by Lara Temple
‘You dance very well, Miss Silverdale.’
‘Thank you, Lord Sinclair,’ she replied properly and then allowed her pique to make her add, ‘You dance moderately well yourself. I hardly notice I am dancing.’
‘That is not a good sign. I prefer women to notice when they are dancing with me.’
His hand tightened a little on hers as he turned her in the dance, the other applying the slightest pressure to bring her closer. The shiver of heat that spread from both points of contact reminded her it was not smart to taunt the devil.
He was different in this setting, more like the man she had met that first day in the church than the teasing, exasperated and conscientious man who came to Spinner Street. She wondered which persona was the true Lucas Sinclair. Probably they both held a kernel of truth and even more probably she had not yet encountered the true Lucas Sinclair. The fact that she wished to was a danger in itself.
‘You might want to step on my toes, then,’ she suggested. ‘I am sure to notice that.’
‘I am very tempted to do just that, minx. Is this how you have been talking with all your staid suitors? Since I haven’t seen any of them change colour or trip, I presume not.’
‘I have been a model of propriety and good manners for Elspeth’s sake.’
‘At least until you forced her to approve my invitation to waltz.’
‘How do you know I forced her?’
‘It does not require an occultist to reveal what she was thinking as I approached.’
His fingers feathered an inch lower, gathering her for another turn. It was a blatant lie that she did not notice that they were dancing. She had never been so aware of a dance, of being held, of wanting more...
She cleared her throat and changed the topic. ‘Lord Westerby said you rarely attend such occasions. Is that true?’
‘The Lievens are particular friends of mine. When I am in London I sometimes attend their entertainments. Why, did you think I came to see you?’
‘Perhaps to keep an eye on me and ensure I was not taking advantage of this setting to engage in my investigations. Correct?’
‘You are assuming I knew you would be here.’
‘Did you not?’ she asked. Strange she had not considered he might have been as surprised to see her as she had been to see him. It was not smart to begin thinking of him as omniscient. The music began to fade and he guided her to the edge of the dance floor and her insides coiled tighter—she was not ready to concede defeat, surely there was something she could do...
‘People will be curious now,’ he said in the same faintly mocking tones. ‘If you treat this lightly, it will further your cousin’s social ambitions. Best feign ignorance of my reputation, though. You do not want to lose your ingénue’s gloss too soon.’
‘So I was right and this is a palliative to your conscience for not helping me.’
‘I appear to remember I did help you.’
‘Not as much as you could, I would wager. Which reminds me—if you care to come to Spinner Street tomorrow afternoon I have something to give you and something to show you. Not before five. Unfortunately Elspeth and I have morning calls.’ She turned away before he could refuse.
Chapter Eight
He should know better.
He was well past the age where his actions should be dictated by curiosity and amusement. And certainly by that crudest of motives, lust. He told her he was done and yet here he was, knocking on the anonymous door in Spinner Street because that little slip of a girl dangled a worm on a hook.
Now that he had seen her in the civilised setting of Dorothea Lieven’s ballroom her behaviour appeared even more anomalous. In her expensive gown and with her usually haphazardly gathered curls dressed in the latest mode she looked precisely what she was, a well-born, proper and wealthy young woman. He should not even have danced with her. If her chaperon was worth her salt she would have sent him on his way and certainly not allowed her to haunt Spinner Street with no more protection than an elderly, rolling-pin-wielding nurse. For all Lady Phelps knew, anyone seeing Miss Silverdale enter and realising a young woman was all but alone in a house in this neighbourhood might think it a perfect opportunity to take advantage... Or perhaps the credulous Marcia Pendle might uncover Madame Bulgari’s ruse and...
He shoved away the thoughts that leapt from catastrophe to disaster and knocked again, resisting the urge to beat on the door. As the silence stretched he cursed and headed to the area door. He had seen enough violence in his life to provide ample material for his imagination. She wasn’t his responsibility, but he should have sent word to her family or bound her up and sent her back to Yorkshire himself. Or at least had Tubbs send someone to keep an eye on the house.
No rolling pin was levelled at his head when he entered which didn’t reassure him in the least. He went up the narrow stairs and in the descending gloom of the winter afternoon he saw the orange gleam of light under the study door. Without pause or thought he hurried to open it.
She was asleep on the sofa, her cheek pillowed on her palm, her other hand fisted about a scrawled piece of paper and resting on a wooden box on the floor. He bent and slid the paper from her grasp and placed her hand gently at her side. She sighed and stretched, but didn’t wake, and he remained standing there for a long moment, fighting back the demand every part of him was making; had been making ever since he had kissed her. Before that. Waltzing with her yesterday had been a mistake, giving his body false hopes of pursuing the instinctual rhythm between them to its natural conclusion.
He told her he had no intention of being led, but this was precisely what he was letting her do. He couldn’t even console himself with the thought that she wanted anything from him but his help in pursuing her queries satisfying her curiosity about kissing. Being brought to heel was humiliating enough, but being brought to heel unconsciously was a double blow to his pride.
Not enough to convince him to walk away again, though. He doubted there was much that would convince him to walk away just now.
