.
He raised his eyebrows.
“Shouldn’t we be off?” she asked.
“You still wish to come?”
“Now, more than ever, I need to be a part of this investigation.”
He nodded once, turned on his heel, and spoke not a word until they were seated inside his carriage. “I do not think this is a good idea.”
She pulled her reticule tighter to her chest and ignored the pounding her heart was making. “I shall be fine, I can assure you. I’m not nearly as delicate as you might believe.”
“Then I shall not try to protect your sensibilities,” he said.
“I should think not. That’s hardly your responsibility.” She pulled back the worn velvet curtain to see her surroundings, but her eyes focused on nothing. All of her energy was being spent on keeping her anger at bay. Yelling at him would serve no purpose. He wouldn’t react favorably to it—it wouldn’t solve anything. “I don’t suppose you would show me the journal,” she said tightly.
“No,” he said.
She nodded. “Where are we going?”
He unfolded a piece of paper and glanced at it before answering. “Back to Drummond’s for one last search.”
He certainly wasn’t giving her much to go on. And after they had been working fairly well together, or so she’d thought. Evidently it had all been a ruse. He had to have found the journal during their last visit to Drummond’s home, which meant he had known about it at the dance. An icy chill spread over her skin. That was why he’d asked her mother’s name. That was the real reason he’d asked her to dance. Here she’d been caught up in a romantic fantasy—and he’d been manipulating her for the investigation.
She tried to ignore the fact that her feelings were hurt. Ignore that his inability to trust her wounded her pride. Or that he’d used her to further his own needs. She shouldn’t be surprised. These were the tactics he used. Instead of physically harming her, he’d coaxed her with his charm. She felt an utter fool. But this was not about her. All she needed to concern herself with now was protecting her mother.
They were headed now back to the photographer’s house, as James had found a clue inside Drummond’s journal that hinted that something was hidden elsewhere in his house. A box that contained secrets that might prove to be of interest. But James could not focus on the investigation.
Willow hadn’t said another word to him, and despite his attempts to ignore it, James was assaulted by guilt. She had been right, he had promised to share information with her and he’d ignored that promise. He was an inspector, however, and it was his duty to perform his job regardless of whose feelings got hurt. Yet, this was different; he couldn’t deny that.
There was more though. He was drawn to Willow and although he enjoyed teasing her, he genuinely liked and respected her. But the attraction could get him into trouble.
Willow sat quietly in the carriage, her hands neatly folded in her lap. She was furious with him but was playing the prim and proper lady and stifling her anger. No doubt she was embarrassed and terrified as well. He wanted to say something to make her feel better, something that would take the sadness out of her brown eyes. Wanted to pull her close to him and run his hand down her back. Soothe all her worries.
But the fact that he wanted to do all of those things stopped him from proceeding with any consoling remarks. He was not accustomed to coming to a lady’s rescue, and he certainly wasn’t going to start now. This was about the investigation and he had to follow the clues—even if they led him to her front door.
She looked so sad, with her perfect mouth drawn into a line and furrows wrinkling her brow. The most disturbing part, though, was that he was aroused. Looking at her—with her need to be comforted, to be soothed—all he wanted to do was pull her onto his lap and spread kisses into her hair, trace his fingers across her body, then push himself into her. Make love to her until they both forgot about Malcolm Drummond and that the poor man had been killed.
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat to alleviate the pressure. He just needed to touch her. Needed to somehow remind himself that he wasn’t a heartless beast who would betray people and never look back. Needed to see that smile she’d given him the night they danced. Without thinking everything through he moved to sit on the bench next to her.
She turned sharply, her eyes wide.
Before she’d allow him to touch her, he needed to give her some reassurance.
“Willow.” He put his hand on her dress-covered knee. He was terrible at this sort of thing. Terrible at trying to be soft and comforting. And God, she smelled so good, he nearly forgot what he wanted to say. “About your mother—”
She held her hand up and shook her head. “Please don’t,” she whispered.
“No, listen. You don’t have anything to be ashamed of, or concerned with. I know you and your family have worked very hard to keep her out of the Society gossip rags and I respect that. My time with her this morning will not make it to my mother’s or any other gossip’s ears.”
