The Earl of Her Dreams

by Anne Mallory

  She switched back to a safe subject. “You seem much more excited this evening.”

  “I have a few theories. Plus, think of what a boon it would be to catch the killer.” She detected a hint of relief in his tone at the subject change.

  “I thought men in your profession apprehended criminals all the time,” she said dryly, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that he was not a Runner.

  He waved aside her sarcasm. “I’ve always loved puzzles. Though I was reminded regularly that being a dab hand at puzzles did me little good.”

  She grasped the personal information that he had all of a sudden begun to dole out to her. Prior to this he had hidden behind false smiles and careless comments. Now those seemingly carelessly tossed comments actually contained kernels. Here he was admitting to a vulnerability plain as day, or as plain as he ever seemed to get. Some hidden insight of which she had previously thought him incapable.

  Then again, everyone had some measure of depth, including Julius Janson. And Christian Black. And Joshua McShaver, who dearly loved his wife.

  She shook her head to dislodge the suddenly romantic thoughts. “After we compile our list, perhaps we should discuss the motives for murdering Julius Janson.”

  “Seems pretty obvious.”

  Hidden depths or not, the man was irritating.

  “So how should we proceed?”

  “Title the list ‘Facts.’”

  Kate dragged the quill across and down to form the F, the scratch of the tip leaving a trail of ink as she finished the uppercase letter with a flourish. Scratching out the other four letters more neatly, she looked up to see Christian give a satisfied nod. He reached down and placed his hand over hers, drawing a line under the word, his fingers trailing off hers at the end of the stroke.

  Kate’s breath lodged somewhere in her chest, and she busied herself with dipping the quill in the inkpot. The quill hit the edge of the opening before she steadied herself enough to successfully dip it. She took extra time tapping the excess ink onto the pot’s throat before glancing up.

  Christian was staring at her, but his gaze wasn’t entirely focused, as if he were in deep thought. The lamp flickered golden light onto his already handsome features, playing with his cheekbones and straight nose. After a moment he shook his head as though to clear it.

  “Let’s think through the sequence of events. Lake and Janson started a brawl in the taproom, presumably over Mary. They were reprimanded by the Wickets. Soon afterward, you heard the two of them arguing in the common room, this argument also concerning Mary. Janson then left. Tiegs, who is already suspicious at best, entered and approached Janson. They conversed about a topic which remains a mystery, but could have possibly concerned his problems with Janson. Tiegs did something with a pocket watch, but what that was we don’t know. This was all around midnight, and Janson was still alive. Correct so far?”

  “Yes.” She wrote down his dictation, trying to keep pace and trying not to stare at the way the light from the lamp caressed his skin.

  “Next you came back to the room. Lake got angry and threw the lamp. Mrs. Wicket stormed down to reprimand him. Around two, you left the room and observed two men on the balcony. One looked like Janson. We will assume for the moment it was he. Janson was still alive at two, because the snow had just started to fall and by the impression left in the snow, we can assume that it had been snowing awhile before the body was cast over the balcony, yet it had to have been well before the snow stopped falling. Gordon stated the snow had stopped by six o’clock when he made his rounds. So we can deduce that Janson was murdered between two and six, probably closer to a time between two and four.”

  Kate had stopped scratching, mesmerized by his account.

  “That is quite a deduction.” She was impressed despite herself. “Maybe you should consider thumbing your nose at your father and becoming a constable or investigator anyway.”

  “Kate, you say the sweetest things.” He ran a hand over the back of her neck, massaging the muscles and skin. “And of course, how could I forget; at three you started moaning, and I captured you between the sheets.”

  The mortification that Kate would have experienced had he said something like that earlier was strangely absent while he continued doing sinfully wonderful things to her shoulders and neck.

  “I do remember someone’s footsteps treading down the hall at that time. Not loudly, but as if the person were checking that all was well. Possibly Mrs. Wicket, as Nickford claimed earlier. He said he heard a thud and moan about half past two.”

  “Which he blamed on his ghost.” Her eyes slid shut as he pushed gently against the top of her spine. A sound of satisfaction escaped.

  “Mmm…Kate, if you continue to make those sounds, you’ll have to let me take you instead of you taking notes.”

  His whisper brushed the hairs at the back of her neck. She jerked open her eyes to see the tip of the quill halfway down the page, a jagged line in its wake.

  She cleared her throat, trying to regain some semblance of dignity, and tapped the quill against the inkpot. She had to remember her resolve. She was going to be the one in charge. She’d do the rejecting. “Whoever was walking around last night should have been quite tired this morning.”

  “Everyone looked tired this morning, unfortunately.”

  “Except Nickford.”

  “I don’t think that man belongs in normal company.”

  “Possibly not. Should we compile a list of the people staying in the inn, as well as possible suspects?”

  His fingers ghosted the nape of her neck, playing with the tendrils there. “Excellent idea, Kate.”

  She would not let his charm wash over her. She would not.

  His hand brushed her arm.

  “What are you doing?”

  His body leaned over hers, his face next to hers, cheek to cheek.

  “I’m listing the names of the guests for you.”

