by Robyn DeHart
He shook his head. “More or less.”
Is that what Colin did? Was he afraid that he was so similar to his mother that he would not be able to resist his reckless urges? Amelia suspected he would deny it if she asked him. Perhaps he was not even aware that he lived his life in such a manner. It was certainly a situation that warranted further research.
But there was no point in spoiling the mood and ruining the intimate talk they were sharing while lying naked together. She still hoped they would make love once more tonight.
“Do you miss it?”
“What?”
“Working at the Yard?”
“Sometimes. But I think this is more for me.”
“The solitary life,” she said.
“Not solitary, per se, but I do work better alone.”
She rolled over onto her back and faced the ceiling. She’d known all along that he wouldn’t need her at the end of this case. That even though he’d tolerated her presence and accepted her assistance, he didn’t see her as an actual partner. She’d tried to warn herself so she wouldn’t feel so disappointed, but she’d held out a little hope that things might be different. But that wasn’t the case. After this, she’d have to retire from detective work and concentrate on her Lady Catherine Shadow adventures.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
“Of course.”
“How do you manage to make everyone around you so comfortable?”
She tilted her head to the side to face him. “I beg your pardon?” she said.
“No matter who it is or what the circumstances are, you are able to talk to anyone. And they turn around and talk to you.”
She frowned, then sat up to face him. The sheet around her slipped a little, but she managed to pull it around her without completely removing it from him. “I’m not certain I’m following. I simply talk to people. Why would they not talk back?”
“Did you know that I went and visited Mr. Flinders before you did?”
“That first time?” She shook her head. “No, I didn’t know that.”
“I did. To no avail. The man would give me nothing. He wouldn’t even take my card and contact me should he hear of anything. But he certainly was ready to share information with you.”
“Perhaps he thought I was more attractive than you,” she said with a smile.
“No doubt about that. But that’s only one example. That day in Monsieur Pitre’s office, you calmed him enough to talk with us. I should very much like to know how you accomplish such things.”
She hadn’t noticed it, not altogether, but he was right. People were more willing to speak with her than with him. She didn’t think it was necessarily anything she did, but perhaps something he didn’t do.
“I’m not really certain what to tell you. I will admit that you are not the most approachable fellow.” She thought for a moment. “I suppose you could smile more often. That would probably help.”
“Smile?”
“Yes, smile. It makes people feel welcome.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“Perhaps if you spoke with people about everyday things to ease them into the questions, that might help. Ask them about their work, their families, the weather, anything. A simple conversation does wonders for making people feel as if they are valued.”
“What does that have to do with investigating?”
“In order to investigate, you must speak with people, correct?”
He nodded begrudgingly.
“Well, when you immediately start with questions, people feel intimidated. They are probably reluctant to speak with you because they are afraid of you.”
“Afraid of me? That’s ridiculous.” He crossed his arms over his chest.
“You simply need to be friendlier.”
“Are you afraid of me?” he asked with a frown.
She laughed. “No. You’re completely harmless. And very kind and thoughtful. It’s just takes a bit to get to know you.”
“Were you afraid of me in the beginning?”
She thought back to that first day when he’d walked into her father’s office. No, she hadn’t been afraid. “No, I thought you were handsome. And then I suppose I thought you were arrogant.”
“And now?” he asked.
“I still think you’re handsome.” She laughed. “And arrogant. But you’re also intelligent, charming, and caring.” She placed her hand across his belly. “You realize, I don’t do anything special with people. I’m simply nice to them and I suppose they respond to that. You can do the same.”
“That is not true. You have a way about you, Amelia, a way that instantly makes people feel at ease with you. As if they have known you forever, as if you’re lifelong friends.”
“Is that how you feel with me?” she asked.
“Sometimes. I know we’re not lifelong friends, though. I shall do as you suggest and try to be kinder and less intimidating with people. That goes against my better judgment, though, as I see no reason to befriend someone I am questioning.”
“Being friendly and being friends are two separate things,” she said. Surely he knew that. He didn’t feel as if they were friends. He’d said so himself. Could they be lovers if they were not friends? At that point would he accept her as a friend? Perhaps that was something only time would tell.
For the time being she’d settle for being his lover. She rolled over to him and began placing little kisses across his chest and down his belly.
He plunged his fingers into her hair and rubbed her scalp. He wanted her. That much hadn’t changed.
He might not be willing to admit they were friends, but he couldn’t hide his desire.
Chapter Eighteen
“I think that there are certain crimes which the law cannot touch, and which therefore, to some extent, justify private revenge.” ~The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton
Amelia stretched, then opened her eyes. Visions of last night’s lovemaking flooded her memory, and she smiled. She looked over at Colin’s sleeping form. He looked charming, with his ruffled hair and scruffy chin. She resisted the urge to touch him.
He needed his rest. They’d made love two additional times last night. It might very well be the only night she’d ever have with him, but it was certainly one she’d remember forever. He’d made sure of that.
