She suspected the latter. He was so talented and competent in other areas, why not in the art of the kiss as well? How she wished her mother were still alive so she could ask. As much as she loved Aunt Eugenia, this wasn’t something she was comfortable discussing. Her never-distant grief for the loss of both parents drained some of the sparkle from the memories of Locke’s kiss.
With a sigh, she looked about the room. Locke was correct. She did need to practice if she was to be any assistance to him. She started to retrieve some matches to light the gas lamps and offset the gloom from the storm, but then hesitated.
Perhaps she should practice in the dark. After all, she was certain the room would not be well lit when Locke required her to check a safe. Without Locke’s scent, or voice, or constant pacing, perhaps she’d be able to concentrate and manage that final tumbler. With a renewed sense of purpose, she seated herself in the chair before the dreaded Milner safe and began to work.
THE SOFT KNOCK AT THE DOOR TOSSED HER INTO GIDDY exhultation. He was back! Locke had returned!
“Miss?” A stern and grim Pickering looked down his rather long nose at her from the doorway. “Why are the lamps not lit? What are you doing in here?”
She swallowed the bulk of her enthusiasm. “Locke has returned?”
Pickering squinted into the room. “No. His business often requires that he be detained throughout the evening. He insisted that I provide refreshment if he hadn’t returned at a reasonable hour.”
Her hope faded. What good was her achievement if she couldn’t share it with the only one who appreciated the difficulty involved? Her news that she had picked the lock not once but three separate times, all in the dark, might have to wait until tomorrow. She stood, arching her back slightly to ease the ache in her lower spine. Though she would have thought it impossible, Pickering’s frown deepened.
“Thank you,” she said, though the prospect of eating alone was less than satisfying. She’d had enough loneliness for one evening. However, the only other person in the house was the disagreeable Pickering. Perhaps if she knew a bit more about him, she could affect his manner toward her. Maybe he would even regard her with the same respect he showed Locke. That alone would make her stay at Kensington more comfortable. “I believe I would like a bite to eat, but only if you’ll join me.”
“I have already eaten, miss,” he groused while blatantly looking in front and behind her. She had the distinct impression that he thought she was pilfering the room’s valuables and was disappointed to see she was not. Given Locke’s profession, she wondered if he inspected all of Locke’s guests in this manner.
“Follow me,” he said, turning back to the hallway.
He led her to the breakfast room where a lone plate and accompanying silverware were placed at the table. A number of covered dishes lined the sideboard. Though the room was uncomfortably warm, a shiver slipped down her spine. Hugging her arms, she wondered if waves of Pickering’s cold displeasure had given her a chill, or was it the emptiness of the room that left her feeling abandoned and unwelcome? Pickering turned to leave.
“Please stay,” she said, placing a hand on his arm. “I don’t wish to be alone.” He appeared to hesitate. “I’m sure Locke would insist,” she added, remembering a bond existed between the two men.
He accepted with a nod before she filled her plate from the dishes. He pulled her chair out as a proper servant, then stood at stiff attention by the door.
“Please sit with me.” Lusinda indicated a chair to her right. “We’ve not had an opportunity to become acquainted.”
“I see no need, miss. Women of your station do not stay long.”
“My station?”
“In my time we called them ‘camp followers.’ ” He looked her straight in the eye. “Mr. Locke may think he’s fooled the housekeeper, but I know that you are not his cousin, nor his sister, nor his aunt. Only one sort of woman would stay in such intimate surroundings at the house of a bachelor without a chaperone.”
Lusinda felt heat rise in her face. She had suspected Locke’s ruse would fool no one, yet she hadn’t expected to be confronted face-to-face with vile accusations.
“Mr. Locke has asked for my assistance with . . . recovery efforts, and has insisted I reside here.”
“Interesting. Yet he is out on just such a mission and you remain here. Exactly what kind of assistance do you offer,
Miss Havershaw?” The tone of his voice suggested he believed he already knew the answer.
