by Amanda Quick
Outside, the fog still seethed in the streets but a great hush had fallen over the neighborhood. No ominous footsteps rang in the mist.
There was no cab, either.
“No surprise,” Trent said, “given the way our luck is running tonight.”
19
“I DON’T THINK THE assailant took our cab,” Calista said. “I suspect the driver fled the scene when he became aware of the commotion inside the shop. The last thing he would have wanted was a passenger covered in blood. Damnation.”
For some obscure reason Trent found her unladylike language amusing.
“J. P. Fulton’s is a shop that sells coffins and mourning goods,” he said. “Perhaps the driver concluded that the fleeing man was a spirit from the Other Side.”
“It’s more likely he realized that there was violence afoot and he did not wish to become involved. He certainly did not make any effort to come to our rescue. He didn’t even send for a constable. If he had, one would have arrived by now.”
“Just as well for us. Your business does not need the scandal that will surely accompany the discovery of Mrs. Fulton’s body.”
“But what of the man with the knife?” Calista said.
He looked at her, trying to read her face in the glare of the streetlamp. “You’re sure you didn’t recognize him?” he asked.
“Quite sure.” She shuddered. “He is most certainly not one of the men I rejected as a client. I don’t know whether to be relieved or even more alarmed by that fact.”
“As I said, I will give a description to Inspector Wynn.” Trent paused, considering possibilities. “I will give it to another acquaintance of mine as well. Perhaps one or both of them will be able to identify the intruder.”
“He did fit the description the cab driver gave me yesterday,” Calista said, very thoughtful now. “A well-dressed gentleman who appears to be in his early thirties. Now we have a few more details. Light-colored hair. If it weren’t for his murderous eyes I might even describe him as handsome.”
“A gentleman who is skilled in the use of a knife,” Trent added. “That is not a common talent among the upper classes.”
“I expect that he will likely be needing stitches, assuming he survives the wound you gave him. At the very least he’ll no doubt be wearing a large bandage for a while.”
“Head wounds tend to bleed freely. Unfortunately, I didn’t hit him hard enough to take him down the first time and I didn’t get a second strike.” He remembered the journal and held it out to her. “Would you please carry this for me? Under the circumstances I would prefer to keep my hands free.”
“Yes, of course,” she said.
She tucked the journal under her arm. He tightened his grip on the curved handle of his cane.
“Sooner or later we will come across a cab,” he said.
They walked in silence for a time. He was intensely aware of her beside him. The heels of her high-button boots echoed faintly in the night. The sound stirred his senses. But then, everything about Calista seemed to have that effect.
“It was very clever of you to realize that the killer was going to try to use you as a hostage,” he said. “You moved quickly.”
He did not want to think about what might have happened if the assailant had gotten his arm around Calista’s throat.
“I could not think of anything else to do,” she said. “But you were the one who saved us.”
“We saved each other.”
Calista seemed cheered by that observation.
“It appears that we are an excellent team,” she said. “I must say, your skill with the walking stick is quite impressive. Where did you learn to use it as a weapon?”
“I took lessons from an instructor who studied under Colonel Monstery at one of Monstery’s fencing and boxing academies in America. Monstery is a great proponent of the walking stick or the cane as a weapon because it is readily available for use yet is very nearly invisible. No one pays much attention to it.”
“Because so many gentlemen carry one,” Calista concluded. “It is considered a fashionable accessory, not a weapon.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Now I know why Clive Stone carries a walking stick.”
“I’m not fond of guns. The results tend to be very permanent, assuming one hits the target. Alternatively, they frequently jam just when one needs them the most.”
“I see.” She was silent for a moment before adding, “In hindsight you will admit that it was a good thing that I accompanied you this evening.”
“In hindsight, I will admit that we got very, very lucky tonight. The evening could just as easily have turned disastrous—as it did for Mrs. Fulton.”
Calista fell silent again. He sensed her mood deflating. Should have kept my mouth shut, he thought.
“It was my fault,” she said at last, grim and resolute.
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“You would never have been put in harm’s way if it were not for the fact that you are assisting me in this strange affair. It is my fault that you were very nearly murdered tonight, Mr. Hastings.”
The rush of exasperation and anger came out of nowhere, slamming through him. He halted abruptly and turned to face her.
“No, it was not your fault,” he said. “Damnation, woman, I have enough people around me who are convinced that they are somehow responsible for whatever ill fortune befalls me. I do not need another martyr in my life.”
She looked startled. “What?”
“I chose to assist you in this matter. It was my decision. Are we clear on that point?”
“You offered to do me a favor, sir.”
“It was my decision. Research, remember?”
She looked at him for what seemed like forever. In the weak glare of the streetlamp he could not read her eyes.
“The thing is,” she said finally, “this affair has evolved into something far more than mere research. I had hoped to repay you by providing you with my introduction services. But we both know that is quite inadequate now, considering the risk you took tonight.”
