Bewitched by the Bluestocking

by Eaton, Jillian

  Because of her own experience, Joanna couldn’t think of a single reason why Hannah wouldn’t have immediately returned when she learned of what had happened to Miss Bancroft. If something ill had ever befallen Joanna, or either of her sisters, Lucy would have been there without a moment’s delay.

  Surely it was worthy to note that the person who had known the victim best hadn’t bothered to return after Miss Bancroft’s walls were found stained with blood.

  “Can I leave now?” Abigail asked with a desperate glance at the door.

  “A final question, Miss Groshen,” said Kincaid, his voice notably softer than it was when the interrogation first began. “The night before Miss Bancroft was presumably killed, you mentioned the Duke of Hanover paid her a visit. Did you see him leave?”

  “N—not that I recall.”

  “Are you absolutely certain?”

  The maid gave a hesitant nod. “I believe so.”

  “Did you hear him leave?” Kincaid persisted. “Footsteps on the stairs, carriage wheels on the gravel? Anything that might indicate he was not in the house between the hours of two in the morning and when you entered the bedchamber? When did you enter the bedchamber, Miss Groshen? The exact time, if you please.”

  “The e—exact time?” Abigail paled. “Um, I’m not sure. After seven, as Miss Bancroft hates to be woken early. But before nine, as she was expecting guests for morning tea. Is that helpful?”

  “Exceedingly.” Joanna gave the maid’s shoulder a squeeze. “Thank you, Miss Groshen. We will be in touch if we need anything further.”

  “I wasn’t done,” Kincaid said after Abigail had fled the room.

  “Perhaps, but she was.”

  Kincaid came to stand beside her. Arms crossed, he stared at the door as he said, “You did a fair job, Miss Thorncroft.”

  “I did, didn’t I?” she said, pleased with the reluctant praise. Investigative work wasn’t nearly as difficult as Kincaid had tried to make it appear. It required the ability to piece things together that might not seem, at least on the surface, as if they were connected. In that way, it wasn’t unlike a jigsaw puzzle.

  And she’d always enjoyed trying to solve things.

  Family secrets. Murders. Stubborn detectives.

  What was the difference, really?

  After questioning three more servants, none of whom had any information to give, they saw themselves out.

  “I believe that went well,” Joanna remarked as they headed back towards the office. “At least we’ve several suspects. Are we going to call upon the Duke of Hanover next? From what Miss Groshen said, he was the last person to see Miss Bancroft alive. And he had reason to see her dead.”

  “What reason?” Kincaid said curtly. “Eloise was his mistress. By all accounts, they were happy together.”

  “Yes, but Miss Groshen indicated there was another man in the picture. Perhaps Hanover suspected something illicit was going on, and he became jealous.” Joanna’s eyes lit up. “A crime of passion. After it was done, he panicked and disposed of the body. Just like in The Mysterious Murder of Madame Madelynn.”

  “The Mysterious Murder of who? Never mind,” Kincaid said before she could answer. “You’ve an active imagination, Miss Thorncroft, but your theory is misguided. The Duke of Hanover is innocent.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because the duke hired me to find Eloise’s killer.”

  Joanna stopped short. “You’re working for a murderer?”

  “Sterling—the Duke of Hanover—did not murder anyone.”

  “You sound absolutely positive.”

  “I am.”

  “Why?” she asked, confused. “Do you have any evidence that clears him of wrongdoing?”

  “Not exactly,” he hedged.

  “Then how can you be so sure?” This may have been Joanna’s first attempt at crime solving, but even she knew that evidence—or lack thereof—was a strong indicator of guilt. The Duke of Hanover had an intimate relationship with the victim. There was no indication he’d left the residence until after she was killed. Client or not, he had to be their number one suspect. And yet, Kincaid did not seem to be of the same opinion.

  “I’ve known Sterling for a long time.” Kincaid’s mouth settled into a grim line. “He is more than a client, he is a close personal friend. Which is how I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt and despite all the clues to the contrary, that he no more harmed Eloise than you or I did.”

