by Allison Lane
Alex sighed. Poor Mrs. Marlow. Death had left her penniless twice. “I thought you feared the stone falling into the wrong hands.”
“That was John’s fear. But his obsession convinced me that the stone is dangerous because too many men will go to absurd lengths to possess it. I’ll not be responsible for putting others at risk. But I am hoping the British Museum might buy it.”
“Unless you can prove it has magical powers, they won’t pay much. And even if they do agree to buy it, you could grow old and die before receiving a groat. Lord Elgin bargained for more than a decade before they bought the Parthenon marbles – for less than his costs. He has yet to receive the money.”
She shuddered, seeming to shrink as his words sank in. “It is early days to consider the stone’s disposal. First we have to find it.”
“It will be easy to investigate Sir Richard and this nephew, but who are the collectors?”
“I don’t know, for most hide behind agents. But John tried to keep track of the more ruthless ones. I brought his papers. Perhaps you can decipher what he knew.”
“We will peruse them in the morning.”
“Delay is dangerous,” she warned.
“Perhaps, but rushing into action without facts can be fatal. Choosing the best place to start requires a clear mind. We will go through the papers after breakfast. Come.” He helped her to her feet. Electricity flowed between them, heating his hand.
Not yet, he reminded his libido, releasing her and stepping back. Solving her problem might lead to a liaison, but rushing his fences would guarantee failure. She was exhausted, terrified, and needed sleep.
* * * *
Eden stared at her hand, shocked at the sparks that sizzled clear to her toes and stood her hair on end, reminding her of a friend’s description of the electricity machine he’d touched at Oxford. What an intriguing phenomenon. John had never—
Guilt engulfed her. Responding with excitement to the polite gesture of a stranger was ridiculous. She owed John more than she could ever repay.
Yet despite his goodness, John’s death had triggered relief that never again would her nights be interrupted or her tongue bleed from biting back protests over his obsession with Sarsos. Now she was free to run Ridley as it should be run. Forever free, for never again would she put herself under a man’s thumb. Not even a decent man’s.
But first she must settle Ridley’s mortgage and find a dowry for Olivia. The only asset that might do both was the stone. She had to find it, which meant working with Mr. Portland, despite this new danger.
She’d never met anyone who scrambled her wits so easily. His scars should have made him harsh, almost threatening. Yet he exuded so potent a masculinity that she barely noticed his face. His eyes should have been cold, like the blue ice they resembled, yet his glance ignited fire wherever it touched. And his hand burned like a live coal.
Shocked, she turned to leave, catching her toe on the carpet.
“Careful.” Mr. Portland caught her as she fell, slamming her against his chest.
Warmth seared her from shoulder to knee, melting her bones until she swayed.
His arms tightened, inciting unfamiliar sensations, and promising … friendship? She needed a friend. A confidant. Someone to rely—
“You are weary,” he murmured. “We will speak again in the morning.” He set her gently on her feet.
Yearning engulfed her, ordering her to turn back into his arms. Only then did she recognize the hardness that had briefly pressed against her hip.
Dear Lord, he was a rake. A highly accomplished and thus extremely dangerous rake. Who else could raise such intriguing sensations without even trying? Who else could silence her conscience with a touch?
Without a word, she fled. John should have warned her that Portland was a rogue. She should have asked more questions before coming here. If she’d at least known his age, she could have protected herself. Now she was in trouble indeed, for she needed his help too desperately to leave.
* * * *
Alex stared at his trembling hands. One unexpected touch and he wanted to throw her to the floor and ravish her. Never had he allowed lust to rule his mind. Yet setting her away from him had been the hardest act of his life.
It didn’t help that she was one of the most sensuous women he’d ever met. Worse, she didn’t even realize it. She’d done nothing to raise his awareness. No coy glances. No teasing innuendo. No flirtation. Yet he was harder than he could ever recall. He must use what promised to be a sleepless night to reevaluate his intentions. Anyone who could affect him this much was dangerous.
He must also consider how to tackle her problem, for she needed more help than she realized. He’d held his tongue, reluctant to add a new burden to her slender shoulders. But she was in grave danger. A fool who believed rocks had magical powers was mad enough to turn his frustration against Mrs. Marlow when he discovered that this one didn’t. There was no way to convince the fellow that the destruction of the Sarsos staff had stripped power from the other objects. So Alex had to find him before he turned vicious.
Chapter Four
Alex cursed when he returned from an early morning ride to find Mrs. Marlow impatiently waiting in the library. It was her fault he’d suffered his worst night in a year.
He’d always been a light sleeper, a trait that had saved his life more than once. Dreams often woke him. Some clarified puzzles or warned of danger. Others relived disasters, reminding him that only perfection was acceptable – his hand automatically traced his most visible scars, public proof of mistakes that contributed to his family’s hatred. Not until a year ago had the dreams finally stopped, affording him deep sleep for the first time in his life.
Now they were back with a vengeance. But it wasn’t nightmares of past investigations that had sent him galloping over the fields. He’d been wrong about the sleepless night. Very wrong, to his regret. Mrs. Marlow had invaded his dreams. The one just before dawn had been the last straw.
