by Elisa Braden
“Aye, miss.” The driver fingered his dripping hat’s brim in a salute she didn’t entirely trust.
She tugged her woolen cloak’s hood tighter around her ears and started toward the inky maw of Catherine Street. Occasional lamps lit the Strand, and a short distance away were several theatres filled with people—Drury Lane among them. But at this hour of the night, on a side street flanked by multi-storied buildings, she felt like she was entering catacombs.
Darkness thickened. Rain pattered onto cobbles. Shivers invaded until her belly went cold. Only a little further, she told herself. Green’s offices were in a narrow brick building near the uppermost end of the street. Where it is darkest, naturally.
She gasped as her foot slid on something she would prefer not to identify. Blast. Her best pair of slippers would have to be burned. Perhaps she should have waited for daylight. Perhaps she should forgo confronting Green altogether. She paused. Glanced back toward the corner where she’d told the hack driver to wait. He was there, or at least the coach’s backside was.
Sighing with relief, she fisted her skirts and resumed her foray into the catacombs of a dark London street. Good heavens, she could barely see a thing.
After a few minutes, her eyes adjusted well enough that she spotted Green’s printing shop window. From inside, the faintest light glowed, though it was difficult to see through the glass panes, plastered as they were with prints of her work and that of the imposter. Reminded of her purpose, she stalked toward the door. First, she knocked. Green, who lived in apartments on the third floor, often worked late into the night, which was how she’d known he would be there. But surely the door would be locked.
No answer. She frowned, knocking again. A strange tickling sensation chilled her nape. She glanced nervously up and down Catherine Street, wondering if someone was lurking inside all that thick darkness—a pickpocket or footpad, perhaps. Once again, she adjusted her hood. Knocked again.
A faint scrape reached her ears. Queasiness struck. She spun around, placing her back against the door. Heart pounding, she scanned the street and shadows. God, she was going to be sick. What a foolish thing to have come here alone.
What else was I to do? she wondered. Bring Robert? He would pack me onto Dewdrop’s back and haul me straight to Nottinghamshire before letting me near Mr. Green again. Still, she might have bribed Ned into accompanying her. But she hadn’t had time. Robert tracked her every movement, and Lady Darnham’s fete had offered the only opportunity she’d had in weeks to slip away unnoticed.
Swallowing away her rising fright, she peered into the dark. Was someone there? She did not know, but she thought she heard … breathing. Without thinking, her hand found the doorknob. Twisted. The door swung inward, sending her reeling off-balance. Panic made her reactions jerky but quick. She stumbled inside, slamming the door against whatever—or whomever—waited out there in the dark. Then, she leaned against the wood for a moment to catch her breath.
The interior was a familiar warren of printer’s paraphernalia. Immediately in front of her was a small counter where customers could purchase Edward Yarrow Aimes’s prints or arrange a custom printing job. Behind the counter loomed two large, black-iron presses, multitudinous shelves, and several large, oak cabinets with tiny, labeled drawers and slots. During the day, this place would be hectic with typesetters and pressmen cranking page after page through Mr. Green’s fancy, modern presses. Now, it was quiet and deeply shadowed, lit only by a lamp in one of the two rear offices.
Green’s office. He must be here.
Casting off her earlier fright—really, she felt a bit silly about her reaction to a little darkness and rain—she lowered her hood and slowly made her way past the counter and between the presses.
“Mr. Green? It is Miss Aimes.” The corner of her mouth curled up as her outrage resurged. “But, then, you know that isn’t my real name, don’t you?” She skirted around a large cabinet full of slim drawers. “Perhaps we should dispense with lies of all sorts. Though honesty may be asking too much from one such as yourself.”
She expected him to come stalking out with his usual brisk energy. He did not.
“Mr. Green?” She frowned. “Are you here?”
Only silence answered. As she drew closer, she saw his arm splayed next to the lamp, white sleeve rolled up to his elbow. He must have fallen asleep at his desk. Or was feigning sleep to avoid her.
