Powder of Love (I)

by Summer Devon

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I know you well enough to see when you lie, dear. You do something with the inside of your lip. No, stop. Don’t worry. I shan’t tease you any longer. But I would love a tour of bad Johnny’s objects.”

  She rose to her feet and brushed nonexistent crumbs from her front. “Where is your companion? Miss, er…?”

  “I’m sure she’ll be down soon to see you.”

  Her mother laughed. “I doubt it. I scare the woman. And she doesn’t approve of me at all.”

  Rosalie remembered what Mr. Reed had said. She’d spent years avoiding the topic, but lately she’d wondered. “Deirdre, does it bother you that people don’t approve of you?”

  Her mother stopped and raised a well-shaped eyebrow. “Bother me? No. I worried about you sometimes, with parents like us, but you’ve turned out happy and independent. Your father wouldn’t have approved of the second, but he’d be glad you are thriving. You are, aren’t you?”

  That was the second time she’d asked, and perhaps for once, Deirdre was expressing interest in another person. Rosalie began, “I suppose I am, but—”

  “Good.” Her mother’s brief foray into someone else’s concerns was over. “Let’s see Johnny’s toys. I expect there might be something fun to play with.”

  Rosalie smiled as she followed her mother through the hall. Her mother was entirely self-centered, but at least she was good-humored. Lady Williamsford never complained that Rosalie had inherited the wealth that should have gone to her. This house had belonged to her parents, and when they died, Lord Williamsford took over his wife’s fortune, as any good husband would. All of Deirdre’s family money had gone to him—and he’d cut his wife from his will.

  Lady Williamsford had an inheritance from an uncle, but that money was a drop in the bucket compared to her parents’ wealth, which had gone to Rosalie when she’d turned twenty-five.

  Miss Renshaw was in the library, fussing around a shelf of books. She looked up at their entrance and gave an audible gasp.

  “Lady Williamsford.” She bobbed a curtsy. “I wasn’t sure when you were arriving. I must get things in order.”

  “And you are so good about such things, Miss… Umm. I know you’re the reason there are always flowers by my bed.”

  Miss Renshaw blushed. “Gracious, it’s only a small gesture.”

  “They all add up to the bigger ones.” Lady Williamsford wandered over to examine Cousin Johnny’s collection of curios and objects that were still haphazardly left on a tabletop, a shelf, and inside a crate. “What’s in here?”

  Miss Renshaw gave a small cry and darted forward. “You mustn’t. No, no.”

  Lady Williamsford straightened. “Oh? Whatever is wrong?” She looked at Rosalie, who shrugged and tried to look indifferent.

  “It’s a horrible, horrible substance.” Miss Renshaw went to the shelf where most of the strange objects had been stored after the initial inventory—started the disastrous night Rosalie privately thought of as Miss Renshaw’s “Big Misadventure.”

  She gave a gasping shriek. “But it’s gone. My dear Miss Ambermere, where has it gone? Has someone stolen it? You couldn’t have thrown it away, risking the health of everyone in the city.”

  “Miss Renshaw, I promise it’s safe. I’m taking care of the matter.” Rosalie wished her mother wouldn’t watch her so closely.

  “The matter?” her mother asked. “And what is the matter?”

  “A dried substance”—Miss Renshaw spoke in a low, throbbing voice—“that does horrible things to anyone who touches it. An indecent effect.”

  “Knowing what I do about your late cousin, Rosalie, I can guess. And I can guess from your agitation, Miss Renshaw, that you have seen…” She stopped and raised her eyebrows. “I wonder if you have actually felt these effects.”

  Not hard to guess, since Miss Renshaw had gone past the noblewoman’s ride in the tumbrel and now wore the look of an aristo stepping up to the executioner’s block. Pale and with trembling lips, she gave a single nod. “I have been under the influence. And the experience was—It was horrible.”

  Rosalie wanted to argue and point out that she’d claimed to feel alive, but best that her mother not hear anything good about the powder. She didn’t need her mother joining in the race to somehow get her hands on the dratted box.

  “How long will you be staying with us, Deirdre?”