He touched her cheek very lightly, following the curve of her ear, resting his palm against the side of her neck. He could feel her pulse, slow and steady. Then she shifted and shivered, her lips moving slightly around an indeterminate word, and his own body clenched, hot and ready.
He had no idea what he was going to do with her, but it had to be something.
She opened her eyes and smiled, the candlelight turning her eyes to gold. He remained very still. Any second now she would wake fully and that expression, warm and so intimate he could almost believe it was meant for him, would dissipate. Already it was giving way to confusion.
‘Lord Sinclair?’ she whispered and he wished he could stop everything, keep her there, in that no-man’s land between sleep and waking, before she started thinking. With just that soft, warm expression that looked like longing.
‘Lord Sinclair,’ she whispered again. ‘I fell asleep. What time is it? I thought you were not coming.’
‘Shall I leave?’
‘No. Stay.’ Her voice was rough from sleep and it echoed through him.
Stay.
She sat, pushing her tousled curls away from her cheeks. A blur of movement from behind him made him tense, but it was just Inky, taking advantage of the open door to head for the warmth of the fireplace. The cat curled up by the grate, tucked its paws together like a disapproving judge and fixed its stare on him.
A cat was no barrier to seduction, but the disapproving stare sobered him a little. So did Olivia’s next words.
‘It is near seven o’clock and the carriage will arrive to collect me soon, but I am glad you came.’
She took the box from the floor and placed it on her lap. On a background of dark wood was a miniature painting of the view out the mouth of the Grand Canal, the delicate tracing of the Uffizi Palace on the left and in the distance, wholly inaccura
te but very lovely, a sunset in shades of purple-blue and just a tinge of orange. A single gondola was trailing a grey-white wake as it disappeared into the distance. He had watched many sunrises with that precise view from the roof of his cousins’ palazzo. The coolness of morning, the lapping of water below, the fresh and rotten smells of the sea. She couldn’t possibly have known that.
‘What is this?’ he asked.
‘A box.’
‘Clearly. What is inside it?’
‘Your father’s letters. I thought they would be safer here. I went with Elspeth to a stationer’s shop today and I saw this in the window of a little store just down the road. There was also a lovely magnifying glass with a silver-engraved holder for my brother and...never mind. Do you like it?’
She held it out and he took it without thinking. The letters were nestled on a bed of dark-burgundy silk and the wood was faintly warm, pliant under his fingers. His shoulders felt stiff and there was a pain between his eyebrows. It had been a very long time since he had wished his parents were still alive. Like a fly, grief was sometimes inescapable, but he never allowed it to settle. To wish his mother was there so she could meet the woman sitting before him was...not smart.
‘My mother would have liked it.’
‘I am glad. I know you want nothing more to do with this, but I wished to thank you for helping none the less.’
‘Does that mean you are abandoning your quest?’
‘No. I am afraid not. Why did you not tell me your father mentioned the name Jasper Archer in the last letter he sent Henry?’
‘So you have overcome your conscience and read them?’
‘Actually, no. You left them on the table, remember? Inky scattered them during the night and while I was picking them up that name leapt out at me. I did read the letter then, I admit, but it was all but impossible not to. Not that it revealed anything but that someone named Jasper Archer worked with your father and with Henry. But I thought it would be worthwhile tracking him and...’
‘Richly though you deserve it, I will save you the waste of time. A man named Jasper Archer who worked at Buxted Mallory passed away four years ago. And before you begin concocting more plots, nothing more ominous occurred to him other than succumbing to typhoid fever in Barbados.’
‘You made enquiries. Did you discover anything else?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’ She frowned at Inky and the cat mewled and circled until she found a position that evaded Miss Silverdale’s eyes. He waited, watching the flash and flitter of thoughts reflect on her face.
‘Your father wrote very fine letters. Very orderly and articulate,’ she said at last and he couldn’t stop himself from smiling. Relentless.
‘It is kind of you to say so, Miss Silverdale.’
Her eyes focused and she smiled. ‘Making game of me won’t help, Lord Sinclair.’
‘I’m aware very little will help at this point. Where is that tortuous mind of yours heading now?’
‘I know you want nothing to do with this, but I cannot help wondering if perhaps...no.’
‘Coyness doesn’t suit you. If I am to be stabbed, I prefer to see the knife coming.’
‘That is a very gory analogy. Very well, I was wondering if there are other letters of his in his belongings.’
‘What makes you think I would wish to keep any of his belongings?’
‘I should not have asked, I am sorry.’ Her eyes softened and he could have kicked himself for his childish and revealing words.
He shrugged and went to sit by the table. Inky rose, stretched into a sleek black arch, the tips of her extended claws shivering, and then settled into a ball by his feet. He stroked the raven-black fur, matching the rhythm of the cat’s purrs.
‘I think there is a trunk in the attic somewhere. I doubt there is anything of interest in it, though. I still think you are tilting at windmills.’
‘Possibly. Probably. I shan’t walk through walls, but if I see a door I find it hard not to at least peek inside. It is my fault Henry is dead so it is the least I can do.’