Firelight turned her hair to spun gold and brightened her mossy eyes as she released the last tie on her gown. It slithered seductively to the floor, baring long, long legs and ivory breasts tipped with rose. She lifted them in offering, stroking the puckered nipples to lure him closer… His tongue dipped into her mouth, savoring her sweetness, reveling in her ripe passion. He dragged his hands through the hair cascading in waves to her waist… Her hands closed around him, stroking until need exploded into madness, shattering his control… As he plunged into her fiery depths, she bucked, shouting in glory, clamping—
He’d awakened so hard that brushing against his nightshirt had threatened him with completion. Only a long ride through the fog had calmed his wayward body. Yet this proved the danger she posed.
Lust was a familiar sensation, easily invoked and easily sated. But there was nothing easy about this bout. No one had ever crawled into his head so quickly. Not even Helen. Granted, six months of celibacy left him needy. But it didn’t explain the other emotions Mrs. Marlow raised. How could he feel protective of someone who courageously addressed her own problems and found solutions? Her abilities shone clear to anyone who cared to look. She had sought his expertise to resolve a specific problem. She did not want his help for anything else.
His head spun. He badly needed release if he was to think clearly enough to address John Marlow’s death. And he wanted to find that release with the widow Marlow. At the same time, he feared that bedding her would redound on him in unpleasant ways, and not just because her recent bereavement would make seduction difficult.
He never touched innocents, and despite what rumor claimed, he avoided married women as well. A man who held his own word inviolable could hardly ask a lady to betray hers. Mrs. Marlow might technically fall into neither of those categories, but that was no help. She exuded innocence, hinting that John had used her sparingly. She was not the sort to have ignored her marriage vows, so she would have no experience with affairs. And with John’s death so recent, she
would not yet feel widowed. Thus seeking comfort from another man would seem disloyal. Could he push her to betray her virtue? Should he?
In his favor, she was a warm, sensuous woman. John might have been the best of the Marlows, but he’d been aloof to the point of coldness, and his age would have made that worse. Mrs. Marlow was starving for affection, if last night’s reaction was any indication. Alex could gently stir her passions until she’d put John far enough behind her to be receptive, then take her to bed until they were both sated. How long would it take? Weeks? Months?
The very thought left him panting.
Yet he felt threatened. Lust was only one of the sensations he suffered whenever he thought of her. He might be better off visiting a courtesan, then resolving John’s death as quickly as possible so he need not see the disturbing Mrs. Marlow again.
His libido protested.
To leash his need, for neither option was available at the moment, he forced recollection of last night’s other dream in which a sorcerer flung him into a maelstrom with one flick of his jeweled staff. As currents sucked Alex down, the sorcerer’s laugh hammered his ears, punctuated by the charges he’d heard so often at home. Lazy … worthless … blind to anything you don’t wish to see…
He’d awakened in a cold sweat, no longer able to deny the truth. He had botched his investigation of the Marlow case ten years ago, never once wondering if a larger problem might exist. He should have known that greed could drive weak-minded men to accept myths. He should have seen that those who lusted after power might turn to Sarsos to acquire it. Why hadn’t he asked whether Sir Harold had wanted more than a few ancient oddities? If he’d considered the man’s theft in light of a war that had already raged for thirteen years, he would have recognized the danger posed by the Sarsos rumors and eliminated their threat then.
Now two more men were dead, and others might follow.
His fault. The only way to rectify it was to review the original case to see how it fit into the larger problem and to make sure it posed no other danger – not that he would do so openly. Any public acknowledgement of his error would tarnish his reputation at the Home Office by making people wonder how many other threats he’d ignored. While he would never return to his post, their respect diluted the lingering fears that maybe his father was right, maybe he was worthless, maybe—
He shook his head, dispelling that despised voice. Alex Portland had been the best investigator the Home Office had ever employed. Every assignment in his ten-year career had brought the villains to justice. Quickly. Efficiently. Without drawing notice. He would reconsider the earlier case, but no one need suspect that he’d missed anything.
* * * *
When Alex entered the library, Mrs. Marlow stood at the table, sorting John’s papers into neat stacks.
He smiled. “You look lovely this morning.”
“Hardly.” But she blushed quite deliciously and licked her lips as if they’d suddenly turned dry. Before he could consider why so prosaic a comment might embarrass her, she pointed to the nearest pile. “These are the reports from John’s agent about the Sarsos relics. That stack at the end might contain names of other collectors. And this is the translation of John’s fragment of the scroll.” She held out a single sheet.
His leg brushed her skirts as he plucked the page from her hand.
She froze, then retreated nervously.
He cursed himself for succumbing to temptation, then dropped his eyes to the page. If John’s killer was a believer, knowing the details of the supposed curse might prove useful.
But the translation was too fragmented to help. Only an avid believer could twist its disjointed phrases into anything approaching sense.
Mrs. Marlow leaned over the trunk, stretching her gown across a delectable rump.
