The Sign of the Raven

by L. C. Sharp

“What?” His frown cleared when he followed her gaze. “Oh, this.” He ran his hand over his hair. “It’s easier than shaving it. Besides, I do have a little vanity, and I don’t like the way I look with no hair at all.”

  She adored simple exchanges like this. Once he’d never have vouchsafed anything personal to her. Or anyone else, come to that. But he’d let her in.

  Ash mirrored Juliana’s action of a moment before, unfastening the buttons at his cuffs and loosening the ties at his neck, before lifting the fabric and ridding himself of his nightshirt. He didn’t have to shake his head to clear his vision as she’d done. “There,” he said. “Now we’re both naked. Look at me. Know me. Then tell me if you want me. I want us both to be as sure as we can of this, all the way.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He groaned. “If I was any more sure, I might end this encounter too soon.”

  She laughed and felt a bond snap inside her. This was her life now, nothing else.

  The sheer power of his body made her blink. She knew he was strong, but that long, lean form had hidden smoothly curved muscles, a chest sprinkled with dark hair, and broad shoulders. “You look bigger out of your clothes than you do in them,” she said.

  Again, that laugh rang around the room. “I do like comfort in my clothes. I have them made a little larger than fashion demands. I suppose they hide a few details.”

  “You could say that.”

  He leaned down, dropped a soft kiss on her lips. “I’m glad you like what you see because you’re going to have to put up with it for a long time to come.”

  She set her hands on his shoulders, savoring the power under her palms. “I look forward to it.” Her smile held no shadows, no holding back. She gave her consent with every look, every smile.

  “There.” This time his kiss was longer, passion growing between them every second.

  This was her wedding night. This was the night her true journey of intimacy began. Anything that went before did not matter, did not count.

  Their bodies pressed together, her breasts against his chest. Her nipples hardened as he finished the kiss and gazed down at her, before urging her to open her legs. She loved that, the way he kept checking that she was still with him, that she had no reservations. The care of that simple gesture took her breath. He paused. “Still with me?”

  She emphasized her eager nod with a “Yes” to make sure he understood.

  “But you tell me when to stop. And tell me what you enjoy.”

  He touched her, the slight tremor in his fingers demonstrating his need for her much more than words. She needed him, too. She wanted him. Last year she’d been locked up tight, but for the past few months she’d been slowly unfurling, relaxing, settling into her new life.

  This was but another step, but it was the most exciting of all.

  “Touch me,” he said, his words a plea, one she was happy to comply with. Running her hands lightly over his back, she felt the muscles bunch and flex, responding to her initially tentative caresses.

  Emboldened, she tried more. His murmured “Oh yes” told her where to linger, and his shiver when she stroked his buttocks told her even more. He liked that. She wanted to hear it, so she asked.

  “You have to ask me?” he said. “Anything you do turns my desire into a skyrocket.”

  “Mine too. I love your touch.”

  “And I love yours.”

  At the entrance to her body, he paused, raised his eyes to her face. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. So sure.”

  He moved down, pressed inside her, a slow, sure taking.

  Warm waves pulsed through her, and she held him close, though he rested his upper body on his elbows and watched her as they became one.

  She gazed back, linked with him, mouthed the word again. “Yes.”

  The waves increased to surges, raising every hair on her body. She moaned, and slid her arms around him, holding on, responding with the movements of a woman sharing everything she had with the one man worthy of her love.

  Together they worked, danced, moved, instinct driving them to the ultimate peak of pleasure.

  Every time she opened her eyes, he was there, watching her, his eyes dark and hot. His regard reassured her as it sent her higher, a blend of consideration and passion unique to him.

  She cried out; he followed, sinking into her arms as their bodies arched and pulsed.

  * * *

  Ash rolled to one side, taking Juliana with him. She snuggled close, and rested her head on his shoulder. Another kiss and another followed, before Ash sat up and pulled the covers over them.

  “I’m not cold,” she told him, laughing a little.

