She couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped her lips at the wrenching advice. How miserable was he still after losing her mother so many years ago to say such a thing?
His even breathing suggested sleep, stealing away the chance for her to argue with him. Then again, what could she possibly say?
The lump in her throat nearly choked her as she thought of Oliver. Was her father right? Was the risk too great?
~*~
Jasper growled with rage, crumpling the newspaper Crawford had handed him and tossing it aside. “A farce? They think the murder was a farce?”
Crawford wisely drew back as Jasper stalked past him.
“I planned that carefully,” Jasper continued, astounded that Rutter’s death and the markings on the wall hadn’t created panic in the streets.
“Did ye use the right marks?” Crawford asked.
Jasper spun to face him, eager for an outlet for his anger. “You dare to question me?”
“No, sir.” Though the words were respectful, they lacked the fear to which Jasper had grown accustomed. On which he thrived.
Perhaps Crawford wasn’t the right person to assist him after all. He much preferred it if men trembled with fear when he spoke. He needed someone behind him who reinforced that fear amongst his men.
He needed Rutter.
“Do ye think McCarthy had anything to do with this?”
Jasper shook his head. He didn’t think his enemy had those sort of connections in the police department or among reporters, though he supposed it was possible.
“You don’t even know what symbols I used.” Jasper had no doubt he was far more intelligent and better educated than Crawford or any of his men.
“Do ye?” Crawford asked.
Jasper glared at the man, astounded at his audacity.
“No offense, sir.” Crawford seemed to understand his mistake. “I’m only askin’ if ye truly understand all it says in that book. Perhaps ye missed something in the message ye left on the cell wall.”
“No, you idiot. Nothing was missing.” Jasper wanted to throw something but nothing in the warehouse was within reach except papers. They wouldn’t make a satisfying thud.
Another glare at Crawford kept the man from sharing any more of his thoughts. Jasper had built his empire himself and certainly didn’t require the advice of someone like Crawford. The man’s questions made Jasper realize he’d handled Rutter’s ‘demise’ the right way. Soon Rutter would recover and take Crawford’s place.
It had taken some convincing for Rutter to slit his own throat, but the superficial wound had been necessary to make his death appear like a suicide. The tonic Jasper provided gave Rutter time to lie back down on the mattress in the jail cell, dump the pig’s blood on his cot, and pose before he lost consciousness and his heartbeat slowed. Jasper couldn’t wait to see the look on Crawford’s face when he realized Rutter still lived.
If only the entire ploy had created the panic Jasper had hoped. Now it seemed as if it had all been a waste. At least he’d have Rutter back once he recovered from the aftereffects of the tonic. He yet held hope that word of Rutter’s resurrection would spread among the underworld and cause unease amongst his men and his enemies.
“I have a task for you,” Jasper said as a new plan formed in his mind. “I need you to discover who the expert is that the article says the police consulted. Perhaps when he turns up dead, the police will think twice about playing such games with me.”
Crawford’s eyes widened. “I’m not certain how to find that out. The police aren’t likely to tell me.”
Jasper stalked closer. “Don’t bother me with such details. Figure it out. Rutter would’ve.”
“Very well, sir.” Once again the words were right, but the way he said them didn’t please Jasper in the least.
Surely he wasn’t losing his hold over his men, was he? He’d hoped by now that he wouldn’t have to use the damned book and its supposed power to create fear in their bellies. But as Crawford walked out without a backward glance, he knew he needed to do something to reestablish his dark power. Perhaps he could use the reappearance of Rutter to aid him.
With luck, Crawford would find the expert, and Jasper would do away with him the same way he’d dealt with Rutter, except with a more permanent end. That should help make the men, and the police for that matter, quake in their boots.
~*~
Oliver glanced up from his desk when Tubbs entered the library the next morning.
“A message for you, my lord,” the footman advised as he handed him the sealed missive.
The distraction was a relief from watching the clock for the time to come when he could call upon Julia and her father. But his relief was quickly dashed as he read the sweeping curves that formed a few brief words.
Please do not come today.
J.
Did that mean her father had worsened during the night? If so, surely there was something he could do to help. He rose, deciding to call on them anyway, only to halt.
If Julia didn’t want him there, who was he to decide otherwise?
“Is there a reply?” Tubbs asked.
Oliver latched onto the suggestion. Not bothering with a new piece of paper, he grabbed his pen and scrawled an equally brief reply.
Let me know when.
O.
As Tubbs left the room, the emptiness of the day stretched before him like a blank page, and he had no idea how to fill it.
~*~
After a long, restless night, Oliver whiled away the morning in his library, watching the clock once again. Surely Lord Burnham would feel up to a visit today. Julia would no doubt welcome some help to lift her father’s spirits.
As he glanced around the tall shelves filled with his beloved books, he couldn’t help but marvel at how his feelings for this room had shifted of late. What had once been a refuge felt more like a prison. He shook off the unfamiliar thoughts, certain they were due to his lack of sleep.