  Joanna studied Kincaid closely. The indent between his brows. The lines of tension in the corners of his eyes. The steady throb of his pulse underneath his jaw. “All right,” she said simply. “I believe you.”

  He blinked at her, visibly startled. “You do?”

  “Are you surprised?”

  “It takes an innate sense of trust to believe someone when all of the facts point in a different direction.” There was an endearing note of bewilderment in Kincaid’s tone. As if he couldn’t understand why anyone would have such faith in him.

  Sweet, stubborn man, Joanna thought with affection.

  Why could he not see what she did?

  That he was worthy of her trust…and so much more.

  “If you say the Duke of Hanover is innocent, then he is innocent.” Seeing the top of his shirt had come undone, she reached out to fix it, and their hands collided as he did the same. Wordlessly, his fingers slid over the top of hers as she bent her head in concentration and slipped the small wood button back into its hole, then pressed her palm to the middle of his chest where she could feel the thump thump, thump thump of his heartbeat. “There. Now all we have left to do is prove who really killed his mistress.”

  Kincaid stiffened beneath her touch. “There is no ‘we’, Miss Thorncroft.”

  She gave a light laugh. “But of course there is. Without me, you wouldn’t have learned about the man with the black eyes or Hannah’s coincidental disappearance. We may not be partners, but we make an excellent team.” Lips curving, she peered up at him from beneath her lashes…and her smile froze in place. “You’re being serious.”

  “This is a murder investigation. With the murderer still at large.” Taking her hand, he deliberately moved it away from his chest. For an instant, his fingers remained locked with hers. Then his countenance hardened, and he released his grip. “I gave you the courtesy of accompanying me today, but—”

  “The courtesy?”

  “—this is not to become a regular occurrence. You are a secretary, not a detective.”

  And Kincaid was an ass.

  Not the donkey kind.

  “If it wasn’t for me, Miss Groshen never would have given us any information. I believe the words you are looking for are, ‘Thank you, Miss Thorncroft, for your invaluable assistance. Couldn’t have done it without you. Bang up job.’” Eyes flashing, she spun on her heel, her only intent to get as far away from him as fast as possible.

  If she’d been paying attention to her surroundings, she would have seen the team of Belgian drafts pulling a heavy cart piled high with crates of milk. But her focus wasn’t on the street she needed to cross, it was on Kincaid. And with anger clouding her vision, she stepped carelessly off the edge of the curb and directly into the path of the oncoming horses.

  “JOANNA!” Kincaid’s shout cut through the air like the slash of a whip…

  A second too late.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Joanna stopped at the sound of her name. Brimming with righteous indignation, she whirled around, ready to give Kincaid a piece of her mind.

  “Who do you think you—heavens,” she gasped when she saw the wagon barreling down on her.

  The driver pulled frantically on the reins, but the draft horses were too large, their bodies too cumbersome. She willed her legs to move, but they were stuck to the ground. She threw her hands up in front of her face, preparing for the impact…

  Out of nowhere, a hard force slammed into her from behind, and she was flung out of the path of the horses w
ith nary a second to spare. Kincaid, her stunned mind barely had time to register before he tucked her against him and they rolled across the cobblestone.

  The wagon clattered by, the driver shouting at them as he passed, but Joanna couldn’t hear above the roaring in her ears.

  Her entire body was tingling with adrenaline. Blood dripped from a scrape on her elbow and her shoulder ached from where it had struck the ground. But it was Kincaid who had taken the brunt of the impact.

  He was stretched out beneath her, his long frame cushioning hers. There was a cut above his right brow. Another on his chin. His spectacles had been knocked askew. She could feel the wild pounding of his heart through his clothes, its erratic rhythm keeping time with her own as she managed to push herself up into a half-sitting position, her splayed fingers filling the narrow gaps in his ribcage.