  “Indulge me,” he murmured. “Let me look after you. Lord, that was good! When can we do it again?”

  “Whenever you like,” she answered brightly, her limbs still trembling. “But give me a few moments.”

  “You have too much confidence in me,” he said ruefully. “I fear I will need longer than that.” He stifled a yawn. “We should sleep. We’ve had a long day.”

  “So we have.” She let herself drift.

  “Not bad for a beginner,” he said as she slid into contented sleep.

  Or nearly did. A spark lit in her head, a query. She opened her eyes and gazed into his. Dove gray, she noted absently. “What do you mean, a beginner?” Because she had gone through a parody of what they’d just shared before. “Have you never had a mistress?”

  He shook his head. “Why would I, when I had not met you? What was the point?”

  “I—” Shock jolted her fully awake. “I thought all men—I mean, I just assumed...”

  He was a virgin?

  Ash stroked her back, as if soothing a skittish cat. “I grew up in a household so strict that even thoughts of carnal knowledge were banned. Any look, any question was met with a cane switch. When I came to London, I lived in my father’s house. Here, in fact, but although he was not mad, like my mother, he did adhere to the rules of our faith. Pure of thought and mind.”

  When he explained his reasons, it made perfect sense.

  “I believe our mother’s treatment affected Matt most of all,” he went on. “And our sister Silence. We were older, and we felt it the most. So my sister is a courtesan, and my brother—well, you know about him.”

  She did. His mother had given Ash the birth name of Humiliation. His sister was Silence and the other brother, who’d adopted the name Matthew, was Sorry-For-Sin. They had even used their mother’s last name, Hopkins. The neighbors had thought them mad, and stayed away.

  In many ways, Ash’s childhood had been as unhappy as hers. But she had never been abused as Ash had. When she’d been punished, it had been carefully regulated and meted out as suitable to the offense. Never vicious, never personal. Only impersonal and cold.

  “I’d have thought you would have sought out experience once you arrived in London.”

  “With my work?” He laughed. “I come across terrible examples of love gone wrong, affairs resulting in deep unhappiness and even murder. I’ve seen women ruined by acts of intimacy, riddled with disease, mad with it. The pox rages from the greatest in the land to the least, and it treats them all the same way. I concluded that intimate relations were more trouble than they were worth.” He pressed his lips to her temple. “How wrong I was.” She lifted her chin, and after another kiss, he smiled at her. “Only with you.”

  “I wish I had—”

  He wouldn’t let her say it, touching her lips to stop her. “No. You did come to me fresh and new. What went before was not love, or even conjugal relations. It was brutal violence, meant to cow you and force you into compliance. There was nothing about it that compares in any way to what we have just done.” He nuzzled her lips. “And, if I have my way, we will do again before we leave this bed.”

  She couldn
’t argue with that.

  * * *

  Starting the day with his wife was far and above the best way he’d ever discovered, Ash reflected as he left the house. Curling into her luscious, warm body, allowing himself to wake gradually, breathing her in, holding her close, and then making slow, lazy love to her couldn’t be beaten. He would ask her to consider calling his bed theirs, and coming to it every night.

  Lord, she was lovely like that. He could admit now that he’d imagined her like this since he’d first set eyes on her. Something in her reached to something in him. He drew in a breath, letting the cool, slightly damp morning air fill his lungs.

  He’d worked hard to hide his desire from her. When she’d first arrived at his house, the last thing she’d needed was another man salivating over her. Then, when she’d flinched at his touch, he’d withdrawn.

  Last night they’d come together as equals. He had a wife. A real wife, a partner, someone who shared his ideals but had some of her own.

  Despite this most wonderful development in their marriage, life went on. Ash would solve this murder, get the Raven off his back, and clear the way for a life that had gained a rosy glow. Once he found Coddington’s murderer, the Raven would leave him alone. He was sure of it.

  Well, almost sure.

  But something niggled at him about the Raven. Why would a man who controlled the criminal underclass want to speak personally to him?