He stopped petting the cat. The compassion in her eyes was still there, but the agony he had seen before was back as well, so he approached lightly.
‘I am curious how you reach that conclusion, Miss Silverdale.’
‘It was because of me that he came to work in London. Something I did, back in Gillingham, caused strife between him and his previous employer and when he took my part they made it all but impossible for him to work in the neighbourhood so he accepted a position in Lincoln’s Inn. If not for me none of this would have happened.’
‘You should not play billiards, Miss Silverdale. You will become all too caught up in the myriad possibilities of how each ball may or may not be deflected from its trajectory and probably miss all your shots. That is the first time I have heard you voice something that is utter rubbish and you have offered many contenders for that title already.’
Her smile was a little sad. ‘It does not feel like rubbish. I wish it did. Even if his death was purely accidental, I still feel I played a part in it. Being away from Mary for extended periods might easily have led him to seek other...well, you know.’
‘So you accept his death might be precisely what is appears—an unfortunate accident?’
‘Of course I accept that is a possibility. I am not completely naïve. I am also aware it is pure selfishness on my part to try to offer an alternative explanation, but even if that is all this is, I cannot ignore the possibility that arises from Marcia Pendle’s words or from his notes about your father. It would be...it would be a betrayal.’
‘You are sounding more and more like Don Quixote, Miss Silverdale. Your nurse might have called me a varlet, but I am of no mind to play the page to your misguided knight. What is so amusing?’
‘Nothing. Perhaps you are right about me. As a child that was precisely what I wanted to be.’
‘Don Quixote?’
‘No, a knight errant. My brothers and I devoured Malory’s Morte d’Arthur and we named ourselves the Knights of the Brown Stable in homage.’
He laughed. ‘It doesn’t have quite the same noble ring as Round Table.’
‘Well, it wasn’t meant to. Part of the pleasure was to poke fun at how stuffy they were. At least that was Guy’s idea. He was a master at taking the stuffing out of the stuffy, but I was very serious about my calling as a knight.’
‘Not a lady?’
‘Goodness, no. I don’t think I ever fully accepted that women could not be knights.’
‘So you were Sir Olivia?’
‘No, Sir Olive-a-Dale, after an old broadside ballad about Robin Hood and Allan-a-Dale we found in our library. My brothers always chose silly names. For example, Guy was Sir Silver Sliver because he has this streak of silver in his hair from when he was very young. Carl was Sir Snarl Ballocks, never mind why; Ralph was Sir Half de Staff and Jack was Sir Prudence Primrose, but we took pity and shortened it to Sir Dense. Ralph was particularly furious about his which he said was thoroughly inaccurate and it took me years to understand why they would snigger when he refused to answer to the name. He dubbed himself Sir Sturdy Staff instead. So you see, Sir Olive-a-Dale was quite the most mildly named of the knights.’
‘And what did the Knights of the Brown Stable do? Carouse? Joust? Acts of chivalry?’
‘Hardly. Acts of devilry more like. We were very wild as children, even with Henry and Mary trying to tame us. Henry was our guardian and trustee, but Guy always insisted he was in charge and he was, for better or for worse. Part of our chivalric code was to stand by each other through thick and thin.’
‘Are you still close?’
‘Aside from Guy we all moved away from Gillingham, but we are still close. They all visit me when they can and we know we can depend on each other when in need.’
‘So why are
they not here helping you? With all those fine knights errant at your beck and call, why not summon them instead of blackmailing an unworthy knave into service?’
‘I did not blackmail you.’
‘You most certainly did. Don’t evade the question. Why not convene the Brown Stable?’
‘Because if I told them what I was doing they would try to protect me and stop me and I cannot allow that. Guy always said that being a knight meant assuming responsibility for your mistakes. That is what I am doing.’
‘Do you know, I have discovered a serious flaw in your reasoning. If this is a conspiracy around my father’s death, whether Henry was in London or Yorkshire should not matter. On the other hand, if his death was merely an unfortunate accident because of a weak heart, it could have happened anywhere.’
‘Anywhere would have been better than in bed with another woman. And he was hardly likely to have sought other company if he was living year round in Gillingham with Mary Payton.’
‘It would have required more subterfuge but it is eminently possible. You are stretching the facts to fan your guilt, Olivia. I am beginning to reassess whether Sir Olive-a-Dale was longer on brawn than on brain and rather short on both.’
‘Precisely why I applied to you, seeing as you are so well endowed in both quarters.’
‘I am not so easily pressed into service for the price of a few empty compliments.’
‘I know that. But if I promise not to proceed behind your back, will you help?’
He went to her Wall of Conjecture, trying not to smile. She might have been the runt of the litter, but he suspected she was accustomed to manoeuvring her brothers at will. Which made her choice to leave her home in Yorkshire all the more peculiar. Something had clearly happened to drive her away and his curiosity was nipping at his heels. He could, of course, use Oswald’s resources to make enquiries, but the thought of spying on her and her family made him uncomfortable. She might have dragged him into her world, but he was wary of dragging her into his. He wanted her to confide in him. To trust him.