“Mr. Green,” she called, raising her voice to be heard. “There is no use pretending. I have come all this way to speak with you about your disgraceful actions, and I shall not leave until …”
Along with an oddly foul, metallic odor, several colors struck her senses all at once, halting her breath and heart and feet.
White—the white of his hair and his shirt and the paper near his left wrist.
Black—the black of the inkwell that had toppled onto its side, splashing the lamp’s glass and soaking his stacked pages.
Red—the red of blood. From his head. In his hair, which was white. On his skin, which was gray. A drop had trickled into his eyebrow. Beneath that, his eye was open.
Not closed. Open.
Light dimmed. Wavered like water.
Her mouth moved, forming the letter M over and over. She couldn’t breathe, yet breathed too fast. Couldn’t gather enough air to scream, which was all she longed to do.
Mr. Green was dead. His head had been damaged. The black was not black. Not ink, but blood. Pooled and spattered. Too much to be anything natural.
Dear God. Light dimmed further. Sound whooshed. Her head swiveled back and forth. Slowly, as in a dream, she backed away from the white-haired man slumped across his desk.
Dead. Still. Gone.
If her heart had not been pounding so loudly, perhaps she would have heard the door behind her open. Perhaps she would have heard the staggered footfalls or sensed someone much bigger and stronger approaching.
As it was, the first scream from her throat came when she backed into a wall of muscle and wool, and a steel arm wrapped around her waist.
“Annabelle!” It was a growl, low and deep, beside her ear.
He smelled of rain and wind. He held her so tightly, she could scarcely move. Yet, she managed to whimper his name. “R-Robert?”
“What’s happened, Bumblebee?”
That was all it took—that word. Everything it meant. The concern in his voice. She turned in his arms and buried her face in his shoulder.
And shook.
She didn’t realize how hard she was trembling or how loudly she was gasping until he cupped her cheek and forced her gaze up to his. He looked ferocious, like a warrior preparing to battle an army. Yet, his touch was gentle. Swiping her cheek with his thumb, he brushed her lips and rested his forehead against hers.
“Tell me,” he murmured. “Now.”
“Dead,” she rasped. “M-Mr. Green is … dead.” A sob took her by surprise. She seized her throat muscles around it and clutched Robert tighter. He was a rope between her and the abyss. “Oh, God. Someone killed him.”
One moment, a warrior flash shone in his eyes, and the next, she found herself lifted. Pivoted. Carried several feet away and deposited with her back to a tall oak cabinet.
“Stay,” he growled. “Do not move from this spot, Bumblebee. Do you hear me?”
She blinked several times. Her head was spinning. Fogging like a London street near dawn. But she nodded.
He was gone for what seemed a very long while, but it must have only been minutes. Every time she blinked, she saw red and white and black.
A warm, dry hand cupped her cheek. “I’m taking you home.” He did not ask if she wished to be virtually carried. He simply tucked her against his side and lifted so that her slippers barely touched the floor. Then, moving much faster than a man with a cane should be able to move, he swept her out onto Catherine Street.
In the dark, she saw a lopsided blaze, heard Dewdrop’s welcoming snuffle. Her
throat tightened as tears burned. No. She mustn’t let it out. If Robert could be calm after seeing a man who’d been murdered, she must be, too.
He set her on the ground, turning her and lifting her onto Dewdrop’s back like a doll.
“Heavens, you are strong,” she murmured without thinking. “Stronger than I remember.”
Pausing for a long series of heartbeats, he rested his hand on her knee, held her tightly, and lowered his head. He wore no hat, as though he’d left Lady Darnham’s too quickly to bother.
She reached out to run a hand through his hair. It was damp, already growing too long. Tenderly, she brushed her knuckles along his temple, traced his ear with a fingertip.
His nostrils flared and his grip tightened on her leg. Then, he raised his eyes to hers.
