by Cara Elliott
Light winked off the highly polished lens.
“Well, well, well.”
It was, perhaps, a flimsy scrap of evidence to go on. However he had a keen eye for color and could only recall having seen this exact hue once before.
Chapter Nine
Dust motes danced in the shaft of morning sunlight, the free-spirited swirl of the tiny gold sparkles at odds with her own conflicted mood. Perching a hip on the carved oak windowsill of the deserted picture gallery, Anna took a moment to try to sort out her thoughts.
The previous evening had been a subdued occasion. Both the ladies and the gentlemen had appeared tired from their sojourns into the inclement weather, and after supper, no one had lingered long over tea or cards. Even the marquess had been unnaturally quiet. That he seemed too preoccupied with his own thoughts to torment her with his teasings stirred yet more questions to tangle around the conundrum.
What the Devil was he up to? Was his brooding the sign of a guilty conscience? Or something else altogether?
Try as she might, she couldn’t make any sense of it.
“My own heroine is far more clever than I am,” murmured Anna. “Emmalina can solve all manner of convoluted mysteries, while I find myself doing naught but spinning in mental circles.”
As the day had dawned clear and bright, all the men had set off early for a day-long trek through the moors. Several carts would carry a noontime picnic to a spot near the loch, so they wouldn’t be returning until dusk. As for the ladies, a scenic walk to the nearby abbey ruins had been arranged, with an outdoor nuncheon overlooking the seaside cliffs.
Anna had once again begged off from the excursion—Lady Dunbar must think her more fragile than the most delicate Meissen porcelain figurine. Nothing, of course, could be further from the truth.
I am hardier than a horse. But clearly my brain is weaker than that of a fly.
While the others were strolling along the gentle meadow footpaths, she had found her way to a remote part of the castle, where the ancient picture galleries looked as if they hadn’t been visited in years. Walking within their stretches of solitude, watched by only the dour stares of long-departed Dunbar ancestors, afforded a chance to mull over the situation in some much needed privacy.
It wasn’t easy to find any solitude at a house party. Even in her own rooms, there were frequent interruptions as her own maid and the castle tweenies went about their daily tasks.
“Alone at long last,” said Anna, exhaling a sigh.
The whisper of air echoed softly off the age-dark paneling, only to give way to a louder sound,
“Not quite.”
Anna whirled around from the window, dislodging a fresh cloud of dust from the faded velvet drapery. She couldn’t yet spot him in the gloom, but her whole body was suddenly prickling with the awareness of his closeness. “I—I thought you were out stalking birds with the others.”
Devlin stepped out of the shifting shadows. “I decided to do my hunting in here today.”
“I—I am not a grouse.”
“Nor a pigeon,” he agreed. “If anything, you are a finely feathered predator, a sharp-eyed hawk or eagle who is no less lethal for all its lithe, lovely lines and aerial grace.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” said Anna, yet even to her own ears, the assertion rang hollow.
He came a step closer and held up his hand. “I’m talking about this.”
In the hazy half light, it appeared that the only thing grasped between his fingers was thin air.
“Is this another of your taunting tricks?” she demanded. “I see nothing.”
“It’s a tiny fragment of fabric.”
“Grasping at threads, Lord Davenport?”
His bark of laughter held no amusement. “You are exceedingly clever with words, Miss Sloane. So let’s play a little game with language, beginning with the words ‘why’ and ‘how.’”
Her heart began to thud against her ribcage. “Unlike you, sir, I have no passion for sport.”
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
“I don’t really care what you think. I—” Her throat seized as he took a stride toward her. A panther-like stride, all sleek muscle and bristling strength.
“Nonetheless, you would do well to listen to what I have to say.” His eyes blazed, though whether in fury or some other inner fire was impossible to say. Whatever the spark, his usual air of bored detachment had, in that instant, gone up in smoke.
To her dismay, Anna could not keep from falling back a step. No hawk, however fierce, could stand up to such overwhelming power.
“Go on,” she whispered.
In answer, Devlin dangled the thread closer to her face. “An unusual shade of blue, don’t you think? Rather like a late afternoon sky which has been darkened by stormclouds.”
“You a have a very poetic soul, sir,” she replied, trying desperately to deflect his interrogation. “I never would have guessed that.”
“Don’t try to distract me.” They were now nose to nose. She could see the faint stubbling of dark whiskers on his jaw, the tension radiating from his pores. “What were you doing in my rooms?”
Anna thought about denying it. A thread was awfully slender evidence. But then, her own ire suddenly ignited. “Don’t ring a Holier-Than-Thou peal over my head, sir. I saw you sneaking around the castle the other night, and then when the comtesse’s ring went missing, I couldn’t help but be suspicious.”
“I had a feeling that was you skulking behind the suit of armor,” growled Devlin. “What were you doing out wandering the corridors at that hour?”
“I—I couldn’t sleep, so I was going down to the library to fetch a book when I heard noises.” She drew in a ragged gulp of air. It wasn’t precisely a lie, just a slight stretch of the truth. “It’s well known you are desperate for money. So after putting two and two together, I decided to have a look around your quarters.”
