Lie by Moonlight

by Amanda Quick

  13

  The offices of the Jervis agency were on the top floor of an ugly stone building located in an unfashionable part of town. Shortly after midnight Ambrose let himself inside with the aid of a lock pick.

  He moved into the room, closed the door and stood quietly for a moment, savoring the familiar frisson of excitement that flooded through him.

  He suspected that he had been born with an addiction for the rush of icy energy that he experienced at moments like this one. It ignited all his senses and left him feeling as though he could fly like some great night bird. The drawback was that, like any other powerful drug, there were aftereffects. It would take some time for the feeling of intense arousal to evaporate from his bloodstream.

  The reception room had been closed up for a long time. An invisible miasma of stale air and the vague taint of another, more unpleasant odor drifted through the space.

  Tonight there was more than enough moonlight slanting through the undraped window to enable him to see that there was nobody in the room. Yet he would have been willing to wager a great deal of money that death had occurred here at some point in the recent past.

  The area around the heavy desk was littered with broken glass, papers and pens. There had been a struggle.

  He went through the desk drawers, but there was nothing out of the ordinary inside, just the usual assortment of notebooks, stationery, extra bottles of ink and sealing wax.

  He found a black muff in the bottom drawer.

  He crossed to the filing cabinets and opened the first one. It was crammed with papers. He struck a light and went through the folders in a swift, methodical fashion.

  He was not greatly surprised to discover that there was no file for anyone named Bartlett. There had, after all, been nothing to indicate that she had been employed through the agency. The fact that there were no records for either a Concordia Glade or an Irene Colby, the false name Concordia had used in her previous post, was, on the other hand, extremely interesting.

  He closed the drawers, put out the light and stood thinking for a time.

  After a while he went back to the desk and reopened the bottom drawer. He took out the muff. There was a small pocket inside, but when he slid his fingers into it he discovered only a handkerchief.

  He started to return the muff to the drawer. But something about the proportions of the interior space made him pause. They seemed slightly off. The drawer was too shallow.

  Crouching, he felt around inside with his right hand, probing gently with his fingertips. The small depression in the wood was at the very back. It would have been nearly invisible to the casual observer, even in broad daylight.

  He’d had some experience with false and secret drawers.

  He pressed cautiously and felt a tiny spring respond. The bottom of the drawer rose with a tiny squeak of hidden hinges, revealing a concealed compartment.

  The hiding place was empty except for a newspaper that had been folded in half twice, reducing it to a small rectangle.

  He took it out of the drawer and opened it once so that it was only folded across the middle. He struck another light and read the familiar masthead. The Flying Intelligencer was a particularly lurid example of the sensation press, well known for its dramatic accounts of bloody crimes and its overheated serialized novels.

  Why had Jervis gone to the trouble of concealing a newspaper? Perhaps she had put it out of sight so that a prospective client would not catch her with it. The Flying Intelligencer was occasionally entertaining, but it was hardly the sort of thing that the proprietor of an agency that supplied teachers and governesses would want to be seen reading.

  Still, it seemed rather extreme to conceal it in a secret drawer in her desk. If Jervis’s goal was to place it out of sight of visitors, it would have been sufficient to simply drop the paper into the top of the drawer along with her muff.

  He slipped the folded paper inside his coat and let himself out of the office.

  Downstairs he exited the empty building through a rear door. Outside in the alley he turned up the high collar of his coat, pulled the low-crowned hat down to veil his face and walked away into a maze of unlit lanes and cramped streets.

  He took a different route out of the neighborhood than the one he had used to enter it, emerging near a nondescript brothel. A number of hansom cabs waited in the street. He chose one at random.

  Seated in the cab, he turned down the carriage lamps. It was unlikely that anyone would notice one more drunken gentleman making his way home after a night spent pursuing various vices, but there was no point in taking chances.

  He lounged deeper into the darkness of the cab and wondered if Concordia would still be awake when he returned. The urgent desire to see her and talk to her about what he had discovered tonight was disturbing in some ways.

  The newspaper crackled softly under his coat. He would wait until he got home to examine it more closely. His night vision was excellent, but not even he could read in the dark.

  14

  The click of the dogs’ nails dancing on the floorboards of the landing was the first indication that Ambrose had returned.

  Concordia experienced a profound rush of relief. He was safely home. Now, perhaps, she would be able to shake off the feeling of dread that had descended on her after he had left.

  Her second reaction to his presence in the house was a jolt of anticipation. She could hardly wait to learn what, if anything, he had discovered in the course of his investigation of the offices of the Jervis agency.

  She heard him say something very softly to the dogs. There was another soft patter of paws on wood and then silence. He had sent Dante and Beatrice upstairs to the floor on which the girls were sleeping.

  The deep shadows beneath her bedroom door shifted faintly. Ambrose had paused in front of her room. Expecting to hear his soft knock at any instant, she pushed the covers aside, sat up and groped for her spectacles.

  When she got the eyeglasses securely on her nose, she reached for her robe.

  Still no knock.

  The shadows under the edge of the door shifted again. She realized that Ambrose had changed his mind. He was continuing on down the hall to his own bedroom.

