One Step Behind

by Brianna Labuskes

  She reached the edges of the crowd and scanned the gathering. It was a crush, and she imagined Lady Howard was preening over the turnout. Her aunt, though, was no fading wallflower, and Gemma spotted her bright chartreuse gown and followed the unladylike—but completely delightful and infectious—laugh. Rosalind was not the type to mask her enjoyment with ennui, as was so fashionable. And thus, she was always the life of the party.

  Gemma made what she hoped was a delicate gesture to get Rosalind’s attention, though she probably failed miserably. Uncle Artie had taught her many things, but the artful ways of society had not been one of them.

  She stood off to the side while Rosalind disengaged herself from her many male admirers.

  “Did you find anything, dear?” Rosalind asked without any preamble.

  “No,” Gemma told her, glancing around to make sure they were not overheard. She lowered her voice to a whisper and said, “But the night has taken a startling turn.”

  Rosalind took Gemma’s hand, immediately worried. “Are you all right?” she asked. “Did something happen in your search?”

  “Yes,” Gemma said, knowing she did not have time to explain and that it would kill her aunt not to know. It would be a minor miracle if she could persuade Rosalind not to trail her out to the street. “I will tell you everything as soon as possible, but for now I must take the carriage to the house. I will send it back for you. All is well, I just need to leave with some urgency.”

  Rosalind gave her a hard look, and Gemma wondered if she should have told the headache lie.

  “Someone might notice…and talk,” Rosalind warned. Her aunt was constantly torn between shielding Gemma’s reputation and helping with her investigation. It could have been worse. She could have been stuck with a stickler for all of society’s absurd, restrictive rules for ladies.

  “I doubt anyone will even realize I’m not here,” Gemma said. In fact, that was part of their scheme: to make sure as few people as possible paid attention to her. It was why she dressed in unflattering, colorless gowns, wore fake spectacles, and tried not to say more than one or two words to anyone attempting conversation with her. No one ever paid her a bit of mind.

  Except Lord Winchester.

  “Just be careful, dear heart.” Rosalind squeezed her hand once before turning back to her crowd of admirers. “I am positively parched,” her aunt told them, and they all but fell over themselves to secure the honor of procuring her a refreshment.

  “Thank you,” Gemma whispered to her aunt’s back, and she faded into the crowd. No one gave her a second glance.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when Rosalind’s carriage pulled up to the steps.

  Would Lord Winchester be inside?

  Unexpected nerves fluttered along her insides, and she stumbled as she reached the driver. Did she really want to keep tempting fate by being alone in dark places with him? Not only was her reputation at stake, but his ability to see past her disguise simultaneously intrigued and frightened her. It also put her mission in jeopardy, and she refused to fail Nigel in this. Accepting John’s proffered hand, she climbed into the monstrosity Rosalind insisted on taking about town. The thing was more suited for old country roads, but Rosalind would have her way.

  The shadows didn’t shift until the door closed behind her. She didn’t care to admit it, but she almost let out a small shriek as Lucas’s sharply contoured face emerged in the moonlight. He reached across and tugged the curtains shut, blocking out prying eyes.

  “My lord, you are quite skilled in clandestine affairs. I didn’t even notice you in the dark there, and I knew to look for you,” she said, her hand still covering her racing heart. Lucas lounged in the corner of the seat, one leg propped on the opposite bench, much too close to her skirts. His sleek dark hair and green eyes gave him the appearance of a panther holding deceptively still during a hunt.

  Does that make me his prey?

  “That is the point, my dear,” he said, his voice low enough that she had to lean forward to hear him. She remembered the coachman not too far away from them. The driver was discreet, as was fitting for how well Rosalind paid him, but even the most careful person could slip at times. She had to remember to keep her wits about her.

  “Now,” Lucas said, “I believe you are about to tell me just exactly what you were doing in Lord Howard’s library tonight.”

  She narrowed her eyes. She’d followed his plan out of curiosity, and out of the hope that perhaps he would be a help to her. But she’d had about all she could take of his autocratic demands. She smiled at him sweetly.

  “Why…hunting a murderer, sir. What was it that you were doing?”

  Chapter Two

  He was in a carriage with a madwoman.

  “You believe you are tracking down a murderer?” he repeated, measuring each word. She had never seemed out of her mind. The few conversations they’d had before that evening had been innocuous, perhaps even purposely dull. But he’d seen sparks of sharpness and wit behind those deep blue eyes.

  “You don’t believe me,” she said, her voice steady. “Well, I don’t need you to, my lord. I just need you to stay out of my way.” She tipped her chin up, a move he’d seen from countless young gentlemen in the ring at Jackson’s who had more bravado than technique. It was as if she were preparing to spar with him for a few rounds. He supposed that was, after all, what they were about to do.

  She was such a fierce little thing, all vibrating annoyance. It surprised him that she thought they could go their separate ways now, as if nothing had occurred. That was as likely as him forgetting his own name. “Ah, see, now that’s where we’ll have a problem,” he informed her.

  “I don’t see why. We were both engaged in questionable activities tonight, but you more so than I. ’Tis you who broke into the safe, and you still haven’t answered my question as to why. I say we should forget this night happened and stay out of each other’s way in the future.”