“And what would you have done if you had found the ring?”
“I…” Anna swallowed hard. “I…hadn’t thought that far.”
He swore under his breath. “Of all the buffle-headed, bird-witted actions. Had it not occurred to you that walking into the lair of a criminal might have been bloody dangerous?”
“I had ascertained that you were out,” she replied tersely.
A tiny muscle of his jaw twitched. “And if I had returned?”
She lifted her chin, refusing to be cowed by his scowl. “I suppose I could have shot you with that fancy pistol. By the by, does it fire golden bullets?”
“That,” he said softly, “is not funny, Miss Sloane.”
“It wasn’t meant to be,” she answered. “Gold, silver, pearls, diamonds, special enameling—that’s quite an expensive, not to speak of unusual, firearm you are crafting. What’s it for?”
“It has nothing—nothing—to do with the subject we are discussing.”
Sensing a note of defensiveness in his voice, she pressed on. “Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it. Perhaps we should allow Lord and Lady Dunbar to decide what is and isn’t important in the search for Lady De Blois’s missing ring.”
“That would not be a wise move, Miss Sloane.”
“You are aware that it hasn’t been found, aren’t you?” she replied.
“Assuming it exists,” countered Devlin through gritted teeth.
“I suppose that’s true. But for the moment, I see no reason not to take the comtesse at her word. While you—you appear to be hiding a dark secret.”
“A secret.” Suddenly his big hands were framing her face. The heat of them nearly made her jump out of her skin. “Yes, I confess, I do have a secret. However, it is not what you think. I ask that you…trust me.”
“You have given me precious little reason to trust you, Lord Davenport,” whispered Anna.
“Your sister and Lord Wrexham might disagree. Had they not trusted my information, despite my terrible reputation, the kidnapping of Wrexham’s
son might not have had a very happy ending.”
Anna bit her lip. It was true. The marquess had provided critical information—and for no gain of his own. “Trust cuts both ways, sir. If I am to hold my tongue for now, I should like to be told the reason why.”
“God give me the plague, rather than an aggravating, outspoken hellion to contend with,” he muttered.
“Be careful what you wish for,” said Anna.
A ghost of a smile flitted over his lips. “You are a very stubborn young lady. There are good reasons I can’t reveal certain secrets. Is there nothing I can say or do to convince you to accept that for now?”
“No,” replied Anna, trying not to let the sinuous curl of his mouth cloud her judgment. “Nothing.”
“No?” The question was more a shiver of breath than a sound as he leaned in to close the tiny gap between them.
“No.” This time a shove punctuated her refusal.
Devlin fell back a step. “No?”
Anna scowled. “For someone who just suggested playing a language game, this repetition is getting very tiresome.”
“Ah. I see that I shall have to change tactics.” He rubbed at his chest. “Do you train at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon? For a delicate creature, you throw a very hard punch.”
“My father believed that ladies should know survive on their own in the world, including how to protect themselves from predators.”
He regarded her clenched fists, unsure whether to feel bemused or exasperated. “Did his survival skills also include picking locks?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. If a lady finds herself an unwilling captive, the ability to open manacles or a locked door is a very useful talent to have.”
“Who would have guessed that beneath the outward appearance of a demure demoiselle lies the spirit of an intrepid adventuress?” he murmured.
“Who would have guessed that beneath the outward appearance of a debauched devil lies the spirit of an artist,” she countered.
“So, we have something in common. Secrets, which we wish to keep to ourselves.”
She shifted, and as a momentary flicker of light illuminated her face, it seemed that her expression softened just a bit.
A hopeful sign, he mused, for her cleverness had put him in a deucedly difficult position.
How much of the truth can I tell her?
On one hand, he was sure that she could keep a secret. On the other hand, however absurd the conjecture might seem, he couldn’t completely ignore the fact that she was a possible suspect. Her interest in firearms, her furtive foray into the wing of the castle where the prince was lodging…
“Lord Davenport?” Another small shuffle, and now she was wreathed in shadow.
“I am thinking,” he replied slowly.
“Of what lies or deceptions you can tell me?”
He let out a grudging laugh. Oh, yes, she was clever. But he’d met scores of clever women before and handled them easily enough. This was no different.
“Partly,” he answered.
She smiled. “Well, that at least was an honest answer. So perhaps I shall venture another question. Are you or are you not a jewel thief?”
“Forgive the tedious repetition of the word—but no,” he replied. “Purloining jewelry is not among my admittedly many faults.”
“But in Lord Dunbar’s library I saw you hide a book in your pocket,” she challenged. “If you weren’t stealing it, why conceal the fact?”
“Caught that, did you?” Devlin blew out his cheeks. “The answer isn’t nearly as intriguing as you think. It was a book on the history of mechanical devices—”
“Automata,” interrupted Anna.
“Precisely.” No harm in admitting it. The minx had seen the evidence. “I have a special interest in the subject. But would prefer to keep it private.”
“I saw it on your worktable,” she said. “Does that mean the golden pistol is some sort of automata, and not a real weapon?”