She couldn’t see the blue, only a faint gleam of light from the Strand. But she felt something of his ferocity. It made him seem bigger. Dangerous.
Struggling to think clearly, she shook her head. “I—I asked the driver to wait—”
“The hack is gone.” He slid his cane into the saddle’s loop, gathered the reins, and used his left leg to mount behind her. Suddenly, she was surrounded by sixteen stone of furious male. He nudged Dewdrop forward.
She cleared her throat. “You’re going the wrong way.”
“No. I’m not.”
He took a series of turns leading them deeper into darkness. She’d lost her sense of direction the moment he’d turned off Catherine Street into what looked like glorified alleyways. Dewdrop’s gait was slow but remarkably smooth, rocking them as gently as a nurse rocked a babe. Shivering, she rested against Robert and closed her eyes. She felt a tug on the neck of her cape before her hood came up.
She’d forgotten it was raining.
Her hand searched for his. Found it flattened along her belly. Squeezed. “Robert,” she whispered.
His jaw stroked her cheek like a cat marking its mate. “You’ve taken intolerable risks. This can never happen again, Bumblebee.” His words were tender. His tone was not.
“I—I needed to speak with him—”
“Coming here alone at night was pure recklessness.” His fury rumbled from his chest, vibrating through her back and cheek. “I was patient too long.”
Only part of her chill was from the rain.
Once again, his jaw nuzzled her. And once again, his touch felt oddly possessive. “I shan’t make that mistake twice.”
She wondered why his statement sounded so much like a threat. Robert was rather bearish, growling and grousing and glowering a great deal. But he was a gentleman, honorable through and through. When she’d been small, he’d often treated her like fine china, careful not to squeeze her hand too hard or speak harshly and damage her feelings.
A shiver coiled up her spine. Had tonight’s dreadful circumstances pushed him past his restraint? Had she provoked him one time too many?
“Robert?”
He did not answer, simply rubbed his jaw along her cheek and turned Dewdrop down a new street.
At this point, she was utterly lost. “Shouldn’t we alert a watchman? Or a constable?”
“No.”
“But, he …” She swallowed against rising nausea. “He was murdered.”
“And he will be found in the morning by his employees.”
“Surely it would be better if—”
“It would be better for you not to be seen near the place where a man was murdered,” he snapped. “It would be better if nobody associated your name with his. Or with Edward Yarrow Aimes.”
Her head spun. “You think he was killed because of the caricatures?”
“I don’t know.”
In the distance, she glimpsed lamplight. Though the fine mist softened it into a hazy glow, she thought it might be Covent Garden. “But you suspect it is true,” she whispered, her fingers sliding between his.
He was silent for a moment. “If it is, then Green would not be the killer’s only target.”
“All the more reason to alert some authority. Bow Street isn’t far. Perhaps—”
“And how would you like to explain your discovery? You went to his offices late at night to confront him. Bow Street runners are far from daft, Annabelle.”
“They will think I killed him, won’t they?” she whispered.
“Yes. But their suspicions are not the greatest danger. If the real killer knows you were Edward Yarrow Aimes, he will come after you. Bad enough that you took a hack. The driver will need to be silenced.”
“Robert,” she said when she’d recovered from the shock of his implication. “You must never harm anyone in my name. Promise me.”
“What the devil? I intend to pay him, not kill him.”
Cold dread drained away, leaving her slumped against him in relief. “Thank heaven.”
“Bloody hell, Annabelle.”
“Well, what am I to think? I scarcely recognize you in this state.”
“What state?”
“I don’t know! Intimidating.”
“This is who I am. You’d best accustom yourself to it.”
“I’d rather not.”
Silence settled behind her, thick with the very intimidation she’d referenced. He seemed immense to her. Stronger. Far too implacable. She preferred the old Robert, the one she could tease. The one who hesitated to bruise her feelings. The one whose reluctant smiles and rare laughter turned her heart inside out.