  “I’ll overlook your rudeness in asking. A little longer than a month, I think. Not too disruptive, eh? Although, I hope you can make the arrangement we had the year before last.”

  “Ah. So he’s back?”

  “Not him. A new friend of mine.” She held a bizarre carving of a fat, overly buxom lady and now walked close to Rosalie with the purpose of whispering. She wasn’t so far gone that she’d allow Miss Renshaw to hear about her latest beau. “He’s a rather interesting sort of a man who deals with livestock.”

  For a moment she had the vision of Hawes staying in a guest bedroom, and then suddenly Rosalie wondered if that would be an answer to Miss Renshaw’s problem—bringing him into the house rather than pushing Miss Renshaw out the door. But then her mother nudged her with an elbow. “He’s no mere cowboy. A rancher.”

  “And he’s visiting New York?”

  Her mother nodded. “Staying at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. I wondered if you might invite him to stay here.”

  “Mother,” she began.

  Deirdre held up a hand. “No, you’re about to get all stiff-backed, supercilious with me. It won’t work. Just say yes or say no, and save us the lecture.”

  “I will agree to invite your friend if you promise to be more discreet. I don’t want the servants finding you in his bedroom in the morning.”

  “You have become even more plainspoken. Good for you. You’ll end up like my Auntie Elizabeth in Boston, the scourge of every librarian and bookseller on the East Coast.”

  Rosalie regarded her occasionally sharp-eyed mother with some dismay. Hiding her growing feelings for Mr. Reed was going to be difficult enough. And then there was the powder. This might prove to be a long, potentially horrible visit anyway, and it would be worse if she felt injured in every conversation with her mother. But she couldn’t seem to hold back her indignation. “Auntie Elizabeth should be under the supervision of a brain care specialist. I only want peace in—”

  Her mother interrupted. “Silly girl. Of course, I promise. And so far there hasn’t been anything to be discreet about. He has such a pleasant room at the hotel, I shall probably sneak over there. So where is this horrible powder your companion was just speaking of?”

  “Mr. Reed is helping me dispose of it.”

  Deidre walked away and in a louder voice said, “That means it’s still on the premises? Shall we play hotter colder? You loved that game when you were a baby. Am I hot or cold?” She walked across the room. “Am I getting colder? Hotter?”

  “Mother,” she said, then, appalled by the peevish note in her voice, tried again. “Deirdre.”

  “Lady Williamsford, no, you mustn’t.” Miss Renshaw was unusually outspoken today. “I know Miss Ambermere has done the right thing, hiding it from everyone. We must not look for it.”

  “You’d like to find it yourself? Interesting.”

  “No! No, I don’t want it!” Miss Renshaw shuddered. “Never!” She looked at the door, and Rosalie knew she wanted to flee.

  Time to employ the knitting ruse again. “Miss Renshaw, would you fetch my yarn from the sitting room, please? Although I think the blue is upstairs.”

  Miss Renshaw gave her a teary-eyed look of gratitude and left.

  “Tell me what happened to your Miss Renshaw,” Rosalie’s mother said the minute the door closed. “At once, before I die of curiosity.”

  “No.” But Rosalie’s heart sank. Her mother was not the sort to take no as an answer. She enjoyed a good fight.

  After a few more minutes of pestering, Rosalie gave a very abridged version of Miss R
enshaw’s adventures, leaving out the details of everything she’d seen in the garden. Her mother, however, was listening too carefully.

  “You say she was kissing the groom? Nothing more?”

  “No. And it was the coachman.”

  “Then why are you chewing your lip?”

  “I don’t like telling other people’s secrets, Mother. Do stop trying to make trouble.”

  “You need trouble made, child. You’re set in your ways. That dreadful Johnny Williamsford did you a favor.”

  “Not likely.” Rosalie sat down heavily on the couch. She felt a headache coming on. “The chemical is frightening. I’m only glad we’ve found someone who’ll take care of it.”

  “We?”

  “Mr. Reed did the research for me.”

  “The intriguing Mr. Reed. He is exactly the sort of trouble I hope you get into. Very attractive in a dark, brooding sort of way. Rough-and-tumble, I imagine. Straight in for what he wants and no shilly-shallying with little kisses.”

