Ophelia’s hints on how to interpret various people’s mannerisms were strange, but enlightening. Now at least she knew how Lady Wilmot felt when she rubbed the outside of her ear, and not to trust Lord Forster when he tapped the tip of his chin. But there was no information on Clive, and the omission disappointed her.
What had she hoped for? To find that he laughed when he was pretending to agree with something she said? Or that he shuffled his feet when he wished to kiss her?
“Come along, Miss Frost, we must join the game.” Clive took her elbow, and they joined a group comprised of the curate, the local brewer, and Lord Forster.
Everyone threw themselves into the game. She had expected to feel out of place and out of sorts, but the people were so genial, and the conversation so amiable, that she had an unexpectedly engaging time. For most of the game—or at least until it was clear she had no need of him to navigate her way—Clive remained at her side, solicitous, kind, and thoughtful. Though it surprised her, she found him a soothing presence. Likewise, the evening was very different from her prior experiences with English country life, perhaps because she was now older and master of her own fate, or as much a master as any human could ever be.
* * *
Clive watched Lena for the better part of an hour, moving from group to group, avoiding individual conversations, listening for a time, then moving smilingly to the next group. Just as at the Rotunda, she held herself apart. Yet hers wasn’t a natural reserve—that he of all people would have understood. Instead, it was more like a wounded animal’s reticence to accept help, or a starving one’s unwillingness to accept food. In either case, he was liable to be bitten if he frightened or alarmed her. But whenever she would let him in, even a little, he discovered more to Miss Frost than he had imagined. He finally cornered her near the long windows that led to the garden. “You are good at evading questions.”
“I’ve answered every question posed to me, and honestly.” She didn’t meet his eyes but rather looked into the night, the moon outlining the shapes of the beds and hedges.
“Yet in playing, you’ve managed to ask questions but not be asked them in return. Of the four questions you’ve answered, the most challenging was about your occupation—to which you answered shepherdess.” In the moonlight, he watched her face in profile, hoping he might read something there that would help him to understand her better.
“It seemed an appropriate answer for the role I was given.” She passed it off lightly, but the corners of her eyes tightened briefly. “Rich heiress in disguise, suspicious of others.”
“Your role in the game, you mean,” Clive prodded, waiting for her reaction.
“Of course.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “What else could I mean? You’ve seen my rooms. If I were rich, I’d have escaped from Mrs. Abbott long ago.” She looked away from the garden.
“Even so, you aren’t used to being obligated to others.” Clive leaned his back against the frame of the window.
“I have many obligations: to my work, my crew, my subscribers, my patrons.” Her eyes scanned the room.
“But not like here.” Clive gestured to the laughing company. “Here family and friends lean on one another. Tonight we are playing foolish games simply to please one of our own, but tomorrow we might be sharing a sorrow instead of a joy. You, however, hold yourself apart, and not merely here in a company of strangers, but even at the Rotunda.”
“At the Rotunda, I am the foreman, the owner, and the artist, all in one, and each role requires a different sort of distance.” She danced around his words. “Is this part of the game? Are you asking a question?”
“No, it’s not the game, and yes, I’m asking a question. Today you let me help you, but under duress, and I have the impression you would have preferred not to have needed help, and that as soon as you can, you will refuse my help again.”
“That wasn’t a question, but I’ll answer it, lest you think I prefer evasion.” She looked directly into his eyes, as if to confirm that she was being candid. “I prefer to hire help when I need it, and I prefer to be responsible for myself. If I own a hammer, I like to know that when I put it down, it will be in the same place when I return.”
“At some point, you’ll have to ask for help when you can’t afford to pay for it.”
“Perhaps. But the disadvantage of a community like this is that people come to believe that they can use your hammer with perfect freedom. And if they break it, an apology sets things to right again. At least my way, I’m rarely disappointed.” Her face was serious, but a smile played at the edges of her mouth. “Besides, if I need help in future, I have you to call on.”
Clive began to respond, but decided to let it go. If she hadn’t sent him away by the next time she needed help, perhaps it would mean she’d come to trust him.
The sound of Ophelia clapping drew their attention. “As one would expect, our magistrate, Squire Brookings, has discovered our crime and our criminal.”
“Lord Forster, former circus performer. Burglary,” Lena whispered in Clive’s ear a moment before Ophelia made the announcement.
“You knew?” Clive was surprised, and yet he wasn’t. “For how long?”
“Since about five minutes into the game. Ophelia provided the very clue I needed to decipher the puzzle. But she would have been so disappointed for the game to end so early.”
“Ah, Miss Frost, be wary. Already you begin to act like one of our company.” He held out his hand. “Might I escort you to our dinner?”
* * *
After dinner, Lady Judith, Lena, and Clive were waiting for their carriage to be pulled round, when Lucy approached them. “Judith, you must stay: Squire Brookings has given us permission to ride again over his lands. The scenery—and the speed at which you can go over open country—is exhilarating! Ophelia says you may take her bay, as she intends to blow up this part of Kensington tomorrow with her experiments.”
“Did she say that?” Lena asked with a bit of alarm.