She couldn’t tell him the truth. Indeed, she was the one who insisted Locke not tell anyone the real reason she was there. She would have to stomach Pickering’s erroneous opinions, much as she had to stomach this tasteless turnip soup. She set her spoon alongside the bowl and pushed it aside.
“I assure you, things are not as they appear. That is all I can say of the matter at present.”
He harrumphed. “You wear a bell around your neck like a well-kept pet. It may flash sparkle, but you and I know what it means. You’re Locke’s pet, his unmarried pet, his companion on a leash.”
Heat flared anew in her cheeks. Her hand immediately lifted to the brooch. She knew accepting the gift would earn a certain amount of disapproval from her aunt, but she hadn’t anticipated censure from the likes of Pickering. But then, how did he know that it was a gift? No. It was the bell that made him curl his lip.
Could it be true? Did Locke consider her his property much like one would consider a pet? Her eyes narrowed.
Under Pickering’s glare, she carefully unfastened the trinket and set it beside the plate. She cleared her throat. “I assure you I am no man’s pet.”
She stared at Pickering, waiting for another riposte, but he chewed on his lower lip and refused to meet her gaze. His discomfort emboldened her and she thought to try once again to know him better. “Perhaps we can start this conversation anew under more civil terms. You’ve been with Mr. Locke a number of years, have you not?”
He nodded.
“I can tell because he puts so must trust in you.”
He grunted.
Prying the lid off this uncooperative vessel was proving to be a bit of work. But having just experienced victory over her last difficult assignment, she was determined to persevere with this one. “I can tell by your commanding posture that you must have been a military man. Is that where you made Mr. Locke’s acquaintance?”
He glanced at her askance and grimaced as if he recognized her determination. “We were part of the Royal Hussars stationed in India.”
“I bet Mr. Locke was a marvelous soldier, remarkably disciplined and focused, perfectly suited for the rigors of a military life.”
Pickering snorted. “He was a young hellion, fresh from London. He was so cock sure of himself he probably would have landed in Newgate Prison if he hadn’t gone to the military. ”
His face softened in the memory, “But you helped him, didn’t you?” She asked, guessing that Locke wouldn’t have kept him on if Pickering hadn’t assisted him in some manner.
“He had potential. I could see that. Quick as the lash of a whip, he was. Smart too, but without the airs of an officer. I helped him over the rough patches, as it were.”
She stared for a moment, wondering at the disparities between Pickering’s description and the refined gentleman she knew as James Locke. Perhaps even more curious how this judgmental manservant could have affected a change. “You must have been a wonderful teacher,” she said, hoping that she could win his favor with the compliment. “To see him today, one would not suspect that Mr. Locke came from the streets of London by way of an orphanage.”
His gaze snapped to hers. “He told you that, did he?”
“Is it not true?”
“Yes but he shouldn’t have let it be known. I spent years teaching him how to pass for a gentleman so he could move in the necessary circles without suspicion.” He narrowed his gaze. “I won’t have years of work destroyed by a trollop who cares little for his reputation.”
His reputation! It was not Locke’s reputation that was being boiled and mashed like the cold lump of potatoes on her abandoned plate. She took a deep breath to calm the retort waiting on her tongue. Correcting the man’s misunderstanding would only raise questions and eliminate what little progress she had earned thus far.
“He trusts me to keep his secrets.” She didn’t add that Locke held her secrets too, though she doubted anyone questioned his propriety in doing so. “Perhaps you could find it possible to trust me as well?”
“Trust you, miss?” He looked incredulous and barked a laugh that had nothing to do with humor. “I’ll be counting the silver as soon as you finish your meal.”
She sighed. Did every conversation lead to the same path? “Do you have a family, Pickering?”
He seemed a bit taken aback. “My wife and daughter died in India. There’s just me now. Me and Mr. Locke.” He pointed his finger at her. “And we don’t need a fancy-dress harlot to complete our work.”
Ah, he was threatened that she’d take his place as Locke’s confidante. Suddenly his insults lost a bit of their bite—not all, but some.