When he heard the knock on front door shortly after ten o’clock, he braced himself, his mood faltering as Tubbs entered the library with a message in hand.
Unable to halt the hope that filled him, he opened it with care.
Nor today.
J.
He stared at the words, wishing she would’ve shared more. He regretted the brevity of his own messages to her only a few days ago. Perhaps if he would’ve been more communicative then, she would be so now.
He penned a quick reply:
Soon, I hope.
O.
As Tubbs left with his message, Oliver closed his eyes at the worry filling him. For the thousandth time, he wondered if the blame for the earl’s illness could be placed with him. He’d known Burnham’s health was fragile. Why hadn’t he taken the time to stop by that day, however briefly? Despite the events occurring, he could’ve done so. He wished he had the day to repeat and fix his mistake.
It had been a long while since he’d felt responsible for anyone. After his time in the service, he’d hoped never to bear that weight again. He wasn’t good at it since he’d returned to civilian life. He rarely knew what the right thing to do was. And far too often, he allowed his anger to guide his actions.
Was this some sort of reminder to him from fate that he shouldn’t venture out? That the world would be better off without his interference?
Yet he realized he couldn’t return to the way he’d been even last month, living a selfish life in his self-imposed prison. Though his attempts to venture out may have caused harm, he didn’t think that could change his course. He had to keep trying. Surely he could find some way to make up his mistake to the earl and to Julia.
He rose to pace the floor, wondering how to proceed.
~*~
Oliver sat at his desk in the library the next day, but no message arrived. He wasn’t certain what to make of it. It was well past the time Julia had sent previous messages. Did that mean he should call? Or had Lord Burnham’s condition worsened in the past
three days?
His worry made it impossible to work. He couldn’t concentrate. Not only was he concerned about Lord Burnham but Julia as well.
Should he call upon them anyway? Or wait another day? Or perhaps send a message of his own?
Damn. He’d never been so indecisive in his life, and he detested it. Sitting here was solving nothing. He rose from his desk, determined to take action, right or wrong.
~*~
Julia woke with a start, disoriented. By the brightness of the light coming through the parted drapes of her bedroom, she knew she’d overslept. The past three days were nothing more than a blur as she sat by her father’s side, hoping and praying for his recovery.
His cough had worsened to a bone-rattling wheeze that left him gasping for each breath. It had been pure torture to listen to him, waiting to see if each rattle would be his last. The doctor had provided medicine for his cough but beyond that, could only shake his head, as uncertain of the outcome as she. Even Aunt Matilda had been beside herself with worry, and she was usually the hopeful one.
Finally, in the dark hours of the night, his coughing had eased and his fever had broken. He’d fallen into a more restful sleep, giving her hope that once again his will to live had battled back his longing to join her mother as if she’d love him more in the next life than she had in this one.
Julia pushed herself up against the pillows, attempting to clear the fog from her brain. She knew she should rise and check on her father again, but exhaustion kept her in bed a few minutes more. Surely her aunt would’ve roused her if his condition had changed significantly.
A knock on the bedroom door sent her heart pounding. Her maid, Sally, poked her head around the edge of the door. “Good day, my lady.” She stepped in once she saw that Julia was awake. “You have a visitor. Should I send him away?
“Him?” Her heartbeat sped once more. “Who?”
“Viscount Frost.”
Her feet touched the floor before her brain made a decision whether or not to see him. Even as she berated herself for her eagerness, she tossed aside the covers and rose. “Do you know how my father is this morning?”
“Your aunt says he’s improved. She’s with him now.”
Relief filled her. “That is excellent news. Please tell Viscount Frost that I’ll be with him momentarily.”
“Very well, my lady. I’ll return to help you dress.”
With Sally’s assistance, she quickly dressed and gathered her hair into a manageable chignon. The entire time, her heart pounded fiercely. What on earth was wrong with her? He was here to see her father. But no amount of logic had it slowing.
A mere twenty minutes had passed from when he’d been announced to when she arrived at the drawing room. She paused in the doorway, her hand tightly gripping the knob as she saw him sitting in one of the chairs, looking as out of place there as he had at the bookshop the day she’d met him. At times, she forgot how big he was—tall and broad-shouldered. The chairs were not designed for a man like him.
He rose at once, concern etched in his features as he studied her as though simply by looking at her, he’d know how her father fared. A wave of relief came over his expression as he stepped forward.
Could he read her so easily?
“He’s better today?” Oliver asked as he paused before her.
“Yes, at least when I last with him early this morning. His fever broke and his cough eased.”
He raked a hand through his hair, shoving the overlong strands off his forehead temporarily. “I’m so pleased to hear that. I’ve been worried. When you didn’t send a message this morning, I wasn’t certain what to think.”
“I didn’t realize it was so late.”
Those green eyes studied her even closer. “You look exhausted.”
“Thank you.” She sighed. Why had she bothered to try to be presentable for his visit? She should’ve just come down in her nightgown. The very idea of doing so had her cheeks heating.