“I did not ask for repayment.”
“Nevertheless, I am indebted to you and becoming more so by the hour. If something terrible were to happen to you, as it almost did a short time ago, I would bear the burden of guilt for the rest of my life.”
“Miss Langley, do me the courtesy of respecting my pride and my honor in this matter. I cannot in good conscience allow you to continue this dangerous investigation on your own. If something terrible were to happen to you, I would bear the burden of guilt for the rest of my life.”
“How dare you throw my words back in my face?”
“I dare because I am quite desperate to convince you that I want to assist you.”
“I’m not sure what to say,” she whispered.
“Then perhaps it would be best if we stopped talking altogether.”
“Yes, Mr. Hastings. Perhaps that would be for the best.”
“I do have one favor to ask.”
“Yes?”
“Would you kindly stop calling me Mr. Hastings? Given what we have just been through together, I think it is in order for you to call me by my given name.”
“Trent.”
She sounded as if she was trying the name on for size to see how it fit.
“It’s not a difficult name,” he said. “Only one syllable. I’m sure that with practice you will find that you can manage it.”
“Are you teasing me, sir?”
“Perhaps.”
He thought he saw a tiny smile come and go at the edge of her mouth but he couldn’t be certain.
“I was very frightened tonight, Trent,” she said carefully. “Terrified, actually. I am feeling very odd at the moment. Shaky. Rattled.”
“I doubt that, Miss Langley. You have nerves of steel.�
��
“Calista.”
“Calista,” he said. He liked the way the name sounded when he spoke it aloud—resolute, intriguing, and a little mysterious. “Rest assured that feeling shaky and unnerved is not uncommon after one endures a near disaster.”
“You’re certain?”
“Quite.”
“How do you feel?”
“Probably best not to go into that too deeply,” he said.
“If we are to be partners in this affair, we must be honest with each other.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“What I feel, Calista, is that I would very much like to kiss you.”
He realized he was holding his breath as he waited for her response.
“I think I would like it if you kissed me.” In the shadows her eyes were sultry; inviting. “The desire to embrace you is probably a result of the recent shock to my nerves.”
He stifled a groan. “Probably.”
“Perhaps a kiss would be therapeutic—a cathartic experience, as it were.”
“You certainly know how to take the romance out of the moment, Calista.”
“I am not a romantic woman,” she said.
She said it so calmly and with such conviction that he almost laughed.
“Then you have chosen to go into a rather peculiar line of work,” he said.
“Perhaps, but it strikes me as a good deal more uplifting than selling coffins and mourning goods.”
“I take your point.”
“Are you going to kiss me?” she asked. “If not, we should continue on our way. The hour grows late.”
“Are you certain that you would like me to kiss you?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Another wave of heat heightened all his senses.
“For therapeutic reasons?” he asked. He was a fool to ask but he had to know.
“For any reason.”
Not quite the answer he wanted but good enough for now. Then again, any affirmative response would have been good enough—for now. He could not recall the last time he had been so desperate to embrace a woman. Perhaps it was, indeed, nerves that had made Calista say yes, but damned if he cared about the why of it all.
He wrapped his gloved hand very carefully, very gently around the back of Calista’s neck. His pulse quickened. Desire was now a swiftly rising tide that threatened to sweep away all the obstacles in its path.
“Trent,” she whispered, breathless.
That was all he needed. He drew her close before she could say something else that would ruin the moment and covered her mouth with his own.
The kiss started out the way he had intended—a smoldering fire that he was confident he could control. All he yearned for tonight was some indication that she would respond to him, he thought. A fog-shrouded street at midnight was hardly the time or place to pursue the question in greater depth. He just needed to know that she felt at least some small measure of desire for him.
For a few seconds he thought he was doomed. Calista stood, stiff and still, as though frozen by his touch. A strange sense of despair hovered over him, waiting to descend.
But in the next heartbeat she made a soft, urgent little sound deep in her throat. Clutching the journal in one hand, she put her gloved palm on his shoulder and clenched her fingers very tightly. Her mouth softened under his.
She returned the kiss with the uncertainty of a woman who yearned for passion but did not dare to trust such a powerful emotion. He understood the volatile mix of strong feelings. Knowing that she was as wary as he was gave him confidence as nothing else could have done.
“It’s all right,” he said against her mouth. “It’s only a kiss. Nothing more need come of it.”
“Certainly not here in the middle of the street.”
The unexpected note of dry, sensual humor in her husky voice caught him off guard and simultaneously fanned the flames of his arousal. A shudder of erotic excitement swept through him.
He was vividly aware of her womanly scent. He could feel the sleek, supple shape of her body through the heavy fabric of her gown. The kiss awakened sensations he had not experienced in a very long time; perhaps never. He was consumed with a surging vitality and a deep, aching hunger.