“I understand. I miss my family as well.” She softly smiled. “I suppose we have that in common.” She patted her lips with her napkin. “As it appears Mr. Locke will be returning late, I believe I shall retire.” Just to clear any misunderstanding, she added, “To my own room and only my room.”
She imagined that if she waited for Pickering to assist her in moving the chair back, Locke would find both of them asleep at the table. She rose unassisted.
“Thank you for graciously keeping me company, Pickering. ” She nodded her head. “I assure you that I’m not a camp follower, though I suspect my term of assistance will be limited just the same. When his mission has been accomplished, I’ll be happy to return to my family, and you and Mr. Locke may continue as before.”
His eyes widened and his mouth dropped as if she had just phased in front of him.
“If you ever wish to tell me about your family,” she said, “you’ll find I have a companionable ear. Good night, Pickering. ” She picked up a heavy silver candelabra from the table to light her way upstairs, but paused in the doorway.
“No need to count this as missing. I’ll be sure to return it in the morning.”
Nine
THAT NIGHT, JAMES PLAYED CARDS IN THE CLUB for hours, waiting for Pembroke to appear. He had thought that once he was sure Pembroke was otherwise engaged, he might slip away and avail himself of the study safe once more. He had cracked it once; perhaps the second time would be easier.
However, Pembroke never crossed the club’s threshold. Instead, a jovial Ramsden reveled in taking his money. James couldn’t keep his mind on the cards; instead his thoughts continued to slip back to that kiss and his desire for more. When the futility of waiting for Pembroke permeated his brandy-soaked brain, he left the club and stood in the pouring rain just outside of Pembroke’s residence. Every room was brightly illuminated, shining through the foul weather like a smuggler’s lamp on a rocky shore.
Even if the house hadn’t been gaily lit and inhabited, the imbibed brandy increased both the tremors in his hand and the fog in his brain, making the prospect of cracking the safe an impossibility. Still, he stood in the rain, watching. Standing in the shadows, letting the rain soak through his clothes was far more preferable than facing Lusinda after indulging in that kiss.
Naturally, as a female, she would expect that brief pleasure to mean something more lasting. She would anticipate some sort of commitment. Her disappointment when he reiterated his philosophy of no attachments would be painful. So painful that he could feel it himself, deep in his soul, like the sputtering of a flame, or the removal of hope in a dank prison cell. He shook his head to chase away the memory, flinging rivulets of water off the brim of his hat. It was safer this way, he would explain once again. Surely she would see the logic of that.
Yet if it was safer, why was he standing in the pouring rain looking for excuses not to return home? Looking for excuses not to remove the possibility of sharing her sweet lips once again. Looking for excuses not to resign himself to a life without companionship and laughter. Looking for excuses . . .
So it was with the remorse of the past night weighing heavily on his spirit that he reluctantly rousted himself from bed the next morning. Not only did his head ache from his excesses of the night before, but his heart did as well; he dreaded having to curb Lusinda’s enthusiasm for any lasting association. He dressed and found his way to the breakfast room where, Pickering assured him, Miss Havershaw patiently waited.
“Good morning, Mr. Locke.” She snapped the pages of the freshly ironed Times, producing a sound like the crack of a whip, a sound that reverberated in his skull like a gunshot. He grimaced.
“I suppose your late arrival this morning may be attributed to your activities last evening?” she said, looking crisp and pristine like a shiny new shilling. Instinctively, he took a deep breath, but inhaled only the revolting scent of coddled eggs and blood sausages. He nodded a greeting and quickly took a seat.
“I feel a pressing urgency to remind you that we must further our progress on locating your elusive list,” she continued, without so much as pause to allow him to respond to her question. Her words stabbed at him with the efficiency of a bayonet point. If only his head didn’t feel so much like a target. “As hospitable as you have made my stay”—she glanced toward Pickering—“I feel a particular urgency to leave this house and return to my former life.”