  Rosalie remembered his little kisses and then the bigger ones. He’d been so gentle, and then… Oh my. If only she could go off on her own to think about those kisses. But her mother would require a great deal of attention—she always did.

  Her mother removed a bracelet and dangled it for a minute, eyeing the diamonds. Lady Williamsford refused to follow any dictates about wearing particular jewels only on certain occasions or times of day. She put it on her other wrist, then held up her shapely, silk-clad arm and twisted it so the bracelet caught the light. “If I didn’t have an eye on my rancher, I’d see what I could do about Mr. Reed.”

  “No,” Rosalie said, then clamped her mouth shut.

  “Ah. Just as I thought. You want him for yourself.”

  “Mother, I do not intend to marry Mr. Reed or anyone else. And since I do not collect men as if they were epigrams, let’s assume I do not want a man.”

  “Of course you want one. Or do you prefer women? I think that’s the root cause of so much of Aunt Elizabeth’s anger. She lives in Boston; one wishes she’d settle for a Boston marriage.”

  The headache was blossoming at the back of Rosalie’s eyes. “I know you only speak this way in private with me. Could we pretend that a very proper elderly lady is sitting in the corner, listening? Would you please talk about the weather?”

  “Darling girl, I had a lifetime’s worth of polite conversation when I lived in England. I don’t want a single minute more of chatting unless it’s interesting. But I can see you’re about to fly into a pother. Tell me which plays we’ll go see. Is that a good compromise?”

  “Lovely. Yes. And we will see anything you want, I promise.”

  “That box of powder. That’s what I want to see.”

  Rosalie wished she too could flee the room in tears like Miss Renshaw. Then she could retire to a quiet place and examine why she had kissed Mr. Reed. And she could think about those kisses. He had a strong effect on her—and it was more than physical. Why would she admit to a less than perfect family life to a near stranger when she barely admitted as much to herself? And Rosalie had long ago decided she had no use for any man’s good opinion, at least not when the man was determined to judge her constantly, but all she ever wanted to do with Mr. Reed was explain, apologize for some unknown crime she’d committed so he would stop looking at her with that scowl. Except now she recalled he was cheerful the last time they’d parted. That thought made her smile. She winced at her own changing mood based on a memory of his. Curse the man for always drawing such a strong response from her.

  But the unfamiliar and childish emotions weren’t important at the moment. Getting the box of powder out of the house was. She would entertain her mother, and perhaps Miss Renshaw would drive out with Lady Williamsford to an exhibition, and while they were gone, she’d take the wretched box of Johnny’s powder to Dr. Leonard. Then at least she’d have one less thing to worry about.

  Rosalie didn’t need to think of a way to get rid of her mother. After partaking of some refreshments and changing her gown, Lady Williamsford announced her plans to visit some friends.

  She smoothed her gloves and waggled her fingers experimentally. Lady Williamsford had the habit of buying gloves that were too small. Someone must have told her that a tight fit might make her hands look smaller. “They will be sorry you’re not with me. You are turning into a recluse, my dear.”

  “I live in the city.”

  “Easiest place in the world to be a recluse. In Spotsdale, I can’t keep the neighbors at bay.”

  Her mother sailed from the house with her French maid in tow. Miss Renshaw retreated to her room, and it was nearly teatime when Rosalie was finally able to conceal the box inside a hatbox. As she went down her front steps, she saw two gentlemen turning the corner and heading toward her house. She ignored the footman’s outstretched hand and bounded into the carriage, pretending she hadn’t seen Messrs. Clermont and Reed.

  Reed suspected Clermont hadn’t spotted Miss Ambermere bolting into the carriage; he hoped not, anyway. He prayed the box she carried was what he suspected it to be, because he gambled on leaving Clermont alone now.

  “Oh blast. I forgot something back at the hotel. You’ll have to make the call on your own. I’ll meet you back here in a half hour.”

  Clermont raised his brows. “You are suddenly less devoted to your task, Reed. You’ve gone from the very best of the watchdogs sent to sniff after me to one of the worst.”