“Ophelia said she intends to experiment. Lucy added the destruction to Kensington herself—a comment that shows she and my brother are well matched.” Clive offered a mischievous grin.
“When do you ride?” Lady Judith, who had been pulling on her gloves, hesitated.
“At dawn. There’s a spot about a mile from here where the views at sunrise will be spectacular. Ophelia says your room is ready, as usual, and your riding habit needs only to be brushed.”
Lady Judith resumed pulling on her gloves. “I will return early and join you. I’ll tell Fletcher to hold a carriage for me.”
Lena examined their faces, disappointment obvious. “Lady Judith, am I the reason that you are returning to London only to come back here a few short hours later?”
Lady Judith began to demur, but Clive interrupted.
“Our Judith takes her obligations as elder sister—and your chaperone—very seriously.”
“There’s no need, Lady Judith.” Lena touched Clive’s sister’s hand. “Lord Clive and I have already spent the whole day together without a chaperone, and I doubt he will give me reason to regret another long dark ride alone with him. Besides, it’s been a very trying day, and I intend to fall promptly asleep, waking only as we arrive at the duke’s residence.”
“Listen to Miss Frost, Judith.” Clive gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You do love a good race at sunrise.”
Lady Judith stood quietly, looking at Lena, then Clive. At some point she decided. She began to remove her gloves. “Then, if you are certain I am not needed . . .”
“Certain.” Lena and Clive spoke almost in unison.
* * *
Clive handed Lena into the carriage, once more the consummate gentleman. He had been altogether perfect at the party: quietly attentive, ensuring that she felt welcome and at ease, while leaving her the distance to forge her own conversations. He’d neither suffocated nor managed her, as she would have expected from a man of his class. But he consistently surprised her. He w
as accepting of both her help and her objections, and he seemed genuinely interested in her opinions and expertise. In fact, the only moment in the whole day when he had been less than perfect was when he hadn’t kissed her.
She touched a gloved hand to the spot where she imagined his lips would have met hers. She remembered how it felt to have him near her, his breath soft on her mouth, his body so close that she could relax into the warmth of him. Her body, at the memory, felt the same swell of frustrated desire. It was a reminder that she should be cautious. They were only temporary partners, thrown together by forces neither understood, and that partnership would end as quickly as it had begun.
With the remains of Boatswain’s barrier removed, Lena could sit wherever she wished. To avoid complications, she sat near to the far door. In a coach that could seat eight, her choice would convey that she had no wish for another almost-kiss. But it was cold in the carriage. The footmen had placed tin foot warmers firmly in the middle of the coach, and they were too hot to nudge closer to her seat. So, she hugged her arms to her middle trying to keep herself warm.
She was torn between desire and caution, wishing he would sit close beside her, and at the same time, hoping he wouldn’t. Whatever her reservations and fears, she was already half enamored with him, or more. And a kiss would be lovely. But it might prove too lovely—something she couldn’t forget when it came time to part. As a woman outside his class, it would be reckless to love him, and even more reckless to let him see her heart.
Clive climbed in and took his seat firmly in the middle, placing his feet on one warmer. “The duke’s coach maker crafts the doors and windows to seal perfectly. Even so, it’s still warmer in the middle.” Lena didn’t move.
Clive leaned forward and lifted the top of the opposite seat to reveal a large compartment. He removed a woolen blanket. “If you won’t use the foot warmers, at least use the blanket. It’s not as pretty as yours, but it should prove as serviceable.” He unfolded it, handing her half. Wider and longer than hers, the blanket reached from one side of the coach to the other. Disappointingly, she had no need to move closer to him.
“Thank you.” Her voice felt uncertain.
“You told Judith we are nothing more than business associates.” Clive angled his body to face hers. Even in the half-light provided by the moon and the embers, she could trace the seductive lines of his body. “But I assure you: I rarely kiss my business partners.”
“We didn’t kiss.” Her objection carried more force than she’d intended, and the memory filled the space between them.
“No, I suppose we didn’t.” He spoke in almost a whisper, and she couldn’t tell if she heard regret or acquiescence in his voice. “But I’ve wondered all day, why shouldn’t we? A kiss, nothing more.”
She sat silently, weighing her options. Refuse him and always wonder? She thought of the dog Boatswain, leaping out of the carriage on just a glimpse of his mistress, his joy at the reunion unalloyed by questions or fear. Could she leap?
She slid across the seat until she was in front of the other foot warmer. There was still more than adequate space between them. He waited. She moved closer, setting her hand on his knee. She turned her face toward his, lifting her lips toward his. He waited, making her decide, making her act. She breathed in the scent of him, so new, yet so familiar. She placed her palm against his cheek, and he leaned his face into her hand. She let her forefinger trace his lips, the curve of the top, the fullness of the bottom. She paused, waiting for her heart to overcome her mind. Then she leapt.
Her lips pressed against his, softly. Her action spurred his response, and he returned the kiss, gently. Her blood rushed in her ears and her chest. The kiss blossomed, moving from tentative to certain, eager to greedy.
His hand moved from her knee to her hip, pulling her toward him. “Ah, Lena.” Her name on his lips sounded like a prayer.