  Cutty Jack fell into step beside him. “Guv.”

  “Jack.”

  They continued walking, Jack keeping pace with Ash’s long stride.

  “Interestin’ly, I saw a certain person by the name of Stanton in the mews this mornin’.”

  “Perhaps he wanted a ride in the park.” Heading to his stables.

  “Not dressed in evenin’ togs ’e di’n’t. An’ ’e was comin’ aht of the Coddington garden, not ’is own. If I ’ad’t bin watchin’ out fer it, I’d’ve missed it.” Jack tapped his nose with a grubby finger. He’d managed to collect his usual coat of street dirt since dinner last night. “’E was fast. Knew ’is way without lookin’, if you see what I mean.”

  “Did you see anybody else?”

  Jack shook his head. “Only ’im.”

  “And yet he swears that he barely knows the Coddingtons. Well, that’s a lie.”

  “So what’s ’e ’idin’?”

  “That’s what I plan to find out,” Ash said grimly. “Can you and your boys keep an eye on him today?”

  “No problem. Me an’ Col will get to it. By the way, guv’nor, Col stuffed hisself with the food your cook give ’im last night ’till ’e was sick.”

  Ash hadn’t known Cook had given him something. If he’d known, he’d have warned the cook to save the food until the morning. Boys who had never had a regular meal schedule tended to stuff what they could when they had it. “How is the lad?”

  Jack sniffed. “Right as rain, guv’nor. Stupid, if you arsk me.” He sighed. “And thanks for the meal. Your ladies are the real thing. Most would’ve excused thesselves, but not those two.”

  Ash interpreted that as compliments to your wife and sister. “I’ll tell them. They’ll be pleased.” He opened his hand. Jack had the guinea out of it and in his own pocket before Ash could blink.

  “We’ll get right to it.”

  Jack might save him some searching. “Do you know where he is now?”

  “At ’is club, the St. James. The boy Col’s watchin’ ’im.”

  Ash changed direction. He’d been planning to call on the widow, but she could wait. His quarry was in his sights.

  With a leering wink, Jack dropped back, and Ash went forward on his own.

  Well that confirmed it. Stanton was lying through his teeth when he claimed he didn’t know the Coddingtons. He was the grieving widow’s lover, and by the sound of it, she hadn’t grieved too hard for long.

  If the new baron was arriving soon, he’d want to take possession of the property and shuffle the widow off to the Dower House, so Lady Coddington had to work fast. She had two prospects: the new man, or Stanton. Or the Dower House, but she’d have put that dead last.

  Stanton was an earl, so that was a step up the aristocratic ladder for her ladyship. If she’d secured him as a lover, she’d be pushing for marriage now.

  Stanton had lied to Ash about his interest in the widow.

  “The Falcon strikes again!” yelled a small boy carrying a tray with a pile of news sheets.

  Ash bought one, partly to see if the boy recognized him, partly because he was simply curious. Although he’d rather snatch all the papers and toss them into the river, he’d struck a deal with Ransom, and he would grit his teeth and stick to it.

  The boy didn’t recognize him, which was a relief.

  He read as he went, using the Londoner’s ability to walk without looking ahead and not collide with anyone.

  Ransom could stay. He’d kept his promise, that he wouldn’t put anything in his piece that Ash hadn’t approved, and the few facts he did impart were as accurate as could be expected.

  But while Ash understood that a journalist had to sell papers, he didn’t expect Ransom to make him the center of the piece. Apparently he was infallible, a hero, a champion for true justice. Ash winced. That was one of his favorite phrases, and Ransom had used it as if Ash had a flag with “true justice” on it flying from the roof of his house.

  “That wasn’t what I meant,” he muttered.

  Ransom had even included a line drawing of him.

  Ransom was better than he was, or he knew someone who was. Unfortunately, he’d captured the slope of Ash’s nose, the calm expression that Ash had practiced so often in his youth, when he’d been full of rage but unwilling to show it. And the eyes.