  She focused on the paper and not the tingles zipping through her body.

  “Don’t forget to list the servants, although I don’t know the names of those who are traveling with the guests.”

  He cocked his head toward her, the edge of his lip lightly brushing hers. “Servants? What do you mean? Why should we list the servants?”

  She was so distracted that she could barely focus on the conversation—his lips were a breath away, the heat of his body scorched hers. “They are staying in the inn too.”

  “But servants…serve.” His full lower lip grazed her cheek.

  “And they don’t commit crimes?” she whispered.

  He reached down and rested a hand on her thigh, tugging the durable fabric in the same way he was pulling her reactions. “Well, I suppose the odd trouser theft here and there. Father always claimed the servants were not to be trusted. I suppose that’s why I always want to trust them.”

  She disengaged herself and turned to look him full in the face.

  “Christian.” She paused, committing to memory all the remarks about his father so she could surreptitiously question him about them at a later time. His statement also confirmed that he was wellborn and that he had had servants at some point. “It’s not that your father was right, but the servants have just as much reason to commit a crime as anyone.”

  “Gordon did act might shifty when he was talking to us at the stables.” Christian straightened, tapping his chin, and suddenly Kate was unsure if he was having her on or not.

  Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, but she decided to go along with the conversation in case he was serious. “There you go.”

  “On the other hand, Gordon reported the body. Why report it? Better to leave it hidden instead. Mr. Wicket was willing to write off Janson as leaving early.”

  “There is that.” She missed the heat of his body and cursed herself for the thought.

  “What about Mr. Wicket then? Awfully convenient. Perhaps he found out what a churl Janson really was.”

  “And then objected to his da
ughter being involved?”

  Christian nodded, then shook his head. The man was nearly impossible to read. When he was feigning carelessness he might be dead serious, and when he acted serious he might just be having her on.

  “Wicket just doesn’t strike me as a very good fabricator. I think he truly thought, or hoped, that Janson was a right fine bloke.”

  “But remember, not everyone held that sentiment. Lake seems to believe that many of the servants shared his disdain for Janson. Mary was very close-faced whenever Janson was around, and Janson made no bones about his feelings for both Lake and Mary. If he had, I wouldn’t have overheard them. Lake was incensed.”

  “So that brings us back to Lake.”

  “Everything does seem to circle back to him.”

  “Wouldn’t we have heard him leave his room?”

  She raised a brow. “Didn’t I use that argument about Freewater, to no avail?”

  “I can’t seem to recall.” His eyes were wide and innocent.

  “I bet you can’t,” she muttered. “But in any case, Lake’s door was well oiled. He startled me when he silently entered the room today. And you slipped in unnoticed as well.”

  Christian absently nodded. “There is that. And Lake could have hired Tiegs or one of his bodyguards.”

  He paused.

  “Or Tiegs could have done it on his own. He seemed to know Janson, and Janson appeared intimidated by him, even frightened.”

  “We should probably search Tiegs’s room next.”

  “I agree.”

  Kate finished the list, writing down servants’ names or descriptions if she didn’t know their names. The Crescents had brought a maid and valet.

  Just as she was writing out the last name, the chimes struck midnight. Twelve strikes of sheer helplessness. The quill wrenched across the page, creating a second jagged line in its path. Two, three, four. Kate closed her eyes and leaned forward, determined not to let Christian see her reaction. Seven, eight, nine. The quill snapped and she felt strong fingers pry open her grip and remove the broken pieces. Twelve.

  She inhaled deeply and after a few moments forced herself to look up. Christian was staring at her, an unreadable look on his face. His fingers turned the broken quill pieces, staining the edges of his finger pads.

  Christian tilted his head, his eyes intently watching hers for something—just as they had earlier, watching for something she didn’t understand.

  “What now?” she forced herself to say.

  “Now we go to bed.”

  Kate reached for the counterpane. There was no way she could continue their dance after all of Christian’s touches and the unwanted memories from the chimes.

  Christian stayed her hand. “Kate, I’ll sleep on top of the sheet. Just…just don’t argue.”

  She was about to do just that, but fatigue set in. She might as well share the bed, his bed. It wasn’t as if her reputation would be any worse if someone discovered her ruse. They would assume the worst anyway.

  She hadn’t slept well last night or during the previous month. And as he looked at her, she saw comfort and something else in his eyes. Something she needed.

  She nodded and slipped between the covers, fully clothed, and nestled up against the wall. Christian, true to his word, arranged the covers so that he lay on top of the sheet, and in contrast to the night before, stayed fully clothed. He maintained a respectful distance, but she could still feel the heat from his body seeping through the thin sheet and into her own. Tomorrow she’d figure out all the conflicting emotions. For now she’d sleep.

  She awakened three hours later, thrashing in the throes of another nightmare. But comforting arms pulled her closer, and she calmed in the warmth and safety of the embrace.

  A vague alarm sounded as gentle fingers caressed the hair at the nape of her neck. But the concern was buried between layers of bliss. Skillful fingers stroked her skin, and warmth lulled her to a peaceful sleep.

  Chapter 11

  It should have been you lying there dead, not your brothers.