The way he touched her, kissed her, spoke to her, made her feel... well, loved. Which she knew wasn’t the actual case. But for a memory, it would serve her well.
She rolled over and looked at the clock. Gracious, they’d slept the morning away.
She should go visit the antiquities dealer alone and let Colin get some rest. Slowly, she removed herself from the bed, careful not to wake him. Once standing, she felt a soreness between her legs and in her lower back. She’d spent quite a bit of time in a position her body wasn’t quite accustomed to. The thought brought a heated blush and a smile to her face.
She dressed as quietly as she could, and still he slept. Evidently he was a heavy sleeper. Ironic, considering he was such an observant fellow while awake. Nothing seemed to slip past him without his noticing.
Proving her worth as a partner to Colin might keep her in his life awhile longer. She knew she’d never been his official partner. But what if, in the future, he came to her seeking someone to listen to his ideas or even to help him question people? She would be there to assist him.
Any little bit that would keep him in her life. And she knew she was not yet ready to say goodbye.
She took one last look at his sleeping form before slipping out of the room into the hallway. A short visit to the dealer and hopefully she could return with some helpful information for their case.
Colin opened his eyes and immediately turned for Amelia. The indention in the pillow clearly revealed she’d spent most of the night beside him, but now she was gone. He placed his hand on the sheets to feel if they were still warm from her body, but they had already cooled. She’d left him quite a while ago.
He stood and pulled on his trousers before walking to the adjoining door and knocking softly.
“Amelia?” he called.
No answer. He listened attentively at the door for sounds of her rustling about, but nothing.
So he turned the knob and peeked inside. No sign of her anywhere. He entered the room and discovered the bed was still made—she’d spent the entire night by his side.
Of course, the entire night hadn’t been spent sleeping.
A pair of her gloves sat on the dressing table, and he picked them up. It was the pair she’d worn on the train, and they were cool to the touch. Not at all warm as Amelia’s smooth skin was.
He recalled her cries of pleasure and immediately he was hard for her again. Perhaps the theory of one night of pleasure ridding him of thoughts of her wasn’t quite right. He still wanted her. Perhaps even more than he had before they’d made love.
Chances were when they were back in London and he didn’t have so much privacy with her, the desires would subside. He would forget about her eventually. Or perhaps he’d never forget, but the intense desire would surely wane. It was unlikely that one man would desire only one woman his whole life.
In the meantime, what would be the harm in having an affair? If they were both willing and both knew that this would not lead to marriage.
Could he take a lover and maintain his research and work? Many men took mistresses, and that didn’t seem to interfere with their wives or other aspects of their lives. Perhaps he could do the same.
There were ways to ensure that no children came from the affair. As much as he hated to admit it, he wasn’t ready to be rid of her. An affair would enable him to keep Amelia in his life. To enjoy her company a bit longer. She was the first person he’d ever been able to share his research with, so keeping her around in that regard would be beneficial. And they could be discreet in order to preserve her reputation.
When she returned, he would discuss the affair with her and see what she thought of the prospect.
Why had she not returned as of yet? He’d slept too long this morning and evidently too soundly, and she obviously hadn’t wanted to wake him. More than likely she was off convinced she could prove herself and her detecting skills to him. Well, she was impetuous, reckless even.
He’d have to talk to her about that. It was unsafe for a woman to be roaming the streets alone. Especially in a town with which she was unaccustomed. And without a chaperone. Some protector he was. He hadn’t even awakened when she’d left the bed.
He knew where the antiquities shop was, and that was where she’d probably sneaked off to. Perhaps it was best for him to wait for her here. On the other hand, she trusted everyone, and had no real sense of when danger was around.
He would get dressed, and then he’d go after her.
Amelia opened the door to the antiquities shop and a bell rang above her head. It was cluttered and dark inside, and smelled of cigars and old shoes. Shelf after shelf lined the room, filled to the brim with knickknacks and trinkets and vases and all sorts of other collectibles.
The bell should have alerted someone to her presence, but no one had appeared. She made her way farther into the store, looking for the counter. She found it—barely, as it too was covered with objects.
Mostly papers, all different shapes and conditions, were scattered about, almost as if a drawer had been dumped. Two oddly shaped candlesticks, some broken pieces of pottery, and a clock that did not seem to work also took up space. A thick layer of dust covered the areas not cluttered with items. She had the strong urge to write her name in it with her fingertip, but refrained.
“Hello?” she called out.
There was no response.
She made her way past the counter into what might have been the office. “Hello?” she said again.
“Who the bloody hell is it?” a voice growled from the back of the room.
“My name is Amelia Watersfield, and I was referred to your shop by Mr. Quincy. He thought you might be able to help me with a current situation.”
“He did, did he?” the voice said. “Well, missy, I’m not so certain I’m feeling right helpful this morning.”
It was hard to tell from his voice if he was teasing or not. Then the man appeared from behind two large bookshelves. He came into view and leaned against the wall opposite her.