  Damn. He’d have to speak to Ransom. Maybe the artist could make his nose a little shorter, or his lips fuller, his eyes closer together. Something that would stop him being—him. Or he could take to wearing a mask like the Raven. A Falcon mask, perhaps. His hollow laugh made a passerby stop and stare. Ash ignored the man.

  He suspected the man who’d released him from his bonds was the Raven, but he could be a trusted confidante, a deputy or even a partner in his diabolical business activities. The Falcon was small beer to the powerful Raven.

  Ash curled his lip and tossed the news sheet to one of the inevitable small boys lingering by a tobacconist’s shop. No doubt he could get a penny selling it to someone else. But he wished the boy had waited until he’d turned the corner before shrieking, “Read the latest in the ’orrible murder at the King’s Fireworks!”

  Literacy was severely overrated. The country had been a lot quieter before everybody and his dog could read.

  Here. He stopped before the unimposing doorway in Pall Mall, and stared up. The St. James club again. Downstairs, the coffeehouse was in full swing, the enticing scent overwhelming the stink of the street. The aroma of baking bread from a nearby shop mingled with the smell of fresh coffee and the inexplicably attractive smell of stale beer. It lured the pedestrian in. Ash did not resist.

  He didn’t look for the boy. He wouldn’t see him.

  He strode to the back of the coffeehouse where the stairs led up to the gentleman’s club. The conviviality and the warm atmosphere in the coffeehouse tempted him more than the hushed conversation and air of superiority he would find above.

  Upstairs, he paused to study the large room and seek his quarry. The men sat around low tables chatting or reading journals. This group was more refined, less earthy, the accents cut-glass, and the furniture better. Ash belonged downstairs, but no hope for it, he had to go forward.

  Stanton was sitting with another man at a table by the window. Ash had no compunction interrupting him, but he’d have to use some finesse.

  Pasting a pleasant smile on his face, he went forward. To his surprise he had to nod to a fe
w men as they acknowledged him on his way past. How had that happened? Probably the Newcastle ball. Although he spied a few copies of the Daily Ransom he did not see any suspicious glares or even disdainful ones. He was used to both. Generally he took no notice but the absence of any startled him. The man talking to Stanton was in shadow, but got to his feet as Ash approached them.

  “Ah, Sir Edmund, we were just talking about you.”

  “You were?”

  He exchanged a nod with the Duke of Abercorn and bowed to Lord Stanton. “I trust I’m not interrupting?”

  “Of course not,” said his lordship. When a servant brought a chair, Ash took it with a word of thanks. The duke got everywhere. Today he was every bit the bored aristocrat: fine clothes, arrogant attitude, which Ash knew he could drop at the turn of a card or the flick of a sword.

  When the servant brought an extra cup, Abercorn poured Ash a coffee. “Are you here to waste a few hours in careless talk?” the duke drawled. He leaned back and watched Ash through narrowed eyes.

  “I wish I had the time. Perhaps soon I will.”

  “Ah.” Abercorn sipped his own brew. “You’re still investigating the case of poor Lord Coddington.”

  “Indeed,” Ash said. “The countess wishes the matter cleared up as soon as possible. I’m sure we will find the culprit.” He deliberately avoided glancing in Stanton’s direction.

  “The poor lady can get on with her mourning, and bringing up her daughters,” Abercorn said. “The new baron will arrive within the month, or so I’ve heard.” If Abercorn had heard it, then it was true.

  “Where has he been?”

  “In France, I believe. He’s with the diplomatic service, but he’s hurrying home as we speak. A good sort. I met him last year. He’ll ensure the widow is cared for.”

  “A single man?” Stanton asked.

  Abercorn nodded. “Very popular with the ladies, but no woman has ensnared him yet.”

  So the widow and the new earl were outside the degrees of consanguinity. Ash saw what Abercorn was getting at. If Stanton was Lady Coddington’s lover, he might not enjoy that insinuation. Put him on edge, that was the way.