Lady Notorious

by Theresa Romain

  Even if he and Cass didn’t resolve the case in the next two days, it wouldn’t be dropped. It wouldn’t be over.

  That wouldn’t be the end of their time together.

  This was the third day of the four the duke had grudgingly permitted. While His Grace remained pale and tired with his arm swathed in bandages, he was grumbling all the time about bringing the case to a close. Ordinarily, George ignored these grumbling moods, but this was the duke’s house, and he could send Cass away if he wished.

  How could anyone wish to? George liked knowing that she was in the house. That at any moment, she might wander into his experiment room and begin a conversation about one-could-never-guess what.

  Just now, it was early afternoon, the lazy time of day between morning callers and essential errands. George was in his experiment room, and as he’d hoped, Cass had wandered in.

  “Angelus sent his reply,” she said. “It’s all arranged for Saturday night, should we need it.”

  “We’ll need it, I think. We keep running into walls of silence. Our shadow attacker is a lazy sort.” Holding up a glass vessel containing a dusting of silver iodide, he poured in frigid water. The surface developed a pleasing skin, crackling with an icy finish.

  He turned to face Cass, extending the vessel toward her. “Look at that. That’s interesting, isn’t it? Ice from a powder and a liquid? Surely this reaction ought to do something to help me make a picture.”

  She poked at it with a cautious forefinger, then smiled. “It ought to do something to help someone with some task. I can’t be more specific than that.”

  “No, nor can I.” Setting the vessel on the worktable, he capped the bottle of powdered silver iodide. “I’m acting at random with every experiment I do. There’s no method to my madness, as that fellow from Hamlet says. Sort of.”

  She closed a hand over his where it still held the bottle. “You’re investigating. And sometimes it seems fruitless, I know.”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “But there’s a reason for it. So—tell me about it.”

  “Tell you about what?” He returned the bottle to its place on one of the narrow shelves, where it abutted so many others just like it.

  “Why you want to make pictures from life. Why you care about it, even when it seems fruitless.”

  “Oh.” He pulled off his work gloves and tossed them onto the table. “Do you really want to know? Because I might be tedious.”

  She trailed around the room, touching everything she could lay hands on. “Yes, I really want to know. I wish I had a talent like that. Something I really loved doing.”

  He watched her move, graceful and slow in a gown of rust-red that did wonderful things to the color of her hair and eyes. “Can one say one has a talent if one never accomplishes anything of note?”

  She shrugged. “Why not? If you like it, and you’re trying different things.”

  “Rather like you with investigations?”

  “Not like that at all. I feel necessary sometimes. But is that a talent?”

  “Right. Because you don’t love it.” It seemed unfair that she should have such gifts and not enjoy the use of them: her prodigious memory, her swift fists, her glib tongue. But perhaps she made up for people like George, who had no gifts and enjoyed everything.

  “I like accomplishing something.” She cut her gaze sideways at him. “Who is Lily? Someone you cared for very much?”

  That, he had not expected. He leaned on the worktable with one hand, crossing one foot over another. “Ah, someone was gossiping in Chichester.”

  “No. Your sister was gossiping while I had her dresses fitted to me. I was curious, that’s all.”

  “You held it well.”

  “Not so well. You mentioned her to Angelus, too. That reminded me. And then yes, someone gossiped in Chichester.” Her cheeks went slightly pink.

  “About Lily? And that makes you blush?”

  “Lady Deverell said it was a shame I was married, since it was nice to see you going about with a respectable lady again.” She gave a crooked smile. “It was so embarrassing. If I’ve given the impression that I’m respectable, then I have failed completely at the role of Mrs. Benedetti.”

  “That’s why you’re embarrassed?”

  “Of course,” she said stiffly. “And I was embarrassed for you, since Lady Deverell implied that you went about with unrespectable ladies.”

  “Thanks for your concern,” he said drily.

  “So, who is Lily? Besides Lord Deverell’s daughter, which you told Angelus.”