“I didn’t—I mean you look beautiful as always but weary.”
This time she attempted a smile. She’d never seen him quite so ill at ease. “It’s been a long few days.”
“I can only imagine.” He took her hands in his, making her stomach do the oddest flip. “And you? How have you fared?”
His soft question with that intent look in his green eyes, as though he’d worried about her as well, was nearly her undoing. She must be even more tired than she realized. “Fine.”
“Truly?”
Where was the gruff, rude man she was used to? Who was this man full of concern and kindness? She hardly knew what to make of it. How could she defend herself against this one?
She nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat.
“Julia.” He drew her into his arms, holding her tight. “You must’ve been so worried.”
The urge to tell him how very frightened she’d been nearly had the words spilling from her lips. Instead, she rested her head against that incredibly broad chest. His warm hands ran along her back, comforting her even as they stirred a longing deep within her. Unable to resist, she tipped her head back to look up at him, wondering what he was thinking.
He looked down at her, his gaze searching her face before falling to her lips. She’d never wanted anything as badly as she wanted him to kiss her.
Slowly, with great care, he granted her unspoken request. His lips were firm and warm. He was so strong and felt amazing pressed against the length of her. Though her aunt had been at her side much of the time, she’d still felt very alone during her bedside vigil. Whether it was that loneliness or simply Oliver, she wasn’t certain, but she wanted to stay in his arms forever. Being with him filled the empty void inside her.
She reached up to touch him, loving the feel of the roughness of his jaw. Wanting more, she deepened the kiss, her knees nearly buckling as his tongue swept into her mouth. He kissed her like a parched man quenching his thirst, as though he couldn’t get enough.
“I’ve been so concerned about you,” he murmured against her lips only to kiss her again. Those hands that had been such a comfort only moments before now roamed the length of her, setting her body aflame everywhere they went. “Your messages drove me mad.”
She drew back to look at him, confused why that would be.
“I couldn’t decide how to interpret them.”
The uncertainty in his voice, that hint of vulnerability in this strong man gave her pause. “I didn’t intend for them to be confusing.”
He kissed her forehead, his lips lingering there. “I tend to overanalyze words. Perhaps it’s because of my field of interest.”
She smiled. “I don’t have that excuse, but I confess your messages were a puzzle to me as well.”
His gaze held hers again. “I’ve missed you.”
Oh, there it was again, the flip of her stomach—or was it her heart?
At the moment, it felt like her entire being overturned, leaving her breathless. She was completely out of her element. Despite her father’s advice ringing in her head, adding to a voice telling her to protect herself at all costs, the words slipped out. “I missed you too.”
Rather than making her feel vulnerable, the admission felt right. Especially as he kissed her once more.
“Will you stay while I break my fast?”
His nod and smile made her heart beat all the quicker.
Chapter Sixteen
“Truly enough these seedling recruits of the criminal population are the most difficult to reform. They are impregnable alike to persuasion and threatening. They have an ingrain conviction that it is you who are wrong, not them.”
~The Seven Curses of London
Oliver settled into the chair beside Lord Burnham’s bed and cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the task before him. The expectant look on the old lord’s lined face had him bracing himself. With a resigned sigh, he opened the book he’d brought, regretting his impulsive offer for the hundredth time.
“H
ere by beginneth the Book of the tales of Canterbury,” he began. It was no easy task to translate the Old English words into a more meaningful version as he read aloud from Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.
He continued with the prologue of the book, glancing up, his ire at the task falling away at the look of happiness on the lord’s face. His voice was far from pleasing, he was sure, still somewhat rusty from disuse. But he pressed on, grateful Julia wasn’t in attendance to hear his attempt to entertain her father.
At least this was better than searching for a topic of conversation, he decided. They’d run through his limited ideas on the previous visit, and he refused to discuss the weather again.
While he truly did want to help the lord regain his strength in whatever way possible, he also enjoyed the excuse to see Julia each day. He was growing accustomed to it. He much preferred the bubbly version of Julia than the quiet, worried one that was a shadow of her normal self. It had taken much effort on his behalf to coax a smile from her these past two days. Each one was a precious gift, a suitable reward for his efforts.
Though she hadn’t greeted him upon his arrival this day, he was still hopeful she’d make an appearance before he left. Her worry over her father was understandable, but it almost seemed that she took his general wellbeing even more personally than a daughter should. As though his health, both mentally and physically and even spiritually, was her responsibility.
This burden she shouldered had worn her down the past several days during her father’s illness. She still appeared tired, and he would hazard a guess that she’d lost some weight as well. He made a mental note to request tea and sandwiches to make certain she ate, assuming he had the opportunity to see her before he left.
He resisted the urge to analyze why he’d taken to worrying over her wellbeing. She’d become a friend at the very least. She was a kind, generous soul and if fate had temporarily brought them together, who was he to question it? Nor did he care to question what the coming days might bring. It was all he could do to take one day at a time.
Charming the Scholar (The Seven Curses of London Book 2) Page 17