  “You—you saved me,” she said in amazement. “How did you move so quickly?”

  His gaze fell to her arm, and his eyebrows shot together. “You’re bleeding.”

  “It’s nothing. A scratch.” But if not for Kincaid’s swift actions, she knew it would have been far, far worse. With a tender smile, she straightened his glasses. “There. That’s better,” she said quietly. “You need to be able to see.”

  And she needed to have patience.

  Rome wasn’t built in a day, and stubborn detectives didn’t open their hearts in a week. But they did risk their lives to save others, and what more could she ask than that? Maybe Kincaid couldn’t say what he felt for her in words. But his actions had said all that she needed to hear.

  “I see you, Miss Thorncroft,” he said huskily.

  As the world continued on all around them, with no one giving any mind to the couple crouched on the side of the street, he gathered her in his arms.

  She tucked her head beneath his chin.

  They were two fragments of a whole, clicking into place. Just like a puzzle not yet solved, it seemed they had nothing that connected them together. She was an American bluestocking. He was a British detective. Their paths never should have intersected, let alone become entwined. But then the unsolved part of the puzzle became smaller. And suddenly, it became obvious where the last pieces needed to go.

  This was all Joanna wanted. To want, and be wanted in return. To protect, and be protected in return. To love, and to be loved in return.

  Her breath caught.

  Did she love Kincaid?

  As frustrating as it could be, she loved arguing with him. She loved coaxing these precious moments of vulnerability out of him. She loved the way he made her burn.

  If she wasn’t in love with him, then she was falling.

  No, not falling.

  This tingling inside of her wasn’t a simple descent of gravity.

  It was a spinning. A twirling. A dancing.

  She was waltzing with Kincaid. And for once, they were moving in unison.

  Until he exhaled, and abruptly hauled her to her feet.

  “You little fool,” he growled as any traces of softness vanished in a poof of proverbial smoke. “You could have been killed. You almost were killed. What the devil were you thinking, stepping off the pavement like that without looking first? You are never to put your life at risk like that again.” He gave her a small, painless shake. “Do you understand me?”

  Taken aback by the dark fury burning in his eyes, Joanna was slow to respond. She felt as if she’d been languishing in a hot bath, only to have a bucket of cold water suddenly dumped on her head. Where had it come from? Better yet, what was its purpose?

  “Would…would that have bothered you?” she asked. “If I were hurt?”

  “Would it have bothered me?” he repeated incredulously. “Would it have bothered me? Yes, it bloody well would have! What sort of stupid question is that?”

  Why, he’s scared, she realized.

  Frightened out of his wits, really.

  Because of her.

  She could all but feel Kincaid’s anger vibrating in the air. But beneath all that bristling, tumultuous rage was panic and fear. Fear that he wouldn’t have felt…unless he felt what she did. Daring to risk his wrath, she stretched up and gently brushed a lock of hair off his forehead.

  “Why?” she whispered.

  “Because you’re my client, and I’m responsible for you.”

  She shook her head. “Why?”

  “Because you’re my secretary, and I don’t have time to find another.”

  “Why?” she persisted.

  She wanted—she needed—to hear him say it. Actions were all well and good, but sometimes words were the only thing that could fill a heart. If he was going to drain her emotions like this, he couldn’t leave her empty. He had to give her something. Something to fill her until the next kiss. Something to sustain her until the next soft moment. Something to give her hope that when she was done spinning, and twirling, and falling, he would catch her.

  He would always catch her.

  Because he was right. She could have been killed. And maybe it was selfish of her but, before she died, she wanted what kings went to war for. She wanted what sonnets were made of. She wanted what poets wrote about.

  Lust, and longing, and love.

  She wanted it all, damnit.

  And she wanted it with Kincaid.