Calista seemed to be affected just as strongly by the kiss. She trembled under his hand, but not from fear or uncertainty.
He took her mouth again.
The rattle of a harness and the brisk clip-clop of hooves on pavement broke the spell. His first impulse was to pull Calista into the nearest doorway and hide from the vehicle. But reality prevailed.
Nevertheless, it took an effort of will to end the kiss. For a few seconds he just looked at her. They were both breathing as hard as they had earlier after the battle in the coffin chamber. He pulled himself together.
“Cab,” he said. He was rather proud of the fact that he was not only able to locate the word in his fever-fogged brain, but also utter it aloud.
She, too, made a visible effort to recover her composure. “Right. Cab.”
He raised a hand. The vehicle rolled to a halt. Trent handed her up the steps.
There was very little traffic. The driver arrived in Cranleigh Square twenty minutes later and turned into the drive that led to the front steps of the mansion.
The door opened the moment the cab stopped. But it was not the housekeeper or the butler who appeared. It was a young man in shirtsleeves. He looked disheveled and frantic.
“Calista?” he said. He stared at her and then at Trent. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried to death. My God, what has happened to you?”
“Mr. Hastings,” Calista said. “Allow me to introduce you to my brother, Andrew.”
One look at Andrew’s appalled expression told Trent that the evening’s excitement was not yet finished.
Andrew lowered his head and charged down the front steps.
“Bastard,” he snarled. “How dare you outrage my sister? I’ll kill you for this.”
20
HORRIFIED, CALISTA JUMPED down to the ground and stepped in front of Trent. “Andrew, stop. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
She had never seen Andrew in such a state, she realized. Once again she was forced to acknowledge that he was no longer her little brother who needed her comfort and protection. He was a full-grown man with a man’s strong body and strong, fierce emotions. In his present mood he was not only shockingly dangerous, he was also in danger.
Andrew’s youth might be an asset to him but Trent had experience on his side and, as he had demonstrated earlier that evening, a great deal of strength and expertise in using his walking stick as a weapon.
She was not at all certain how to deal with the situation. She only knew that she could not let the two men come to blows.
Andrew was forced to scramble to a halt to avoid colliding with her. He stared past her at Trent.
“Get out of the way, Calista,” he ordered. “Hastings has done something terrible to you and he will pay for it.”
“You don’t know what you are saying. Mr. Hastings saved my life tonight.”
“My God, Calista. What is that stain on your gown?”
“It is the blood of the man who tried to murder Mr. Hastings and me this evening,” she said, striving to cut through the violent atmosphere with a calm, brisk tone.
“What?” Andrew was dumbfounded. “I don’t understand.”
Trent stirred behind her.
“I think it would be best if we continued this conversation inside,” he said. “I’m sure you will both agree that it would not do to awaken your neighbors around the square.”
Andrew glared at him but Calista could see that the reference to potential scandal was forcing him to come to his senses, at least temporarily. Without a word he stormed back into
the house.
Calista handed the journal to Trent, hoisted her skirts, and hurried after her brother.
“Andrew, please listen to me.”
Trent followed her into the front hall and closed the door.
“Why don’t you go upstairs and refresh yourself, Calista?” he said. It was an order, not a suggestion. “I’ll handle this.”
Calista started to argue. But at that moment she caught sight of herself in the mirror over the console. Her hair had come free of the pins and now hung in wild, tangled locks. When she glanced down at her gown she saw the crimson stains on the hem of her skirt and petticoats. She realized she had walked through the killer’s blood on her way out of J. P. Fulton’s. No wonder Andrew was shocked and enraged.
Before she could think of anything to say Mrs. Sykes appeared.
“What’s going on here?” she said. She stared, wide-eyed, at Calista. “Dear heaven. What on earth happened to you?” She turned an alarmed gaze on Trent. “Mr. Hastings, surely—”
“I’m all right,” Calista said quickly. “Mr. Hastings and I were attacked tonight. Mr. Hastings saved me. If not for him, I would very likely be in a coffin by now, and I mean that quite literally. Now, if you will excuse me, I’m going to change into another gown. I would appreciate your assistance.”
“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Sykes recovered from her shock and took charge like the professional she was. “We must get you out of those clothes.”
Calista cast one last look at Andrew. His face was set in grim, stubborn lines. He did not take his eyes off Trent.
Mr. Sykes materialized. He took in the situation in a single glance.
“Allow me to show you into the library,” he said to Andrew and Trent. “From the looks of things, you could both do with a brandy.”
Neither man argued. But, then, one rarely argued with a professional butler, Calista thought.
“We must leave the gentlemen to Mr. Sykes,” Mrs. Sykes advised from the landing. “When it comes to this sort of thing, men understand each other in ways that women cannot begin to comprehend.”
“So I am discovering,” Calista said.