He guided Dewdrop along a series of darker, smaller streets, skirting the central square of Covent Garden. After an eternity, he spoke again, but not to comfort her. No, indeed, his words were a warning.
“Here is what will happen. I shall take you home, where you will lie to everyone about where you’ve been—your maid, your sisters, your mama and papa. In the morning, you will inform your parents we have decided to wed sooner than expected, and we must return to Nottinghamshire straight away.” She began to protest, but his hand squeezed her belly. “They will understand, and Jane won’t mind. You have one week, Annabelle. That is how long I require to ensure the danger to you is minimized.” His jaw stroked her cheek again, and his hand slid lower. “We shall marry as soon we reach Rivermore.” His lips caressed her ear, their tenderness at odds with the hardness of his words. “I’ve waited long enough, Annabelle. I will wait no longer.”
Breathless and warm, she grasped his wrist and shook her head. “At least a fortnight remains before the season is—”
“Go on, then. Defy me.” His fingertips curled into her lower belly, pressing and possessing. He sounded eager for her to push him. Eager to retaliate. “Discover how intimidating I truly am. I know how you love to test my limits.”
“It’s not that.” She drew a shuddering breath. “After the damage Edward Yarrow Aimes caused, I’ve been trying to set things right. For Atherbourne and Victoria. For Blackmore. Lady Wallingham is helping them. So is my family. I must stay in town longer. It is only right.”
“No.” A dry chuckle. “As usual, you wish to have everything your way. But that is not how this will go.” His hand had stopped its southward explorations, but his fingers continued to press and stroke in the most stunningly pleasurable way.
“You are behaving like a tyrant.” Her accusation might have carried greater heft if it had not been followed by a tiny, helpless moan.
His teeth nibbled her earlobe, sending further waves of heat ricocheting between his mouth and her breasts and down to where his hand claimed its territorial dominance.
“Now you have it, Bumblebee,” he murmured. “Now you understand.”
*~*~*
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“I’ve little liking for publishers who print slanderous gossip. The enjoyment of slander is ruined when its purveyor has no standard of accuracy.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham in a letter to the Marquis of Mortlock regarding the appropriate use and distribution of gossip.
*~*~*
Dearest Robert,
I have it. My name shall be Edward Yarrow Aimes.
It is perfect, don’t you agree?
Ever yours,
Annabelle
—Letter to Robert Conrad dated September 4, 1813
*~*~*
Days later, Robert left White’s thinking this was how it must feel to lose a war. He’d battled with everything he had, and … nothing. A broad shadow merged with his as he waited for his horse.
“Conrad. You seem a mite perturbed,” observed Tannenbrook. “Do you hate the clubs as much as I?”
Robert shook his head before shaking the earl’s hand. As usual, Tannenbrook’s expression revealed very little. “I have a … mission to complete.” He gritted his teeth and looked for the boy who was supposed to fetch Dewdrop a quarter-hour ago. “There have been obstacles.”
“Obstacles, aye. I’ve some experience with those. Deuced inconvenient.”
Robert shot him a frown. “You’ve no idea what I’m talking about.”
Tannenbrook clapped his shoulder. “No, indeed. I’ve been accused of making poor conversation. I’m attempting to commiserate.”
“Accused by whom?”
“Lady Wallingham.”
Robert grunted.
So did Tannenbrook. It appeared they were in agreement about Lady Wallingham in general.
He glanced up at the giant. Tannenbrook was a good man, solid and reliable. He had a sound mind inside that enormous skull, had even helped Robert with valuable advice on improving an estate with limited resources. Perhaps he could offer a suggestion. “Tannenbrook.”
“Aye?”
“Suppose you wished to discover a killer.”
Green eyes went from idly squinting at the street to widening upon Robert. “A murdering sort?”
Robert nodded, thinking through what he knew, wondering how much to say without revealing anything that might implicate Annabelle—or himself. “Suppose this was vital, a matter of life and death.”