  The little minx. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Do you know, I believe I am,” she replied, with a self-satisfied expression that made him want to lean forward and nibble at her lips.

  “That is unwise, Miss Lancaster,” he said instead, injecting steel into his voice. Her eyes widened at his tone, then narrowed. Her face was so expressive. How had she ever tricked anyone into thinking her a dull, uninteresting relation? The answer was surprisingly easy, though. He’d learned long ago that people saw what they wanted to see. And if they were helped in the right direction, it was easy to manipulate preconceived notions. She had done it artfully.

  “And it is unwise for you to underestimate me, my lord.”

  She wasn’t pretty. Not in the conventional manner so prized by society. Her lips were too big, her nose too sharp. Freckles dusted her cheeks and nose. Her face reminded him of a fox, an image enhanced by the sunset-streaked mass of curls bundled atop her head. Though she certainly had some curves beneath the hideous, pea soup colored dress she wore—he could attest to it personally—she was far from voluptuous. But something about her pulled at him.

  “Let’s start over. Whom did this murderer of yours take from you?” He had a notion that was where her particular brand of logic would lead. If she was hunting a killer, as she claimed, then it followed that the victim had been important to her.

  The anger seeped out of her. She slumped back against her seat and looked away from him, toward the heavy curtains, possibly wishing she could look out at the black of the night. The clatter of horse hooves on the cobblestone was the only sound in the darkened carriage for a moment. He had touched a raw nerve and intruded on something deeply personal.

  Had her lover died?

  Jealousy burned in his gut, but annoyance quickly overtook it. What was wrong with him? He had never been so possessive of a woman so quickly.

  “His name was Nigel Shaw.” She turned back to him and finally said, “He…was my cousin.” She stumbled over the past tense, but otherwise she looked composed.


  Cousin.

  Not lover.

  Cousin.

  The knot in his chest relaxed.

  “Ah,” he said. “I think you should start at the beginning.”

  …

  “That’s what I have been trying to do,” Gemma said, secretly thankful the man seemed to only utter things that annoyed her. It allowed her to fight off the wave of grief that had threatened to consume her a moment earlier. She would have been mortified if she had cried in front of him.

  Since the horrible morning she had read the letter from her cousin’s man of affairs telling her that Nigel had been shot dead by a burglar at a house party, she had focused all her energies on finding his murderer. As long as she was moving forward, she could channel her emotions into something productive. She could imagine no greater hell than sitting in their empty manor house doing nothing while Nigel’s killer walked free. The idea haunted her before she had set out to catch the villain. The Misses Blythe and Reverend Connors may have had heart palpitations when she’d announced she intended to visit her aunt in London after only a few weeks of mourning, but they could all be consigned to the inferno for all she cared. She was honoring her cousin in the only way she knew how: through action.

  She shook off the gloom of the past and focused her attention on the problem at hand.

  “My parents died when I was very young, in a carriage accident. I was passed around to various relations until my Uncle Artie took me in many months later.” Her heart swelled at the memory of the big bear of a man. He had taken in a bedraggled, unwanted child when many of her other relatives had been unable to cope with a terrified, nearly comatose girl. He had been kind and patient and helped her recover from her tragic loss. He and Nigel both had. “Nigel’s mother had died in childbirth several years earlier, so it was just the two of them, and Uncle Artie raised us as siblings. Nigel was my best friend.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lucas said when she paused, and he sounded genuine. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness so she could make out his face, even though its contours were bathed in shadows. No longer sprawled on the seat, he sat up straight, hands clasped on his muscular thighs.

  “Nigel attended a house party about two months ago,” she continued. “They found him the second morning, shot to death in the library. The local inspector said it was a burglar, but only one thing was taken: Nigel’s pocket watch.”

  “Ah,” Lucas’s voice sharpened as he snapped to even more directed attention. “Only the pocket watch?”

  “Yes,” she answered, wondering if he would reach the same conclusion she had. “Nothing else in the study. Nigel also wore an expensive family ring, which was left on him, and he was carrying several banknotes of considerable value.”

  “So he was the intended victim,” Lucas deducted.

  “Precisely!” She tapped him on his knee, excited that they were of one thought. Her cheeks heated when she realized what she had done, and she withdrew her hand from his person. He stared at the spot she’d touched before giving his head a small shake and clearing his throat.

  “Why would he be targeted?” Lucas mused, and she sensed it was posed more to himself than to her. She had been mulling the same question over in her head for the past two months. She had not gotten far. Or rather, she had gone down the pathways of farfetched notions only to find disappointment.

  “I do not know, my lord,” she said, her frustration evident in her tone. She was searching for a murderer without knowing the cause of the attack, and she was, quite frankly, getting nowhere with it. “Nigel did not gamble, he was not a rakehell. He did not conduct affairs with married ladies…”

  “Hmmm.” Lucas hummed at the last, a low sound of doubt, which was both expected and aggravating. Did he think her naive for believing the best of Nigel? She was aware that many so-called gentlemen had liaisons with the wives of their peers; that they risked their fortunes at the card tables every night; that they bet each other on who could ruin the most innocents in a Season. But what the earl did not understand was that Nigel would have told her of the adventures. It was not that her cousin had been indelicate, but that they had been the closest of confidantes.