“Oh, well, perhaps I could change your mind.” She held up a purse and jingled it, ringing the coins within. “Feeling helpful yet?”
A toothy grin slid onto his face. “I like your style, missy. What be your problem?”
He was of an indeterminable age, with his greased long hair and equally long nose. His tiny eyes were deep-set in his face, and that, along with his yellowed, pointy teeth, gave him an almost rodent quality. Sweat and the odor of unwashed clothes—not to mention skin—assaulted her. She took a step back. Perhaps she’d been hasty coming here without Colin.
No one knew where she was. This foul-smelling man could do anything to her, and it might be a while before someone noticed her gone. Hopefully Colin would come looking for her at some point.
She squared her shoulders. The man was dirty, yes, but seemed relatively harmless. Surely her fears were all in her imagination. She would simply ask this man some questions and be on her way. Being unclean and unattractive did not make him a criminal out to ravish unsuspecting females who were flighty enough to traipse about a strange city without a chaperone. She simply wasn’t used to worrying about such things. She’d always managed to get about London on her own unscathed; she hadn’t anticipated Brighton to be any different. But in the future, she would have to be more aware of when she was putting herself in precarious positions.
“Yes, well, as I was explaining, Mr. Quincy suggested I speak with you about my situation.”
He held his hand out to her, palm up, then nodded to the purse.
She poured a few coins into his hand, then stepped away from him again.
“Mr. Quincy,” he repeated. “Very interesting. From London, are you?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered, then realized it might not be prudent to give out personal details.
His eyes narrowed to slits. “What did you say your name was again?” He jostled the coins back and forth in his hands.
She swallowed. “Miss Smith.”
“Miss Smith? Is that what you said earlier?”
Her heart tapped a rapid beat against her chest. “Of course it was. I do know my own name.” She was a wretched liar. If he was remotely good at discerning people’s true intentions, she was in trouble.
He sneered at her, then shrugged. “So how do you know Mr. Quincy?” He pocketed the coins, then stood up straight.
“He’s an acquaintance. I’m looking for an Egyptian antiquity.”
“I’ve got most of them over here. Follow me.” He led her through the store, around some bookshelves, past a shelf lined with urns. The store was very much like a maze with all its tall shelves that made it impossible to see too many steps ahead.
She gripped her reticule more tightly. She had nothing of substance with which to defend herself. Not even an umbrella, which she supposed she could use to poke someone in the eye should he pose a threat. But she had nothing. Even the remaining coins in her purse were not heavy enough to deliver a significant blow.
“Here we are. I’ve got some good trinkets. You’ll have to pay, though.” His eyes roamed the length of her. “These sorts don’t come cheap.”
“I’m looking for something specific. Do you have any statues of Nefertiti?”
“Mr. Quincy send you here to ask me about Nefertiti?” His hand jingled the change in his pocket. “There’s no such thing.”
He looked agitated, worried somehow.
“Yes, I’ve heard of one piece. A bust of Nefertiti. It’s rumored that it’s a fake, that it’s simply a bust of some other woman. Surely you’ve heard of it. It’s a rather controversial piece.”
“You’re wrong, miss
y,” he said between his teeth. “I never heard of anything such as that.”
“Are you certain? Mr. Quincy assured me that if anyone knew of a piece such as that, it would be you.” That was a bit of a stretch, but the note had suggested this shop.
Then without warning he grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against the shelf. Three clay pots crashed to the floor.
“You’re here spying, missy, and I don’t take kindly to snoops. What else did Mr. Quincy tell you I would know?”
His rancid breath turned her stomach, and she would have gagged except for the pressure on her throat preventing her from doing so. She shook her head as best she could. “Nothing,” she croaked. “He thought you’d be able to help me locate that bust. That’s all.” Her voice was choked and ragged.
He squeezed tighter and leaned in by her ear. His breath was hot and damp against her neck. “Are you certain?” he asked.
“Yes. I promise.”
He released her. “Well, then, Miss Smith, I suppose I will let you go.” He ran his hand down her cheek, and she felt a hangnail scratch her tender skin. “You’re a pretty thing, you know that?”
She was worse than a ninny. She was a fool. An idiot for coming to such a place alone.
He roughly grabbed at her breasts and leaned in. His foul breath smelled of rotten teeth and too much alcohol. It was hot on her neck as he smashed his cheek against hers. “I should teach you a lesson for asking questions you’ve no right to be asking.” He ripped at the bodice of her gown, tearing a bit at the neckline.
She had to get out of here. So she did the only thing she could think of: She leaned into him and bit him as hard as she could on his ear. He yelped and stepped away from her. She took the opportunity to strike him on the head with her bag, then ran to the front of the store.
“You little bitch,” she heard him yell behind her, but she didn’t slow down. The bloody store was a maze, but finally she spotted the front door. He’d almost caught her when she ran out onto the street. He stood in the doorway glaring at her, holding his ear while blood slowly dripped from the small injury.