She wanted him, his lips, his mouth, his hands, and he gave them to her, tender, demanding, generous.
One kiss turned to two, then a dozen, each one as sweet as the one before. Reckless. Delightful.
Eventually, she interrupted their kisses, covering his lips with her fingers. “This is wonderful.”
“It is.” He kissed the inside of her fingers, each one, sweetly.
“I . . .” She pulled back, and he let her.
“Having you sit beside me is enough.” He opened his arms, and she leaned into him, her back to his chest, wrapping his warmth around her. She rested her head on his shoulder, feeling safe and warm, and refusing to think of anything but his kindness.
Chapter Twelve
“Swan and his crew have collected another five bodies.” Flute placed the note open on the desk.
“Cadavers, Flute. We call them cadavers.” The man known as Charters closed the ledger he kept for their gambling hell and picked up the one he used for managing their resurrection business.
“The men say cadaver is just a big word for a dead body.” Flute, a strong, wiry man, pulled a piece of wood out of his pocket and began to whittle.
“All the same, cadaver emphasizes that the bodies were dead before we received them. Of course, if you prefer, we could merely call them merchandise.” Charters opened the ledger to the appropriate page and dipped his pen in the inkwell.
“Call them what you will.” Flute shook his head. “I don’t like trafficking in bodies.”
“We only traffic in the dead, and there’s little harm in that. In most cemeteries, once the family leaves, the cadaver is thrown into a mass grave, and the coffin sold for firewood. For that disservice, a churchyard like St. Clement Danes charges a pound seventeen for an adult, and a private cemetery charges fifteen shillings. But the surgery schools will pay ten pounds for the cadaver, more for one in fine condition. If we fill all the requests we’ve received, we’ll be distributing a thousand cadavers a year, and the cemeteries will still be overfull. Isn’t it better for those bodies to perform some useful service, rather than moldering cold and low with a dozen strangers?”
“Some sects believe the body will be resurrected on the day of judgment.” Flute turned over his carving and began to shape the other side. “They might not appreciate finding their bodies have been dissected.”
“How are we doing them a greater ill than an undertaker filling a mass grave? Eventually all those bodies will be reduced to a jumble of bones. I suppose the righteous dead will have to trust their god to sort out the parts.” Charters watched Flute silently shape a bird out of the wood. “I’ve finalized agreements with the newer burial grounds.”
“Bribes, you mean,” Flute corrected, but without rancor or even dismay.
“To our partners, I call them stipends.” Charters returned to his ledger.
“I never thought that selling bodies could be lucrative enough to justify the trouble.” Flute looked up from his wood carving. “But if ever a man could make money from the dead, it would be you.”
“It’s a fine market, but it won’t last. Eventually Parliament will regulate it. But we will have built good networks of trade we can use for other enterprises. In the meantime, we know who to call when we need a body buried or a leg set.” Charters waited for Flute’s nod of agreement. “How did Swan describe the quality of the cadavers?”
“Three are workhouse bodies, sold to us shortly after death. The workhouse gets its money, even when you’re dead.” Flute leaned forward to read the note. “The other two were in the ground, a day, maybe two.”
“Did the workhouses indicate the causes of death?” Charters held his pen ready to log the information.
“They wrote it all down for you.”
Charters took the sheet and began transferring information into his ledger. “Hartley pays a premium for good condition, and he’s built a stable to conceal delivery. Give him all three workhouse cadavers. Tell Swan to deliver them in the black closed carriage. What about the remaining two?”
“Both women from the Rookery. Cholera.”
�
�Lamp’s been getting extra stock from independent resurrection men, so he’ll get nothing more from us, until he commits to us as his sole suppliers. Send those two to the new surgery school near the Inns of Court.”
Flute harrumphed. “I thought after the wars we would need fewer surgeons, not more.”
“Yet the schools can’t grow fast enough to accommodate the students. And we barely keep up with the demand.” Charters pulled a note already sealed from his desk drawer and placed it on the edge of the desk. “At the new surgery school, Swan should ask for Slice and give him this note.”
“Slice?” Flute laughed out loud. “That’s unfortunate.”
Charters shrugged. “Most people feel some obligation to the name their parents gave them.”
“Except you. How many disguises do you have now?”
“Well, there’s Charters, of course.” He tapped the brown wig with the pigtail he wore and gestured at his blue-colored glasses resting on the desk. “Then Charters’s aging clerk, Georges.”
“He’s my favorite. A nasty bugger, even under all that lace and embroidery.”
“Mr. Jenks, our bank examiner, and Mr. Worth, our avaricious country squire.” Charters rose and opened the locked cabinet that held his costumes. “And two or three I’ve been testing in various contexts.”
“Have you retired the old drunk without a name who used to haunt the Blue Heron?”
“Ah, no! How could I forget our veteran, cast aside by the nation after his service in the wars, forced to live on the street and forage for his food.” Charters touched the worn jacket associated with the drunk. “For all the information he’s brought us, he deserves a name. What do you think of Captain Timpson, late of her majesty’s navy?”
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