by Amanda Quick
“Did you discover the identity of the rogue master from this John Stoner?”
“No. But I will know the rogue when I find him. It’s only a matter of time now.”
He sounded remarkably unconcerned about that aspect of the situation. She knew that his thoughts tonight were centered on the past. The encounter with John Stoner had awakened too many memories. She ached to comfort him but she had no notion of how to get past the wall he had built long ago to protect himself.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He said nothing. He simply looked at her.
“I am so sorry that tonight you looked into a mirror and saw yourself as a young man.”
For a moment he did not react.
“I do not think of myself as so very old yet,” he finally said very dryly.
“Oh, Edison.” She did not know whether to laugh or cry. Impulsively she put her arms around his waist and pressed her face against his chest. With an uncharacteristically brusque, almost jerky movement, he wrapped his arms fiercely around her.
“Emma.” His mouth came down on hers as though the world might end in the next five minutes. It was not comfort he sought, she realized. It was something else, something more primitive and far less civilized. It was her turn to hesitate. This was the second time she had stood on this particular precipice. On the first occasion she had learned just how dangerous it was.
But the hunger in Edison ignited a blaze within her. The gentle urge to comfort him was transformed into a desperate need to respond to the desire in him. His mouth never left hers as he lifted her off her feet. He used one hand to force her lower body against his own. He was fiercely aroused.
“I had to see you tonight,” Edison whispered roughly against her mouth.
“Yes.” She pulled her head back an inch or so and lifted her hands to rake her fingers through his hair. “Yes, it’s all right, Edison. I am glad you came to me.”
“Oh, God, Emma.”
He lowered her slowly to her feet as though the feel of her was both a pleasure and a keen agony. Then he picked up his greatcoat and tossed it on the floor. He turned back to her, shrugged out of his black evening coat, and cast it aside. He met her eyes.
“Emma?”
“Yes. Oh, yes, Edison.”
She took a step toward him. With a husky groan he pulled her close again and then he drew her down. The heavy woolen greatcoat could not disguise the hardness of the stone floor, but the garment was warm and it carried a faint hint of Edison’s scent. Emma inhaled deeply. Excitement and need poured through her. Edison gathered her to him. This was right, she thought as the heat of his body enveloped her. It had to be right. She shivered when she felt his hand slide between her thighs.
This time,” she whispered, “you will kindly remove your shirt.”
This time,” he promised as he yanked at the fastenings, “I will do anything you ask of me.”
He got the pleated white shirt undone, but before he could wrestle himself free of it, Emma spread her fingers across his bare skin. She could not see his chest because he was leaning over her, his broad shoulders blotting out the moonlight. But she could feel him. The texture of the crisp hair and the shift of his muscles enthralled her.
“You are magnificent,” she said softly. “Strong and beautiful.”
“Oh, Emma. You do not know what you are doing to me. I promised myself that I would remain in control tonight.”
She smiled. “Surely your training in the art of Vanza taught you some useful exercise that can be applied at moments such as this.”
“One of the great drawbacks to the art of Vanza,” he muttered against her throat, “is that it teaches that all strong passions are to be avoided.”
“Then it is obvious why you are not well suited to the philosophy. You are a man of great passions.”
“The odd thing is, I did not realize just how strong my passions were until I met you.”
He kissed her again, his mouth hot and rough against hers. But his hands were incredibly tender. The contrast left her breathless.
She felt his fingers cup the exquisitely sensitive place between her legs. A great heat rose within her.
“Edison?”
This time we will not rush the matter,” he vowed. “This time I want you to feel something of what I felt last time. Surely even a portion of that pleasure would make you understand.”
“Understand what?”
But he did not answer. Instead, he held her more tightly and stroked her slowly, going deeper into her with each movement. She trembled under the flood of passion that assailed her. She clutched at him as the aching, yearning, wanting sensation built within her. She was vaguely aware of her own breathing. It sounded ragged and uneven.
When she began to twist against his hand, silently pleading with him for a culmination to the intense feeling, Edison gave a soft, hoarse groan. But he did not open his trousers, slide between her legs, and fit himself to her body as she expected. Instead, he slid down the length of her, eased her legs farther apart, and pushed aside the skirt of her lawn nightshift. Then, astonishingly, he put his mouth on her.
“Edison.” Emma knew that her small scream of shock and surprise would have awakened the entire household, indeed, the entire neighborhood, had it not got caught and partially strangled in her throat.
She was shocked by the strange caress. Shocked, amazed, and unbearably thrilled. Everything in her lower body went very tight. She flung out her arms, seeking something, anything, to anchor herself.
Her fingers brushed against the iron supports of the workbenches on either side of the narrow aisle. She gripped them and held on as though they could keep her safely bound to earth. But a few seconds later when the release sang through her, she knew that nothing could restrain her to the cold ground. She was flying.
Edison was suddenly on top of her, crushing her into the warm greatcoat. He drove himself into her and groaned as she contracted fiercely around him. He was too big, but she did not care. All that mattered was binding him to her, making him hers for whatever time the fates allowed.
“Hold me.” He moved within her, sinking deeper with each thrust.