  The Marquess of Penderdale

  to Christian, age nineteen

  Christian propped his chin on his hand as he halfheartedly stirred his dark tea.

  It had been a long morning. They had risen and checked all around the outside of the inn, into the nooks and crannies, retracing steps and examining angles from the gallery to the ground. The winds had stopped blowing and the villagers had gotten to work sweeping and clearing the roads and opening everything back up for business. Christian had been forced to let Mr. Wicket allow the villagers to come in for a spot of tea or bowl of stew, as was normal. Luckily they were on the outskirts of town, and only a few had ventured in, people still sticking close to home due to the drifts.

  The male servants had been drafted into clearing the roads so that the post could get back running. Christian had tersely threatened them about revealing information on Janson, his death or the investigation. The eyes of the servants had been too knowing for his piece of mind and sleep-weary brain.

  It had been a long, restless night.

  From across the table, he watched Kate sip her sugared tea. He didn’t know what to think about her nightmares last night and the night before, but it was obvious that she didn’t want to talk about them.

  Kate had thrashed every hour on the hour. Finally, at three, he had given in to his instincts by pulling her against him and holding her. Never having been consoled himself, he had been quite unsure how to go about soothing someone else. Kate’s back had been damp with sweat, but her skin had been cold, even under the layers of clothes and covers.

  Ever since he had laid eyes on her two days ago something had been calling to him. But what?

  She wasn’t his usual style. Not at all. She was entirely too forthright and uninterested in playing games. But for once he found that playing games with a female was the last thing on his mind. The only problem was he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do instead.

  He had looked at her that first night wearing her boy’s garb and head wrap, a slightly lost look in her eyes backed by steel determination, and had been unable to look away since.

  Loss and determination were emotions with which he was intimately acquainted, so perhaps that was part of the reason.

  What he did know was that he wanted to discover what was wrong with her. Why she was experiencing such dreadful nightmares. What the devil she was hiding. Where she was going after leaving the inn. And how she tasted.

  Yes, he definitely wanted to know the answer to that last one.

  There were so many unanswered questions, but first he needed to gain her trust. And to make her his. And to fix her problems. Not necessarily in that order. Anthony had always said a burden shared was a burden partially relieved. He didn’t know, as he had never taken the advice himself.

  He might be a careless bastard—no, unfortunately for his family not a bastard; perhaps a careless rotter was a better description—but he wasn’t a hypocrite. At least he had liked to think so. Therefore, he had never forced or coaxed anyone into sharing their problems. There were much more pleasant ways to spend an evening, after all.

  He watched her clutch her cup in both hands, a grayish cast to her skin. On second thought…

  “Found anything useful, Black?” a caustic, unwelcome voice asked.

  Christian didn’t take his eyes from Kate as he answered. “Found out you are the cock of the company, Desmond. Other than that, we are still sorting things out.”

  Desmond’s hand smacked the table with a loud thud, and Christian turned, not impressed in the least.

  Desmond’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “What did you call me?”

  “The cock of the company, Desmond. Aren’t you supposed to be the one who is heading to London for a prominent job? Better brush up on your vocabulary skills. You are a weak shill who wishes he were the cock of the walk, but instead are merely a trifling fool.”

  That mottled red color did nothing to enhance
Desmond’s complexion, and Christian couldn’t help pointing it out.

  “You should watch what you say, Black. Could be that accidents happen twice.”

  “Are you threatening me? You wouldn’t be that much of an idiot, would you, Desmond?”

  Desmond pushed his hands off the table, rattling it. “On your feet, Black.”

  Christian leaned back against the wall, a well-chosen spot to sit in any room, the dining room being no exception. “Now really, Desmond, wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself again.”

  Desmond’s hands clenched at his sides as he lurched toward Christian. Kate stood and blocked his way, putting a hand against Desmond’s chest with surprising force. She glared at Christian, undoubtedly for encouraging Desmond’s behavior. He found himself thinking that even that expression looked cute on her pixieish face.

  She turned toward the idiot. “Now, Mr. Desmond, we are in the middle of an investigation. You can’t attack a Runner. Best to just ignore him.”

  “Get out of my way, pissant.”

  Kate’s eyes narrowed, but she held her ground. “Mr. Desmond, get hold of your emotions.”

  “Get out of the way. We all know Lake killed Julius. It’s only this bastard who claims otherwise. For some reason, he’s dragging out this investigation.” He pointed a knobby finger at Christian.

  “That is not true, Mr. Desmond. I too have doubts about Lake’s culpability, as do others.”

  Desmond roughly grabbed her arm and Christian pushed away from the wall, all humor extinguished.

  “Well then, you must be in cahoots with him too, you feeble excuse for a man.” Desmond shoved her roughly aside.

  Christian was on his feet before Desmond’s hand left Kate’s arm. Kate stumbled, but braced herself on the table. Christian grabbed Desmond’s outstretched hand and twisted. The man squawked, dropped to his knees, and tried to evade the crushing grip. Christian could feel skin, muscle, and bone shifting beneath his grasp. With a mere twist he could snap Desmond’s wrist and break his arm.