He caught her glance and her eyes glistened with tears. It felt as if she’d reached in and squeezed his heart. He knew she would never allow herself to cry in front of him, to show that much vulnerability. And in that moment, with her pain shining desperat
ely in her eyes, he’d never wanted her more.
He cupped her chin and leaned in. His lips pressed against hers and it was as if the world stopped. She was pliant and soft beneath him, had even leaned in closer to him. He teased at her bottom lip with his teeth and then his tongue until her lips parted and allowed him entrance.
She tensed at first at the foreign assault, but softened as he coaxed and played with his tongue. He kept things slow and gentle, seductively worshiping her mouth. When he heard a sigh escape her lips, deep satisfaction and desire surged through his body and he tightened his grasp on her.
She met his intensity, which surprised him, and he squeezed his eyes, trying to ignore his intense desire to slip his hand beneath her skirt. Not too far. Not with this one. She was different. She needed protection. Even from him. Especially from him.
Her tongue slid against his and he groaned into her mouth. Desire surged through him as her hand clutched his shoulder. He could kiss her forever. Only her. Press her body against his as she met his passion beat for beat. But if he let it go on much longer, kissing wouldn’t be the only thing done. He’d already betrayed her enough for one day.
Finally he ended the kiss and briefly glimpsed her glossy eyes before she turned away from him.
“I believe the carriage has stopped,” she said. “We must have arrived.” And with that, she opened the door and stepped down from the carriage unattended.
He released a heavy breath and followed her up the front steps of the townhome. He’d kissed her with that much passion, and now she displayed no reaction at all. How was that possible? He certainly wasn’t hearing the angels sing, but his desire had definitely stirred.
Fenby answered the door and his wearied face could not even manage the slightest of smiles. “Do come in,” he said. “Would you care for some tea?”
James looked at Willow, who was focused intently on Fenby. “No tea,” she said. “Let us get to the root of our visit today.”
She certainly knew how to cut right to it. She turned to James and raised her eyebrows expectantly.
“I need to search Mr. Drummond’s private chambers,” James said.
Fenby sighed heavily and nodded. “Follow me, then.” He hobbled off down the hall and led them up the staircase to the second floor.
They stopped outside a large door and Fenby fumbled with the keys before turning the lock.
It was a moderate-size suite with dark wood paneling and green wallpaper. The four-poster bed was made of carved cherry, and the armoire and secretary matched perfectly.
James caught a glance from her brown eyes, but before he could determine anything about her mood, she looked away. There was no chance that the kiss hadn’t affected her the way it had him. He was the experienced one, and that had been a kiss so full of passion, he’d had to fight to control himself. Something he’d never before had to do.
“We’ll search the entire area,” James said. “It will probably take a while.” He dismissed the servant.
Fenby eyed them with caution for several long seconds before stepping out of the room.
“I’ll take the dressing closet,” Willow said and quickly disappeared into the next room.
James eyed the doorway for a bit longer before conceding defeat. Evidently she was going to pretend that nothing had happened. Pretend that his lips had never pressed against hers. Pretend his breath hadn’t meshed with hers.
He nearly groaned as he felt himself begin to harden. This was more than a little annoying. He ignored his trousers and began shifting things around on the secretary, looking for the mysterious box.
The sounds of Willow rifling through the items in the next room was distracting. Perhaps this was why he never liked working with assistants. They made it difficult for him to concentrate. Although he’d worked well with Finch and had never felt out of sorts while partnering on those cases, Willow was different. He simply didn’t want to admit it.
No, he argued with himself, it was simply that she was a woman, and he’d be distracted by any bit of fluff that was in the room—knowing that she stood only a few meters away, with her soft hair, feminine scent, and rounded curves.
It was becoming abundantly clear that it was time he took a mistress. This was getting quite out of hand.
Willow continued to search the dressing closet, examining every detail. Malcolm Drummond had impeccable taste in clothing. Everything was of the finest fabrics and cuts. The cool materials brushed over her hand as she pulled each one out of the way.
They were looking for some sort of box, James had said, but they did not know what size or material or anything. So she simply filtered through the clothes and tried to keep her mind on the task at hand. But that was proving more difficult than she’d have liked, when all her mind wanted to think about was the passionate kiss she’d just experienced.
Why had James kissed her? She’d assumed that when he said he wanted a kiss from her, he had only been trying to make her nervous. Or provoke her. But then he had kissed her most ardently in the carriage. Her cheeks still flamed from the memory.