He studied her until a new wave of lust threatened to push him into dishonor, then sighed. “This translation is useless.” His voice was too husky, so he cleared his throat before continuing. “So many words are missing that I could as easily twist it into an irrigation plan or a recipe for removing bloodstains.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “It’s the most complete translation anyone has managed.”
“I don’t doubt it, but inferring a curse from this is a stretch.”
“But it fits events perfectly.”
“Does it?” He turned her to face him fully, dropping his hands before they could change the touch to a caress. “When did John publish this translation?”
“Nine years ago.”
“And when did his agent discover the fate of the chalice and spoon?”
“Six years ago.”
“So those tales might well be lies crafted to fit his interpretation of the scroll.”
She stared as if he’d run mad. “Lies? They weren’t stories his agent heard in London. Despite the war, Mr. Jasper went to Italy and France and spoke to those who had known the victims. No one could get away with lies of such magnitude. And since Jasper posed as an American, no one would have connected him to John.”
“But these sorts of lies are easy to carry off,” he insisted. “Stories that tarnish a family’s reputation become closely guarded secrets locked away with other family skeletons. So even if the supposed thieves really did die after stealing Sarsos artifacts, few would know of the thefts, and fewer would suspect a connection. When Mr. Jasper arrived to ask questions, it would need only one man who claimed to be the thief’s cousin or best friend to confirm the tale. Even if others scoffed, the agent would still believe him.” He’d pulled off larger lies more than once, including impersonating a Frenchman while meeting three of the fellow’s acquaintances.
“That’s ridiculous,” she snorted.
“Not if you understand human nature. I would wager that Mr. Jasper is a gentleman born. Honorable himself, he will believe anything that other men swear is true, for it will never cross his mind that they might lie. Like most members of the sheltered upper classes, he won’t understand how sordid the world is or how uncivilized the lower classes can be. Lies are common. To a starving man, a lie that wins him food seems laudable. You have no idea how most of the world lives.” He gripped her arm.
She slapped his hand away. “I grew up a long way from the sheltered upper class, so don’t condescend to me, Mr. Portland.”
“No need to be so formal. Call me Alex.”
She glared. “Mr. Portland. I’ve seen poverty and despair from all sides. I’ve seen people condemned to the workhouse because they have nowhere else to go. I’ve seen widows carted off to the Marshalsea because their husbands died in debt. And every one of them retained both dignity and honor despite it all. So don’t preach that the poor are abject creatures with no concept of civility. You, with your fine estate, couldn’t possibly understand the reality of poverty.”
“Wrong.” He squeezed her shoulder hard enough to leave bruises. “I’ve pursued many investigations for the Home Office, often in secret. I’ve lived in the stews. If I hadn’t made myself one of its denizens, I would be dead.”
“Pretense. You never became one of them, Mr. Portland. No one who can return to a better life will ever truly understand hopelessness. But we’ve drifted rather far from the point. The staff disappeared ten years ago, and that case also fits this translation.”
He snapped his mouth shut. What was the matter with him? He must be losing his touch. Never had his temper shattered so easily. The last thing he wanted was to reveal details of a past few knew existed. Her ability to trip his temper proved again how dangerous she was.
She wouldn’t care that he’d lived in poverty even in Mayfair, thanks to being tossed out by his father. There were times he’d lived better posing as a servant than as Alex Portland. For too many years he’d lived in a single room on a mean street, paying most of his modest income to the moneylenders lest they make an example of him.
He thrust the memories aside. Those years were done. The lenders had recouped every shilling several times over, and society ha
d never discovered just how far he’d sunk. Three years ago he’d used the inheritance from his grandmother to buy a town house so Helen would not be shamed after their marriage—
But Helen had jilted him anyway.
He forced his mind back to business. “Did you read the papers as you sorted them?”
“I just skimmed for general content. Why?”
When his hand again reached for her, he stepped back and sat. “Was there a list of collectors?”
“Not really. The closest is this.” She tapped a letter. “Mr. Jasper mentions others interested in Sarsos.”
Alex frowned at the sheet. The agent claimed only three serious collectors – an elderly lord, an industrialist, and the unknown man who employed Mr. Emerson. The report was dated a year earlier.
“Did Jasper ever identify Emerson’s employer?”
She glanced at the page. “Not to my knowledge.”
“Where is Jasper now?”
“Rome – or so his secretary claims. I’d hoped to speak with him while in London, but he left last month.”
Alex swore under his breath. The agent would have been his best source of information. Now he would have to call at the shops, though too many proprietors knew him under too many names. Could he devise a new persona no one would connect with the others, or could he risk calling as himself? It was a riddle he must solve before reaching town.
Eden pursed her lips. “I tried to call on the antiquities dealer who told John about the stone, but his shop was closed that day.”
“Which one?”
“Peterson – in the Strand.”
“I’ll speak with him.” Alex turned back to Jasper’s reports. They told him nothing useful, nor did the gruesome descriptions of the thieves’ deaths – Jasper must revel in ghoulish details. Yet they seemed oddly familiar.
His neck bristled, for he’d known nothing of these cases…
A quarter hour later Mrs. Marlow laid the last scrap of paper on the table. “That’s the lot. I didn’t find anything else about that third collector.”