  “I understand your reservations,” she began when he remained wrapped in icy silence. “I would have them, too, if I were in your place and a stranger arrived unannounced on my doorstep, demanding things. Making me feel things I didn’t want to feel. But I know that I’m more than just your client. I’m more than just your secretary.” Wide eyes framed with thick lashes implored him to open up to her. To lower his guard. To come out from behind his wall of stone. To trust her as she trusted him. With her secrets, with her life…and with her heart. “I do not want to keep going in circles.”

  “What do you want?” he demanded, all raw tension and simmering angst.

  “You, Thomas Kincaid,” she said with quiet conviction. “I want you. And I know—”

  “You don’t know anything,” he snarled. “Not about me. Not about what you’re asking. Nothing.”

  “Kincaid—”

  But he was already walking away.

  And this time, there was no one to catch her when she fell.

  *

  Kincaid had to walk away. If he didn’t, he would have touched her again. If he’d touched her, he would have kissed her. And if he’d kissed her…if he’d kissed her, this time, he wouldn’t have stopped until he’d devoured her whole. So he forced himself to let her go, and he resisted the urge to look over his shoulder.

  He knew he was being a bloody sod, leaving a bleeding woman in the middle of the pavement to venture home by herself. But given the alternative, this was surely the safest option for them both.

  Joanna was young and naïve. She was full of hope and stars and everything bright and magical. She didn’t understand what she was asking of him. She didn’t understand what she was risking. She didn’t understand what she stood to lose.

  But he did.

  He understood that when you played with your heart, you didn’t always win.

  And the pain wasn’t worth the reward.

  Kincaid considered himself to be a practical man. Which was why, in his head, he knew Joanna was different from Lavinia. As different as the warm sun from the cool, cold moon. But it was his heart that needed convincing, and it was his heart he refused to risk. Not again. Not even for a titian-haired goddess with eyes of blue fire and an unbridled spirit that rivaled the four winds.

  He shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat as he walked, his stormy expression hastening pedestrians out of his path. He passed by his office without stopping and proceeded on to Grafton Street, a fashionable address on the outskirts of Mayfair.

  If there was a surefire way to distract his mind and stop himself from turning around and marching right back to Joanna like a poor, besotted dunce, it was to bury himself in his work.
>
  He’d gone as far as he could with Sterling’s case. For now, at least. And Joanna was right, which only served to heighten his temper. Although this anger was self-directed. Because she’d held her own as well as any seasoned peeler, and he never should have doubted her. Not for an instant. But couldn’t she see the danger she’d be in if she continued? He couldn’t let her be part of the hunt for a bloody murderer.

  If something happened to her, it would be the end of him.

  He did not know when or how that had come to be.

  He just knew it was.

  What he felt for Joanna…what he felt for Joanna was stronger than anything he’d ever known. And that terrified him, as it should have. As it would any normal, sane person. When you were burned once, you didn’t stick your damned hand back into the fire. If Lavinia had left his heart filled with gnarled, puckered scars, then Joanna was going to turn it to ash.

  It was only a matter of time.

  Which was why he needed to get her the hell out of London.

  The sooner, the better.

  The sheer terror he’d experienced when he saw her step in front of those horses…he didn’t want to feel that ever again. He didn’t want to feel this yearning inside of him. He didn’t want to feel anything.

  Not if it meant giving up everything.

  Unfortunately, stubborn minx that she was, he knew Joanna wasn’t going to return to America until she had answers. Answers he was determined to provide. As much for her sake as his.

  He was hoping the Countess of Beresford’s ball would lead him to the ring, and Joanna’s birth father. In his gut, he knew that if he found one, he’d find the other. In the meantime, he’d been using her grandmother’s maiden name of Ellinwood to track down any remaining relatives that might still be residing in the city. He’d withheld his search only because he hadn’t wanted to disappoint her if he came up empty. And thus far, that was precisely what had happened.

  Over the past few days, after Joanna had left his office, he’d walked all over London, knocking on door after door. Ellinwood wasn’t an exceedingly common surname, but there were enough families who shared it to make the task an arduous one.