  “You really do remember every detail to do with a case.” He rapped his knuckles on the rough wood surface of the table. “Well, that’s who she was. She was the only child of my godfather’s first marriage, and I was engaged to her when I was just twenty-one. She died of a fever.”

  Cass toyed with the heavy fabric of the draperies, currently open to the afternoon sun. “Did you love her?”

  “I did, though I’m not sure what kind of love it was. We were expected to marry, and we were agreeable to the idea.” His brow furrowed. “She was always a part of my life—do you know what that’s like? So it was strange when she wasn’t there anymore. Everything felt wrong.

  “Maybe,” he continued, “it was like awaking to find all the furniture gone in one’s house. The place was familiar, but it just wasn’t right, and it wasn’t as comfortable. But then one gets used to it.”

  Cass blinked at him. “May I someday be loved enough to be compared to furniture.”

  “The absence of furniture,” corrected George. “And it was only an analogy. Never mind.”

  She smiled a little. “Only teasing you. I do understand, I think. That is, I’ve never loved anyone in a romantic way. But I have lost someone dear to me.” Her hand slipped into her pocket.

  “Your parents?”

  “I don’t remember my parents. My mother was never well after she birthed Charles and me, and she died when we were only two years old. Our father always came and went from the time of their marriage, and after she died, he went and never came back.”

  “Blackguard.”

  Cass lifted one shoulder, as if she couldn’t be bothered to shrug again. “He has another family now, in Devon. We used Bow Street connections to find out that much. But we never see him and don’t miss him.”

  “You can’t miss someone you never knew, can you?” But as he spoke the words, he wondered if they were true. One could notice what everyone else had. One could feel an emptiness where there ought to be love and support.

  She pulled the little gold case from her pocket now, the one he’d seen pinched by that boy Jemmy. Popping the clasp, she flipped it open and held it out for his examination. “This is my grandmother.”

  A fine-quality miniature of a young woman regarded him from its setting. The style of the clothing and hair was old-fashioned, but the deep, frank eyes and stubborn chin were unmistakably Benton.

  “She is beautiful,” George said.

  “Don’t be silly. She looks like me.” She snatched the case back and stuffed it into her pocket before George could protest. “She raised Charles and me. We both miss her very much.”

  “I am glad you had someone who loved you to raise you. I envy you that.”

  Again she took hold of the drapery fabric. “You speak as if you didn’t have the same.”

  “I’m not sure I did. My parents are fond of me if I don’t bother them too much, but they didn’t raise me, really. They didn’t serve as guides to the sort of person I ought to be. I had to sort that out entirely on my own, mainly using examples to the contrary.”

  Who had ever loved George? Until Cass spoke so warmly about her grandmother, this was not a question that had ever occurred to him. He had thought about his own love, if one could apply that word to his familial fondness for his sister and the distant dutifulness he felt for his parents. The emotion he’d felt for Lily had seemed shining and warm beside that. Yet it had faded with her death; perhaps
it would always have faded.

  What if there was something wrong with him, so that he couldn’t inspire anyone to love him? Him, George; not the marquess or the heir.

  He wanted to ask, but his throat closed on the question. If Cass said there was—If she couldn’t—When he felt—

  No. Those were questions that didn’t bear thinking of.

  “But we were meant to be talking of my experiments,” he said lightly. “In a way, Lily is related to them. I don’t have a single painting of her, and one quickly forgets a face without a likeness to go by. So I thought maybe I could make likenesses. But I’ve no talent with a brush, like all those artists my father loves. I had to think of a different way.” Ruefully, he looked over the shelves of chemicals and papers. “Only I haven’t succeeded yet.”

  “You’ve made little chips of ice in a glass,” she said. “That’s not nothing.”

  “True,” he agreed. “That’s not nothing.” He peered into the vessel that held the mixture of water and silver iodide. “Ah, it’s all melted.”

  “So you try something else.”