He nodded. “You are far too clever in puzzling out things.”
“I wondered about the little bird on the table.” Her fists finally unclenching, Anna lowered her hands and set them on her hips. “What’s it for?”
“Never mind.” Seeing her eyes narrow, he quickly added. “I am not in the habit of talking about my projects. Making these devices is a very painstaking process. I have an idea in mind, but until I am sure that I can make it work, I don’t like to discuss the details.”
“Fair enough,” she conceded, an odd little expression flitting across her features. “I can understand that.”
“Then may I take it that you will agree to stay silent about my work?”
This time it was she who made a move to close the gap between them. “About your automata, yes. But I still think you are hiding something, sir.” Her tone was defiant. “There was a sheet of paper tucked into the book. It listed all the guests here, and there was a penciled ‘X’ next to several names.”
Damnation.
“Miss Sloane, don’t play with fire,” he replied in a measured voice. “Clever as you are with your mind and your nimble little fingers, you may very well end up getting burned.”
“That’s not an answer,” she retorted. “That’s a provocation.”
Up close, her face was even more alluring. The luminous intelligence in her eyes blazed with a bright fury, while her mouth challenged him to…
Feeling a little off-balance, Devlin fought to regain his edge.
“It’s you who are provocative,” he growled. “I vow, you could drive St. Peter to drown himself in Blue Ruin.”
“Are we going to stand here all day and trade quips,” she demanded.
“That depends on you,” said Devlin. “Honor requires—”
“You claim to have no sense of honor.”
“I must have left a few crumbs in the corners when I swept out my conscience,” he drawled.
“You,” she said, “are utterly impossible.”
“Agreed,” answered Devlin.
She took a step closer. “Utterly outrageous.”
“True.”
“Utterly infuriating.”
“Absolutely.
Her hands came up…
Devlin braced himself for a punch.
…and set on his shoulders.
A jolt of heat speared through the layers of wool and linen.
“Is there nothing I can say or do to convince you to tell me what you are up to?” she asked in a soft murmur.
Devlin blinked, trying to control the sudden hot and cold surges thrumming through his body. His brain was barking orders, but his body wasn’t listening.
Anna slid her hands up and down the slope of his shoulders, her slim fingers tangling in his hair as she drew her touch up to the knot of his cravat.
His throat went slightly dry.
“It will be our little secret,” she whispered.
Bloody Hell. Where had she learned to play the sultry siren-seductress? This was a side of Miss Anna Sloane that she had never, ever displayed in London.
“N-no,” he said, not budging an inch. Manly pride demanded that he stand firm.
“Not even if I do this?” Her lips touched his skin as she gave a little nibble to the tip of his chin.
Every particle of his flesh now felt afire. “I—I will consider the request.”
“And what if I do this?”
Ye gods, perhaps Miss Anna Sloane wasn’t quite the innocent virgin that she appeared to be.
The thought ignited another burst of sparks in his belly. His whole body was now vibrating with lust. With longing.
Angry at himself for the momentary weakness, Devlin snapped out a brusque warning. “You are now not only playing with fire, but thrusting yourself into the roaring flames.”
“Mmmm.” Her tongue flicked over his lower lip as she pressed her body up against him. “You do feel a trifle warm.”
Satan save me.
All he had to do was press his palms to her
slender shoulders and put some distance between them. A simple move. One he had done often enough, for his cardinal rule was to keep any woman from getting too close. And yet his fingers curled instead around her arms and slid down the soft sleeves of her gown to capture her wrists.
“Miss Sloane…” He hesitated, surprised at how unsteady his voice sounded. Then, reminding himself that he was a ruthless rake, Devlin sucked in a harsh breath. “Warm is rather an understatement. You are dancing dangerously close to the razor-thin line of No Return.” Forcing himself to loosen his grip, he gave her a final warning. “Flee now, else I can’t be responsible for what happens next.”
A lady should be a little dangerous.
That she could arouse such a look of molten desire in a rake’s eyes emboldened Anna to arch into a more intimate embrace. “I spend more time than you might think trying to imagine what it’s like to be daring and dangerous.”
“Your imagination,” rasped Devlin, “is far too active.”
Anna knew that she should pull back. Every shred of sanity was echoing the Devil’s warning. Flee now—fly away, as fast as you can.
Otherwise there was no going back.
A part of her knew this was madness…
A part of me doesn’t care.
Anna lifted her gaze to lock with his. “I’m not sure whether it’s active enough.” Summoning her courage, she rubbed herself back and forth against the ridge of his arousal.
The reaction was immediate. Devlin’s body tensed, and his breathing turned a little ragged.
A tingling took hold of her palms. There was something elementally exciting about having the power to make a jaded blade like the marquess lose control.
“Ye gods,” he whispered, his voice somewhere between a groan and a growl. Grasping her waist, he drew her into a shadowed alcove. His hands then slipped down to the fastenings of his trousers.
Anna felt the fumbling of fabric—soft wool, smooth cotton—and then Devlin seized her hand and suddenly there was a primal, pulsing heat against her palm. Velvet flesh, hard as steel.