  Alarmed, she tied the sash of her robe, slid her feet into the new slippers that Mrs. Oates had provided and rushed to the door. If Ambrose thought he could get away without making a full report to her tonight, he could think again.

  She yanked open the door and leaned out into the darkened hall just in time to hear the hushed whisper of sound made by the closing of Ambrose’s door.

  She stepped into the chilly corridor and walked briskly to his bedroom.

  Ambrose opened his door just as she raised her hand to knock. As if he had been expecting her, she thought. He stood silhouetted against the light of the lamp that glowed on the small desk behind him. His black linen shirt was unfastened. It hung loosely outside his trousers.

  “You keep odd hours, Miss Glade,” he said.

  It dawned on her that she was staring at the deeply shadowed wedge of bare, masculine chest that was just visible between the edges of his open shirt.

  Mortified, she pulled herself together with an act of sheer willpower, shoved her glasses firmly in place on her nose and reminded herself that she was on a mission.

  “No odder than your own, sir,” she whispered. “What happened? Did you learn anything of interest?”

  “I can’t be certain, but I strongly suspect that Mrs. Jervis is dead. There are signs of a violent struggle in her office. I found no files for you or for Bartlett.”

  “Dear heaven.” A numb sensation seized her. She grasped the door frame to brace herself and focused on the most astonishing part of his dreadfully succinct report. “Mrs. Jervis is dead?”

  “I have no proof of that yet. I will make inquiries tomorrow morning. But such news would not come as a surprise, given the fact that she may well have been involved with Alexander Larkin.”

  “If you are right, it m
eans that there have been three deaths thus far in this affair. Your client’s sister, Miss Bartlett and Mrs. Jervis.” She shuddered and tightened her grip on the lapels of her robe. “Larkin must consider my girls very valuable, indeed.”

  “I agree.” He shoved his fingers through his hair in what struck her as an uncharacteristic gesture of restlessness. “Would you mind waiting a few minutes for the details?” he asked. “I would like to wash my face and hands and clean up a bit. The hansom in which I returned was not the cleanest.”

  “What? Oh, yes, of course.” She stepped quickly back out of his way. “I beg your pardon.”

  “I suggest you go downstairs to the library. I will meet you there in a few minutes and tell you what little I know.”

  “Very well.” She hesitated uncertainly. “Are you all right? You were not hurt?”

  “I am fine.” He moved past her with an air of impatience. “Now, if you will excuse me?”

  “Sorry,” she mumbled.

  He crossed the hall and wrapped his fingers around the knob of the door. “I won’t be long.”

  “One moment, if you don’t mind,” she whispered, unable to restrain herself. “Did you find any clues?”

  He looked back at her over his shoulder. “Not unless you count the newspaper.”

  “What newspaper?”

  “The one that is on my writing desk.” He angled his chin to indicate the interior of his bedroom. “I doubt if it will amount to a clue, but it looked as though it had been deliberately hidden. I found it tucked away beneath the false bottom of a drawer in Jervis’s desk. You may take a look at it if you like.”

  He disappeared into the bath and closed the door.

  She waited until she heard the muffled sound of water flowing through the pipes before she went slowly back to the doorway of Ambrose’s bedroom and peered inside.

  It was a decidedly masculine room done in shades of green and rich amber. The thick carpet was heavily patterned with giant ferns. The massive four-poster bed and a large wardrobe occupied a great deal of the space. The coat that Ambrose had recently discarded was flung carelessly across the bed.

  She could see the folded newspaper on the writing table that stood near the window.

  All she had to do was take a few steps, pick up the paper and depart. Yet she found herself hesitating. Entering Ambrose’s bedroom struck her as an almost overwhelmingly intimate thing to do.

  She drew a deep breath, strode briskly into the room, seized the newspaper and scurried back to the door.

  It was only when she was safely out in the hall that she realized she had been holding her breath.

  Ridiculous. It was merely a bedroom. Not only that, it was, if she had interpreted the few hints she had picked up from Mrs. Oates correctly, the private quarters of a man who did not have any sexual interest in women.

  She hurried into her own room, turned up the lamp and opened the newspaper. Disappointment descended when she realized that she was looking at an edition of The Flying Intelligencer that was some six weeks old.

  She opened the paper to its full width and turned the first page, looking for markings or notations that might have been made by Mrs. Jervis.

  When she turned the second page, two sheets of writing paper fell out and fluttered lightly on the carpet.

  She looked down at the papers and saw that they were letters. Both were addressed to R. J. Jervis. Both were signed by S. Bartlett.

  She scooped up the letters and read each one quickly, her blood chilling with every sentence.

  When she finished, she rushed back out into the hall. The water had stopped.

  She rapped sharply on the door of the bath.

  “Mr. Wells,” she said, struggling to keep her voice from rising. The last thing she wanted to do was awaken any of the students upstairs. “Mr. Wells, you must see what I found in the newspaper.”

  He opened the door with an air of grim resignation. He had removed his shirt entirely, leaving himself quite nude above the waist.