  “So I do.” She was so close to him now, and he was so far from answers. Shaking his head, he kept the conversation on his experiments. “In some way, I’ll get the light of the sun to imprint the paper. I’ve been messing about with different sorts of salts, especially silver and iron, since they change color over time.”

  “Like rust or tarnish,” Cass said.

  “Exactly. While I try and fail with different substances, I’m trying different names for this process, too. What do you think of”—he paused dramatically—“helio-ichnographia? It uses the Greek words for ‘sun-tracing.’”

  “Too long.”

  “What about . . . techni-chartis?”

  “I suppose that also means something wonderful?”

  “A sort of ‘art chart.’”

  “Hmm.” She poked at the glass vessel that now held a clear slurry, then at his discarded work gloves. “What about using English words?”

  “Nonsense. No one would know what an important invention it was if I used ordinary English. It’s got to have a Greek or Latin name.”

  “That makes sense,” Cass said, sounding as if it did in fact make perfect sense to her. “What is the Greek for silver? If you’re using silver salts?”

  “Argyros.” He rolled the word around his mouth, trying it out. “I don’t know.”

  “Drawing, maybe? Drawing with sunlight?”

  “Sun is helios, as I already said. Or there is simply light from an unspecified source. That’s photos.” He considered. “Light drawing . . . photos-graphé. Maybe photo-graphé for ease of pronunciation.”

  Cass pulled a face. “That’s no better. Sorry. Maybe you should just pick a word you like and that’ll be the name of the process.”

  “Which doesn’t yet exist, and never will if I can’t sort out how to get silver salts to stop darkening in helios. Or even in candlelight. What good is a picture if you can’t look at it without spoiling it?”

  “Poor burdened fellow. Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.” Cass sighed. “Or whatever it is courtesy marquesses slap atop their heads.”

  “We wear very fashionable hats,” said George. “And you’re no help at all.”

  “Did you expect I would be?”

  “You always have been before.”

  She looked at him aslant. “You want me to help you, then? Perhaps you ought to offer me . . . motivation.”

  The honeyed tone of her voice caught his notice. “Oh, it’s motivation you want, is it? What sort of motivation?”

  “Nothing unusual.” Her eyelashes fluttered.

  Oh, he liked this. “How do you look so innocent and sound like a bawdy angel?”

  “Do I look innocent?” She sounded surprised. “I didn’t expect that. I do like that bawdy angel description, though.”

  Boosting herself atop the worktable, she let her feet swing as she spoke. “How about this? I’ll make a suggestion. If you like it, you strip off a piece of your clothing. If you don’t like it, you strip off a piece of mine.”

  George cleared his throat. The swing of her stockinged foot, toe barely holding the satin slipper, was transfixing him. “Which of us is meant to be motivated by this arrangement?”

  “Why must it be only one of us?” Swing, swing, went her foot. When she smiled, her warm eyes crinkled at the corners. “My first suggestion is . . .” She tipped her head. “La Belle Assemblée.”

  George let out a bark of laughter. “You think I ought to name this chemical process after a lady’s magazine?”

  Cass shrugged. “If you don’t like the idea, you know what to do.” Bracing her hands on the edge of the table, she bent double, presenting him with the back of her bodice. “My buttons are at your disposal.”

  So that was how it was: the lady wanted to be undressed. A slow smile spread over George’s features; heat began to build within him. This could become a game, and a very pleasurable one. “I don’t think so. You said I might strip off a piece of your clothing, but you didn’t say you’d choose which.”

  She snapped upright, a lock of hair falling from its pins to swing before her face. Stuffing it behind her ear, she said, “Don’t you want to unbutton my bodice?”

  “Eventually,” he said. “I might.”

  Then he knelt before her, grateful for the carpet softening the hard floor. He took her swinging foot into his hand; instantly, she went still and taut. When he eased the slipper from her foot, letting it fall to the floor, she sucked in a breath. “What are you doing?”