Were she to close her eyes, she was certain that she would be able to recapture the sensation of his lips moving across hers. A few moments passed before she realized she’d been moving garments aside but had no longer been examining anything.
She closed her eyes briefly, bracing her hand on the panel behind a burgundy smoking jacket and felt the wall shift. She jerked upright and pulled the jacket and the rest of the clothes out of the way. The paneling was slightly different here from elsewhere in the room. It was barely noticeable but there all the same.
“James, I think I’ve found something.” She spoke loudly, knowing her voice would be muffled.
It didn’t take him long to come to her side. “What is it?”
“This panel.” She ran her hand across the wood. “Something is different about it.”
He looked intently at it before leaning in and knocking gently. Then he continued knocking in different areas around the panel, listening for a difference in sound. “It’s hollow,” he said.
She smiled, quite pleased with herself. Now he couldn’t say that she wasn’t useful. She had found a secret compartment.
“How do we open it?” she asked.
He looked around the closet, moving clothes out of the way and kicking shoes away from the area. “There has to be a lever or something that will trip it open,” he said.
She bent and scanned the area around the panel and then noticed, off to her right, several inches from the hollow wood, what looked like a doorknob. Peculiar to have a doorknob just attached to a closet wall. So she reached over and twisted it. Nothing. She opted to pull on it and this time she heard the panel slide open.
“How did you find it?” he asked.
She pointed to the knob. “Silly place for a knob, don’t you agree?”
“Indeed. Let’s see what Drummond was so interested in hiding.” James reached into the cubicle and pulled out an engraved and a very old-looking wooden box. Then he reached back into the secret compartment to see if anything remained. “I think this is all. Let’s move to the bedchamber.”
Her ears flamed and she knew she blushed. His intent was innocent enough, but the words sounded very much like an invitation.
“For more light,” he offered.
“Of course,” she said.
She followed him into the next room and over to the secretary, where he set down the wooden box. He pulled the lid up and it was full of photographs.
“This was his secret box,” James muttered, clearly disappointed.
Willow reached in and grabbed a few to examine more closely.
She felt her eyes go wide and was certain her mouth gaped open. Picture after picture she flipped through showed women in provocative positions. Some were scantily clad; others weren’t wearing a stitch of clothing. There were a variety of different-size breasts and women of all statures. She felt James shift next to her.
Her palms began to
sweat and her insides fluttered with nerves. Here she was, alone with the man she’d earlier been entangled with in a passionate embrace, and she stood with photographs of nude women in her hands. What should she do? Set them down and step away?
Some of the women were shown lying across the settee they’d seen in Drummond’s studio and were touching themselves. Their faces were etched with ecstasy, several of them with their eyes closed. One after another, she couldn’t stop filtering through the stack in her hands.
James stirred behind her and brought a new awareness of how close he stood to her. Right next to her while she perused carnal images of other women. Should she drop them? No, that would clue him in on how utterly naughty she felt with the torrid pictures in her hands. Her breathing tightened and she felt warm all over. Pleasant tingles had started somewhere between her legs and her breasts seemed to tighten, peaking her nipples into hard buds that rubbed against the fabric of her corset.
“Perhaps this was how he was making his money,” James said absently.
She was certain she’d felt his breath flutter across the bare flesh at her neck. All she’d need to do was close her eyes and lean back into him. He’d catch her, he’d support her. He’d probably kiss her again. Good heavens, she needed to get ahold of herself. She cleared her throat.
“What do you mean?” She forced herself to ask the question, then winced when her voice sounded foreign and cracked. So much for appearing unfazed.
“There is an entire underground market for these types of photographs,” he explained. “They sell them to voyeurs and put them in books. Generally you find it more in Whitechapel, not on this side of the river.”
Willow couldn’t tear her eyes away. She’d set the photographs back in the box, but she could still see a collage of bare breasts as the pictures mingled together. What would prompt a woman to do such a thing? To pose nude for a man who was not her husband?
She supposed that within a marriage there were times when a man saw his wife without any clothes—that seemed unavoidable—but she couldn’t even imagine walking across a room nude, let alone posing. Just imagining stripping off her clothes here in front of James had her feeling flushed and embarrassed.