  She could see the glistening dampness of his bare skin where he had splashed cold water on his face and upper body. His shoulders appeared astonishingly broad. The contours of his chest and lean waist would have done credit to a statue of an ancient, mythic hero. A triangle of dark hair angled downward and disappeared beneath his trousers.

  “What is it now, Miss Glade?” he asked politely.

  She stared at him, aware that her jaw had dropped. “Good heavens, sir, is that a tattoo?”

  He glanced down at the small flower on his upper right chest. “It is, indeed, Miss Glade. Very observant of you to notice.”

  “Good heavens,” she said again. She drew a deep breath. “I have never met anyone with a tattoo.”

  “It appears that I have at last succeeded in shocking your extremely modern sensibilities.”

  “No, no, not at all,” she said hastily. “It is just that, well, a tattoo?” She peered more closely at the small design. “It is a flower of some sort, is it not? I do not recognize the species.”

  “I will likely regret this,” Ambrose said. He captured her chin and tilted it up so that he could look into her smoky eyes. “But I cannot seem to resist. You have caught me in a very weak moment, Miss Glade. The cold water was supposed to act as an antidote but it does not seem to have been effective.”

  “Antidote for what? Are you feverish, sir?”

  “I am on fire, Miss Glade.”

  The next thing she knew his mouth was on hers in a kiss that made her forget everything else, including the tattoo.

  15

  He had not meant to kiss her. Not yet. Not tonight. It was too soon and the timing was wrong. That was why he had tried to send her downstairs a few minutes ago, why he had come in here to douse himself with a great quantity of icy water.

  But instead she had come to him. The sight of her standing in the doorway of the bath, dressed in her robe, her soft mouth open in shock at the sight of the tattoo, was too compelling, too intimate.

  Logic and good sense did not stand a chance.

  He kissed her slowly, heavily, achingly aware that it would no doubt prove to be a grave mistake.

  But she was the one who had come knocking on the door of the bath tonight, he reminded himself. And this was Miss Concordia Glade, the very unconventional daughter of the notoriously freethinking William Gilmore Glade and Sybil Marlowe. She was not some inexperienced, milk-and-water miss.

  For a timeless instant she simply stood there as if she had been frozen into immobility. He caught the back of her head with one hand and deepened the kiss, desperate for a response that would indicate she felt at least some of what he was feeling.

  She trembled. Her mouth softened. A tiny little moan of pleasure sighed through her.

  “Mr. Wells,” she whispered in soft, wondering tones. “It would appear that you are, indeed, attracted to women, after all.”

  He went quite still. Then, very cautiously, he raised his head.

  “What the devil are you talking about?” he asked.

  “It was something Mrs. Oates said. I got the impression that perhaps you and Mr. Stoner were more than just good friends.”

  “I see.” Amusement welled up inside him. “Serves me right, no doubt.”

  “Never mind. It doesn’t matter now.”

  “No, it does not. Allow me to correct the small misunderstanding.”

  He tightened his hold on her and kissed her again, very thoroughly this time.

  She put her arms around his neck and kissed him back with an enthusiasm that made his head whirl. A hot tide of desire and a euphoric sense of exhilaration surged through him.

  He tangled his fingers in her hair and devoured her mouth.

  A long moment later he was forced to surface briefly for air.

  “After all that we have been through together,” he said, “I think it’s time you started calling me Ambrose, don’t you?” “Ambrose.”

  He pulled back slightly and saw that her eyeglasses h
ad become clouded from the effects of their combined breaths.

  “My apologies.” He smiled and removed her spectacles. “That must have been a bit like kissing a stranger in the dark.”

  “No,” she said. She blinked once or twice and searched his face in an unfocused way. “I know exactly who you are.”

  “Concordia,” he heard himself whisper. “What are you doing to me?”

  He pulled her tightly to him, desperate to feel the soft warmth of her against his own heavily aroused body. Nothing else could assuage the hunger that was clawing at his insides.

  She clung to him, seemingly as ravenous as he was. He reached down and undid the sash of her robe.

  When his hand closed over her breast, she stiffened.

  He managed to drag his mouth away from hers. “What is it?”

  Her eyes were very wide and shadowed. She released him and took a quick step back.

  “Good heavens, I almost forgot.” She shoved a hand into the pocket of her robe.

  “Forgot what?”

  “The letters.” She waved two sheets of paper at him. “That is what I came here to tell you. I found them tucked inside the newspaper. They are from Miss Bartlett. She wrote them to Mrs. Jervis while she was at Aldwick Castle. The last one is dated shortly before she disappeared.”

  He made himself refocus his attention on the two sheets of paper being waved in front of his face. “Let me see those.”

  She handed them to him. “Miss Bartlett discovered that something was amiss with the situation at the castle. In her first letter she mentions that no mail can be sent or received there. She says she got her letters posted by bribing one of the farmers who delivered produce to the castle kitchens.”

  He handed her the eyeglasses. “Go downstairs to the library. I will join you in a few minutes.”

  TEN MINUTES LATER, garbed in his dressing gown, he stood at his desk in the library. The two letters from Miss Bartlett addressed to Mrs. Jervis were spread out before him on top of the blotter.