  “I just stripped off a piece of your clothing. Didn’t you notice?” The stocking over her toes was fine as cobwebs. The nails were short and tidy, the foot narrow. He’d never thought much about feet, but he decided to have a bit of fun with hers.

  He took her foot in his hands, pressing his thumbs to the arch. Her foot twitched. He did it again, stroking firmly. She moaned. “You like having your foot pressed,” he observed, rather obviously.

  “I’ve never had this done before,” she said. “I just walk about and—oh, do that again. It tickles, but it feels so good.”

  He obliged the lady. When he did, pressing again into the tight arch of her stockinged foot, her other foot kicked. “Mmm,” she said. She shoved the unshod one forward, leaning back onto the table. Letting her other foot dangle, surrendering her bared one to George’s touch.

  But now that she’d lain back, she’d bared quite a bit more than her foot. Her skirts were rucked up around her knees, and she was drawing them up yet higher.

  “I’m not taking off any more of your clothing,” George said. “Unless you want to make a suggestion for me to dislike.”

  “Gog Magog.”

  He let the other shoe fall to the floor.

  Her cheeks went pink. “Call it the Cassandra process.”

  George paused in the act of reaching for her stocking. “Now that one, I like.” Slowly, he removed his cravat.

  “I ought to be doing that,” Cass complained.

  “Ought you? You’ll have to get up from that table.”

  “Never mind.” She let her head drop back. “I . . . I can’t think of anything else.”

  “Triumph! I have brought the marvelous, brilliant Cassandra Benton to a state of mental fogginess.”

  “You can’t take off any more of my clothes,” she said faintly. Her eyes were fixed on his, lust-glazed and hopeful.

  “My darling, I don’t need to.” He swept up her skirts, her petticoat, her shift, leaving her bare before him. Stockinged legs; ribbon garters; fair, freckled skin. None of the drawers favored by scandalous women; she was strictly proper. Perfectly bared to him. He traced the line of her sex with a fingertip.

  She shuddered, then spread wide for him. “Do that again.”

  He obliged. And then he did other things, things with his fingers and tongue. Things that left Cass quaking, clutching for him, clenching tight, crying his name.

 
; When she was sated and laughing her pleasure, he stood up. “What a beautiful sight you are. I think that should be called the Cassandra process.”

  “I like it,” she said, and removed one of her stockings. “What comes next?”

  “Exactly what you think,” he replied, and when she reached her hands for him, he came into her and was entirely hers.

  * * *

  Yet they had only one more day.

  One more day, Ardmore had said, and he was already making noises to George about winding up the investigation.

  Still pale, still bandaged, the duke wanted Cass to leave. He wanted it all to be over, to hide from it just as he hid from the bills and letters and summons littering his desk in plain sight.

  George wanted the case at an end too, but he wanted her to stay. He was beginning to think he wanted her to stay forever.

  After all that talk of love and loss and experiments and investigations—and after a shattering climax that had lain waste to everything atop the worktable—George had come to the yard behind Ardmore House to shoot a few arrows. He’d last left them in the little shed, hadn’t he? Where he’d found the gardener’s hat that had been lost somewhere on Billingsgate Wharf.

  He opened the door, looking around the tiny cluttered space. “That’s odd.” The archery equipment wasn’t there.

  As he peered forward into the dim shed, a shape slit the air beside him. It was a sound and a feeling, air moving swift and true.

  With a thup, an arrow buried itself in the wooden wall of the shed.

  “Oy!” George called out. “You might’ve hit me!”

  Who had fired that? He twisted around, looking, looking. All the windows of the house facing him were closed. There was no one else in the yard except the cook’s chickens. Was that a shape in the mews, through the back gate, or . . .

  Then again came the familiar shhh sound, and a hard blow struck his shoulder from behind.

  For a moment it was only pressure, then pain sliced like a blade. Blood welled hot and swift, soaking his shirt and coat. His blood. He’d been struck. The arrow was in his shoulder, solid as anything, and he was bleeding all around it, and if he pulled it out it’d likely be worse.