He arched his back and went rigid. Energy rippled through his taut muscles as he poured himself into her. Emma held on to him with all of her strength.
It seemed an infinitely long time later when Edison opened his eyes and gazed up into the full glare of the moon. The fact that he and Emma were still lying in the glow told him that in truth very little time had passed. It had just seemed as if he had floated there for an eternity.
He tightened his arm around Emma. She stirred against his chest. He felt her hand flatten on his bare stomach and smiled slightly. He had got his shirt unfastened but he had not managed to get it off entirely.
Next time, he promised silently Next time. There had to be a next time. A lot of them. His future was with Emma. Surely she would comprehend that now.
“Emma?”
“Good heavens.” She sat up swiftly and looked around with a dazed expression. “We are in your grandmother’s conservatory of all places. We must get out of here before someone discovers us.”
“Calm yourself, my sweet.” He put one arm behind his head to pillow himself and looked up at her. “You are no longer a respectable lady’s companion who must be constantly concerned with the virtue problem.”
She made a delicious picture, he thought. The little white nightcap was askew. Her hair was a cloudy tangle around her face. The wrapper was unfastened and the bodice of her shift was open.
“Nevertheless, it would be horribly embarrassing if we are found here, sir.”
He winced at the sir. Old habits died hard, he reminded himself. “No one has burst in on us thus far. I think we will get through this undiscovered.”
“We should not take any more risks.”
She scrambled to her feet. He was amused when she lurched and flung out a hand to steady herself. He watched her for a moment while sh
e struggled to set herself to rights.
“Hurry, sir.” She glared down at him. “It is nearly dawn. The servants will soon be up and about.”
“Very well.” Reluctantly he got to his feet. When he started to refasten his shirt, he realized that she was gazing at him with an odd expression. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly. Too quickly.
He frowned. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. It’s just that, well, I have only now realized that I still have never actually seen you without your shirt.”
He grinned slowly. “Allow me to show you my tattoo, my dear.”
He relit the candle she had brought with her, gave her a mocking bow, and peeled back the wings of his unfastened shirt.
“Edison.” His name was a choked gasp on her lips. She stared at him as though he had turned into a monster in front of her eyes.
He raised his brows. “Obviously you are not as impressed as I’d hoped you’d be. Next time I shall leave the shirt on.”
“Oh my God, Edison.”
He was ruefully aware that he was hurt by her lack of appreciation of his bare chest. He stopped smiling.
“I would remind you that a few minutes ago you were not complaining.” He started to refasten his shirt.
“Wait. Your tattoo.” She seized the candle and stepped closer.
“I trust you do not intend to set fire to the hair on my chest,” he murmured.
She ignored him. For a long moment she stared fixedly at the place near his shoulder where years ago the mark of Vanza had been etched.
He glanced down. “It is called the Flower of Vanza. Were you expecting a more interesting design, perhaps?”
She raised her stark eyes to his. “I was expecting a design that was completely unfamiliar.”
He stilled. “What are you saying?”
“I have seen that mark elsewhere, Edison.”
“Where?”
“Sally Kent’s embroidered handkerchief.”
Edison was at a loss. “Who?”
“She was the paid companion who attended Lady Ware during the last months of her life. It was Miss Kent’s bed chamber I occupied during the country house party at Ware Castle, remember?”
“Forgive me, Emma, but I am not following the thread of this conversation very well.”
She licked her lips and drew a deep breath. “Sally Kent embroidered a picture of that mark into a handkerchief that she left hidden together with two hundred pounds. I found the money and the handkerchief and a letter to Sally’s friend Judith Hope concealed in Sally’s old bed chamber.”
“Go on.”
“It was obvious that Sally had intended that the money and the needlework go to Miss Hope. I took them to her shortly after we returned to London. You recall the day, do you not? You were quite out of sorts with me because I was a bit late returning to Lady Mayfield’s.”
He looked at Emma. “About this Sally Kent—”
“Edison, she vanished after she had an affair with Basil Ware.”
“Bloody hell.”
Silence fell while Edison swiftly resorted and refit the pieces of the puzzle.
Emma eyed him uneasily. “I suppose you are thinking that I should have thought to mention Sally Kent and her needlework to you long before now.”
“What I was thinking,” Edison said, “was that we are victims of the virtue problem.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“You would have noticed the resemblance between my tattoo and Miss Kent’s embroidery design much earlier on in this affair if we had made love much sooner and with greater frequency.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
He was too late. The house was empty. Only the housekeeper remained. Edison stood alone in the study of the man who had called himself Basil Ware.
He walked to the desk and examined the bits of melted wax that lay in the bottom of the candle holder. They were crimson in color, the same shade of red as the remains of the taper he had discovered in John Stoner’s room. He snapped off a small chunk and held it to his nose. It had been scented with the same herbs. To know the master look at the student’s candles.
Emma heard Edison in the hall shortly after one o’clock that afternoon. She put down her pen, pushed aside the letter she had been attempting to write to her sister, and leaped to her feet.
“He has finally returned, Lady Exbridge.”