Leave the house. Locate the list. The words buzzed about his ears like a hive of angry bees, leaving him with an unfamiliar loss of bearings. He had expected to find a dew-eyed miss with false illusions of marriage, and instead found a female drill officer issuing orders about urgency and family. Did she not just return from a generous visit with her family? Wasn’t he the one who had insisted upon urgency in finding the bloody list? After all, his name was on the blasted thing, not hers. Wasn’t she the one who had resisted the necessary safecracking practice? He squinted, hoping the action would sharpen his focus. “I beg your pardon?”
“You mentioned a plan yesterday,” she continued with barely a breath of hesitation, “but then departed without sharing the details.” Her gaze raised to his, then narrowed in scrutiny. “Are you quite all right?”
“Yes. Of course.” He looked away before she could recognize the lie, struggling to remember the fuzzy details of a plan that had seemed so clear the night before. Pickering, that dear man, poured a cup of coffee, that wonderful elixir from the West Indies. Locke took a fortifying swallow and let it scrape the remnants of his strategy from the edges of his memory.
“The Farthingtons?” she prompted. “You said we needed to return to the Farthington residence?”
“Yes. The Farthingtons.” The strong brew worked its wonders. Details started to flow to the surface. “The plan is this: I will engage Mr. Farthington while you enter the residence and check the safe.”
He mentally braced himself for her protest. This new enthusiasm of hers aside, she had protested all of his plans to date. This should be no different.
She leaned forward with a hint of a smile about her lips. Luscious lips that he would have to be vigilant not to sample again. Even as he reminded himself not to encourage her, he leaned toward her as well, a mirror of her actions.
“Have you forgotten my lack of success with cracking a safe?”
Her eyes positively sparkled with the morning sunlight streaming through the window. She might be luminously bedeviling in the evenings, but she absolutely radiated with the sun. Even now as she undoubtedly prepared to nay-say his plan to have her open the safe. He attempted to smile but the effort released a pounding in his temple. He placed the cup back on the saucer so he could rub the offending area.
“In this case that will not be a problem,” he said with a smugness that comes from knowing one holds the winning argument that will trump the other’s o
bjection. “I’m not a complete stranger to this particular safe, which is why I know its exact location. I know as well where Farthington hides the key, so you should have no difficulty reviewing the contents.”
As expected, her eager enthusiasm diminished at his call to action. He settled back in his seat, nursing the medicinal coffee. Now let us see who insists on urgency.
“But the moon is still waning.” She glanced uncomfortably toward Pickering, who remained at attention near the door. “There could be obstacles.”
“There are always obstacles,” James replied. “The key is to anticipate and prepare accordingly. In this case, we have a tree to use in case of an emerg—” He frowned. “Is there some difficulty, Miss Havershaw?”
The motion of her head had progressed from a gentle nod to a consistent jerk, not unlike a bobbing fishing float whose baited hook has been struck by a massive carp. Her eyes widened and she glanced pointedly toward Pickering.
“Oh,” he said, recognizing her concern that Pickering would hear too much. Such vigilance seemed a needless precaution. Of course, she didn’t know the secrets the old man had guarded for him for so many years. However, to appease her concerns, he raised his eyes to his manservant. “Thank you, Pickering, you may leave us now.”
The door closed before she returned her gaze to him. “Really, sir. You are the only one who knows the effect the moon has on me. You promised no one else is to know.”
He frowned. “I apologize, Miss Havershaw. My only defense is that my head is not quite as clear as it should be this morning.” It was an understatement, but the best he could do under the circumstances. He certainly wouldn’t have imbibed as much as he did last night without the provocation of her kiss. She, however, looked as fresh as the bloody roses on the table. She must have retired early to appear so disgustingly healthy. All the time he stood in the rain, she must have been abed. The thought disturbed him. It certainly wasn’t the mark of a gentleman to abandon her to entertain herself. “Last night . . . how did you . . . ?”
The Trouble With Moonlight Page 12