  If he had been involved in some sort of sinful or scandalous endeavor he would not have been able to avoid confessing to her. It had always been that way. When Nigel had snuck an extra pudding from the cook on his ninth birthday he had immediately rushed to her rooms, sticky sugar on his fingers, and blurted out the truth. When, at sixteen, he’d pulled Martha, one of the maids at their manor, behind the bushes for a stolen kiss, he’d hunted Gemma down to give her all the details. No confession was too small or large for it not to be shared between the two of them. The earl, of course, knew none of that, and he did not seem inclined to believe her.

  “He was not perfect, but I do not believe it was some secret vice that got him killed.” She sighed as his expression remained doubtful. It would be fruitless to argue the point. At least now he would have to admit it would be better to go their separate ways. A tug of regret pulled at her. He still hadn’t told her why he’d been searching Lord Howard’s library, but having him there had made her feel not so…alone. It had felt so good to confide in someone besides her aunt. If nothing else, he’d sparked her interest. “I am not going to spend energy convincing you of anything.”

  “What were you doing in Lord Howard’s library tonight?” He shifted directions, without acknowledging her consternation. The change in questioning caught her off guard.

  “I told you I’m…”

  “Yes, yes, ‘hunting a murderer,’” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. She bristled at the gesture. “‘Why Lord Howard’s library?’ would perhaps be a better, more precise question.”

  It was a thin line, this. How much more should—or could—she divulge before she ended up revealing everything? She had spent much of the time answering his questions and not learning anything in return. The encounter thus far had only resulted in his doubting her claims.

  “I think the better question is why were you in Lord Howard’s library, my lord?” she asked instead of answering him. It was time to take control of the situation, as Uncle Artie would say. She would not be bullied by an arrogant man, earl or no. She savored the irritation that tightened his jaw before she realized the carriage was slowing. “Oh, we’re almost home!”

  She was more dismayed than she should be that their time was cut short. It was only because she had not learned anything from him. It was just as well she would be able to rid herself of the earl. No amount of curiosity was worth the aggravation he would bring her. Although she had not come very far in her investigation as of yet on her own, having Lord Winchester as a partner would only lead to disaster.

  “Damn.” His curt tone told her he was not happy with their arrival at Lady Andrews’s home, either. “My apologies.”

  She waved it away. “Uncle Artie cursed like a sailor. Women are not so delicate as all that, you know.” She bit her lip as a thought struck her. “You will not hamper my mission, my lord, will you?” If he concluded that she was putting herself in danger, he could take it upon himself to attempt to stop her, thus destroying all that she was working for. While he might not seem the type of man to interfere—especially when he was up to something himself—she could not rest until she extracted his word that he would not thwart her efforts. She had met plenty of gentlemen in the past few weeks who would think they were doing what was best for her. The patriarchal condescension ran strong amongst the noblemen of the ton.

  He considered her for a moment before sidestepping her question. “We are not done with each other yet, Gemma. You will not rid yourself of me quite that easily.”

  Gemma’s stomach dipped at the soft promise and his use of her Christian name. For the sake of her emotional stability, it would be less than wise to become attached to this man in any fashion. He was much too mysterious—and much too attractive—for her to be fully safe around him.

  “I will call on you and
your aunt tomorrow to discuss this matter further,” he said.

  She felt a spark of excitement at the prospect of seeing him again that she wished she could dismiss. Perhaps she should be angry, frightened even, at what he might have planned. But, no, she was acting like she was just out of the schoolroom and not a spinster of twenty-five.

  So silly.

  He would be horrified at her train of thoughts. That alone steadied her.

  “I expect some answers as well, my lord,” she told him.

  The carriage finally creaked to a stop. She knew John was clambering from his perch to assist her down from the vehicle, and she realized this was Lucas’s moment to escape unnoticed. She shifted to block him as much as possible as he reached for the opposite door. Right before he slipped out of the carriage and into the fog of the night, she felt his lips graze her ear. “We are in this together now, my dear.”

  She did not react to the whispered vow as her door opened at the same time the one behind her snicked closed. The chilled air of the spring night felt refreshing against her flushed cheeks as the coachman helped her down to the street. Yes, Lord Winchester definitely spelled trouble.

  Chapter Three

  Gemma was surprised to see Roz seated at the table when she walked into the breakfast room. Her aunt was of the opinion that only a madwoman came downstairs before ten a.m. Yet there she sat, with her tea and eggs, reading the post. Gemma chuckled and moved to the sideboard while calling out a greeting.

  “Finally, Gemma! Really, a soul would think you were planning to laze the day away in your room.” Rosalind tossed the invitations she’d been perusing to the side.

  Gemma clucked her tongue, amused at her aunt’s melodramatic tendencies. However, she was impressed by the restraint Roz had shown. If the roles had been reversed, she probably wouldn’t have been able to stop herself from bursting into Rosalind’s bedroom at the crack of dawn. Or even the night before.