  Reed decided a bit of the truth would put him off guard. “I quit. A few days ago I sent off a wire saying I’d had enough of the job. I’m just holding on until my replacement is installed.”

  “Come, you are a spoilsport. Very well, go back to the hotel, and I promise to stay here.”

  “If she should leave you alone for a moment, don’t make any more searches of Miss Ambermere’s house, Clermont. We don’t want to add burglary to your account.”

  Clermont laughed and climbed the wide brownstone stairs to her house.

  He waited until Clermont had rung the bell. Then, tipping his hat to a passing lady, he strode off back the way they’d come. Once he turned the corner, he went from a trot to a full-out run, weaving around the other pedestrians, searching for a cab.

  If he was wrong and she hadn’t had the powder, then he’d come roaring back here as fast as possible. If the servants allowed him to enter the house when Rosalie was absent, well, then he’d have to hold Clermont down if necessary and search his pockets.

  Rage carried him as he ran.

  She didn’t trust him. She trusted that wretched doctor, with his treacly smiles—at least he hoped that was where she headed—but she didn’t trust him, Gideon Reed, who’d managed to battle the worst case of lust extant and hadn’t touched her. His pace faltered slightly when he recalled that eventually he had indulged in several kisses—long, passionate kisses. The blast of desire that hit him as he thought of holding her didn’t decrease his anger at her or himself.

  He wanted Miss Ambermere. He wanted her under him, panting, moaning, sliding naked, skin to naked skin, but he’d be damned if the images and the craving were going to have power over his life any longer.

  When he got to the doctor’s house, he’d simply make certain all was well and then return to his duties. Once the doctor had the powder, Clermont wouldn’t be able to get his hands on the stuff.

  As he searched the carriages and carts jostling along the wide street for a cab to take him uptown, he planned his travel to the West. He might as well explore the continent. For months he’d collected an obscene salary, and while much of his pay went back home to his family, he’d saved more than enough to buy a ticket.

  He put his fingers to his mouth, and his sharp whistle brought a hansom cab clattering to him. Luckily he remembered the address and didn’t have to take the time to look through his small book. The driver agreed to go at top speed, and Reed rocked and pitched as he perched on the edge of the seat, ignoring the thick odor of cigar, leather, damp
newspaper, and rotten cabbage in the cab’s interior.

  Miss Ambermere had looked different from usual as she’d clambered into her carriage. Her hat was larger, and it had seemed hastily shoved onto her head—the red ribbons hung down, and its crooked appearance hadn’t been a purposefully jaunty angle. Maybe she wore a huge hat to hide her face, and her unusually slapdash appearance was an indication of a frantic rush.

  Fear for her shattered the cold anger he felt. Perhaps some other idiot had his eye on the powder, and that’s why she had to rush out of the house.

  The cab jolted over cobblestones, and he grabbed at a handhold rather than slide off the seat. The rage had dissolved entirely. Even if she had decided to go without consulting him, she’d done nothing wrong. She’d always made it clear she was employing him and not giving him full say over the powder or her actions.

  The kisses.

  No. One thing he should have learned from his months with Clermont was that physical pleasure frequently meant nothing more than gratification.

  He’d enjoyed the kisses. She had too, though he’d felt her inexperience in the way she trembled and the tentative exploration. Right. No matter that the kisses were lovely; they owed each other nothing.

  He stared out the greasy windows, determined to plan his trip west.

  The driver stopped in front of the doctor’s house, and he took his time climbing out, dragging out the money—until he heard the scream. He’d never heard her speak above a genteel tone, but he recognized Miss Ambermere’s voice.

  Reed tossed the coins at the driver and ran faster than he had yet that day.

  * * *

  On the way to the doctor’s, they had stopped for a policeman directing traffic, and Hawes slid back the communication door for the driver. He peered across at Rosalie. “Beg your pardon, ma’am, have you spoken to Miss Renshaw, ma’am?” he asked in a hushed voice as if someone was listening.

  “Yes, but I can’t tell you what she wants.”

  The confused dismay on his face made her add, “I don’t actually know what it is she wants.”

  “What should I do, do you reckon, ma’am?”