“I am well aware of that, my dear.” Victoria looked up from her book, removed her spectacles, and glanced toward the door of the library. “I do hope he has some news that will ease your nerves.”
“There is nothing wrong with my nerves.”
“Indeed? It is a wonder that you did not drive me to Bedlam today with your anxious forebodings and your endless pacing. You have acted like the heroine of a horrid novel all morning.”
Emma gave her a dark look. “I cannot help it if I am inclined toward premonitions and forebodings.”
“Nonsense. I’m sure you could curb the tendency with a bit of fortitude and an application of willpower.”
The door opened before Emma was obliged to come up with a response. Edison walked into the room without giving the long-suffering Jinkins a chance to announce him. His eyes went first to Emma. Then he inclined his head briefly to his grandmother.
“Good day to you both,” he said.
“Well?” Emma hurried around the corner of the desk. “What did you discover, Edison?”
“Basil Ware has packed up and left Town.”
“Gone. Hah. He knows we are on to him.”
“Perhaps.” Edison walked to the desk and leaned back against it, his hands braced on either side of his thighs. “The housekeeper informed me that he has left Town to rusticate at his country estate. I have sent one of the Runners to Ware Castle to check, but I doubt that he will find Ware in residence.”
Victoria frowned. “Emma has told me most of what has happened in the past few hours. What do you think is going on now?”
“I don’t yet know the whole of it,” Edison said. “But I think it’s safe to say that Ware was once a member of the Vanzagarian Society. Nothing else would explain the tattoo of the Flower of Vanza that Sally Kent apparently noticed.”
“Poor Sally Kent,” Emma whispered. “I wonder if he killed her because she discovered the tattoo.”
“I doubt it,” Edison said. The tattoo would have meant nothing to her.”
“But she was blackmailing him for some reason,” Emma said. “She may have attempted to extort money from him by pretending that she was with child, but such a ploy would have been doomed to failure. Yet in the end she actually got money from him, so she must have learned something about him that was far more damaging—” She broke off, recalling Polly’s tale. “Yes, of course.”
“What is it?” Edison demanded.
“Murder. I think she witnessed murder. Dear heaven.”
Victoria stared at her. “Whose murder?”
“Lady Ware’s.” The logic of the thing came together quickly in Emma’s mind. “That explains everything. Polly the maid told me that the night Lady Ware died, she saw Basil emerge from the bed chamber. He told her that his aunt had just succumbed and then he went on down the hall to inform the household. Polly went into the room and saw Lady Ware’s body. As she pulled up the sheet, Sally rushed from the dressing room looking as though she’d seen a ghost, and fled.”
Edison looked at her. “You think she saw Basil kill his aunt?”
“My former employer was given Lady Ware’s old bed chamber when we stayed at the castle,” Emma said. “The dressing room adjoins it in such a way that it would be quite possible for someone to be inside without anyone in the outer room being aware of the fact. I’ll wager Sally was in there that night when Basil went to see his aunt for the last time.”
“If she saw Ware do something to hasten the woman’s death, that would explain the blackmail,” Edison said slowly.
“Indeed
. Nothing else does. In my experience paid companions who are so foolish as to become involved in Incidents with their employers or a member of the employer’s family rarely get paid for their efforts. They are far more likely to be dismissed.” Emma shot Edison a sidelong glance. “Without so much as a reference, let alone two hundred pounds.”
Edison scowled. “This is no time to bring up that particular subject.”
Victoria looked politely puzzled. “What on earth is going on here?”
“Nothing of any great importance,” Edison muttered. “All we have at this point is speculation and deduction. Perhaps we will know more when the Runner returns from Ware Castle. In the meantime, I have taken some other precautions.”
Emma paused to peer at him. “What other precautions?”
“I have some influence in certain quarters down at the docks. I have offered a reward to any ship’s captain who reports a man of Ware’s description booking passage on board any vessel either here in London or in Dover. In addition, I have sent word out to the various members of the Vanzagarian Society to watch for Ware.”
“What if he travels north?” Emma demanded. “Or alters his looks and changes his name?”
Edison shrugged. “I did not say it would be easy to find him. But in time we will get him.”
“Hmm.” Emma paused beside the desk. She drummed her fingers on the polished mahogany. “He is a very clever man. Now that he knows we are on his trail, he may easily disappear.”
“You are assuming that he left town because he realized we were closing in on him,” Edison said. “But there is another reason he may have chosen this particular moment to vanish.”
“What do you mean?”
“He may have accomplished his goal,” Edison said softly. “Perhaps he found the recipe or the Book of Secrets. We still do not know which one he was after.”
Victoria met Edison’s eyes. “Do you think he will still want to get his hands on Emma?”
Edison did not answer immediately. He turned to study Emma as though she were an interesting problem in scholarly logic.
Emma did not like the expression in his eyes. She stepped back and held up her hand. “Now, hold on one moment here. Let’s not get carried away with wild imaginings. At this very moment Basil Ware is either scurrying off to the Continent with his stolen book or he is busy attempting to elude you in some other fashion, sir. Either way, he has a good deal more on his mind than kidnapping me.”