by C. J. Archer
"Thank you for your concern. I'll certainly stay off it if it does reopen but, for now, it's perfectly all right. So who shall we speak to next?"
"Buchanan must have stayed somewhere overnight, but our innkeeper claimed he wasn't there. I've seen two more inns in the village. We'll ask at those."
"What about boarding houses?"
"Those too, if the inns prove futile."
It was almost dark by the time we'd finished questioning the innkeepers and all the houses where a gentleman might board for the night, including the one where a rakehell like Buchanan would prefer to stay, thanks to its more dubious delights of gambling and women.
"Edgecombe witnessed the fight in the evening, but Buchanan didn't stay at Emberly, or in Harcourt," I said as we walked back to The Fox and Hound. "The trains don't run that late, and he had no private means of transport. Unless he found a farmer willing to give him a ride on his cart, then he couldn't have left, and the likelihood of a farmer traveling on country roads at night is slim. Lincoln, I don't think he made it out of there alive."
"It's now a distinct possibility."
I hunkered into my cloak, but it didn't smother the chill skittering down my spine. Lincoln removed his jacket, and I protested as he placed it around my shoulders.
"You'll need it," I said. "It's much too cold to be wandering about in nothing but your shirt and waistcoat." Not to mention uncivilized.
"I don't feel the cold."
We'd stopped beneath one of the few streetlights already lit by the lamplighter. The warm glow toyed with the planes of Lincoln's face, softening the sharpness of his cheeks but throwing his eyes further into shadow. The warmth and heaviness of his coat was a comfort, but the closeness of his hands to my jaw as he arranged it played havoc with my nerves. Every part of me felt aware, alive and tight with expectation.
Without really knowing what I was doing, I reached up and cupped his cheek. I didn't see him move, but an ever so slight increase of pressure on my hand proved that he had. We stood like that for what felt like eternity. Despite the poor light, and the darkness of his eyes, I knew he was watching me with pinpoint focus. I could feel his gaze on me.
I whispered his name so softly that it was little more than a breath. His throat moved with his swallow. His lips parted by the tiniest of margins. He placed his bare hand over my gloved one and drew it to his mouth. With deft fingers, he undid the button at my wrist. I waited with my heart in my throat for that moment when his smooth lips met my achy skin.
The kiss did not disappoint. Where before I was cold, I now felt hot. Everywhere. Blood thrummed along my veins to an erratic beat and rushed between my ears. I could hear nothing except my own pulse, see nothing except Lincoln's bent head. Feel nothing but his lips and my body, throbbing now with the heady thrill of desire and the knowledge that he desired me too.
"Avert your eyes, Emmaline." The curt voice of a passing woman punctured my thoughts and wrenched me out of the moment.
Lincoln dropped my hand and snapped to attention as the family hurried past. The severe downturn of the mother's mouth marked her displeasure at our very public display. It was quite a rude reminder that we were not alone. A cart rumbled past, and two men stopped to speak with the lamplighter, now working on the other side of the street.
Lincoln, with his back to me, said, "We must go." He walked off then remembered his manners and waited. I caught up, but did not take his arm as the other couples did.
We were not a couple.
Not yet, the small voice inside me piped up. I walked quickly to keep up with him as we headed back to The Fox and Hound in silence. I wanted to say a thousand things to him, but nothing sounded right in my head. Everything was too pathetic or childish, and that wasn't how I wanted him to see me.
Once inside, Lincoln asked the innkeeper to have supper brought up to our rooms. Once upstairs, I handed him his coat and asked him to come inside to wait for supper.
"I think it's best if we part here," he said outside my door. He didn't meet my gaze, and he kept a few feet of floor between us. But if he was disturbed by what had happened outside then he didn't show it. He looked as calm as ever.
"But we must discuss the situation."
"It was a mistake. There's nothing to discuss."
"I meant the situation with Buchanan."
He blinked slowly, as if flicking a switch to alter the course of his thinking. I almost smiled. I liked that he was thinking of the kiss still. But my smile never broke free.
It was a mistake.
"Buchanan is most likely dead," he said. "There's nothing more to discuss."
"Nonsense. I'm going to freshen up then I'll be in the sitting room. I would very much like your company."
"I don't think that's necessary."
I huffed out a breath. "I don't care. Come into the sitting room. Please. Unless, of course, you're afraid I'll ravish you."
His eyes flared ever so briefly. "In part."
I grinned in spite of everything. I hadn't expected him to admit it. "I promise I won't try to kiss you again. But if you don't come, I might just summon the spirit of Buchanan without you."
With my announcement still ringing in my ears, I opened the door and entered the room. By the time I'd turned to close it again, he was already unlocking his own door.
Some fifteen minutes later, I entered the sitting room and warmed myself by the fire that he must have lit in the grate. He wasn't there now, however. I opened the door at the maid's knock and stepped aside as she placed the tray on the table. She bobbed a curtsy, then left. I tapped lightly on the door leading to Lincoln's room.
"You'd better join me if you don't want me eating your share of supper." No answer. "Andrew Buchanan's ghost sends his regards."
The door opened faster than I could blink. His eyes narrowed and his lips pressed together. "That was a joke," he said flatly.
"No, it was a ruse to get you out here. It worked."
I sat at the table and poured wine into the glasses. I handed him one. "Let's say a toast."
He took the glass. "To?"
"To working together." I sipped, but he didn't. "What's wrong?"
He set the glass down. "I'm not sure it was a good idea to collaborate on this investigation." He held up a hand as I began to protest. "But we are, and there's no going back. Let's not discuss us working together, but rather what we know."
I sighed. "You're so stubborn, Lincoln."
"You say that as if you're not."
I lifted the platter lid to reveal a selection of cheeses, nuts and fruit. "In what way?"
"For one thing, you've continued to call me by my first name even though I forbade it."
"You call me by my first name."
"That's different. You work for me, not the other way around."
"I think people who kiss one another ought to be on first name basis, don't you?"
He had no response and we ate without speaking for several minutes. Even though I'd won a point, I felt as if it hadn't been worth it. I preferred to talk to him instead of sit in silence.
"I think we ought to summon Buchanan's spirit," I finally said. "We need to know for certain if he left Emberly Park alive."
"Agreed."
"Really?"
"I see no other option, now. You can summon him after supper." He pointed at the bowl of nuts. "Eat."
I picked up an almond, somewhat stunned that he'd changed his mind about calling Buchanan's spirit. He'd been so against it before. "I think he's the baby's father. The rumors Seth heard were probably true, and Marguerite was the woman Buchanan put ‘in the pudding club,’ as Seth called it. There's that, and now the scuffle at the baby's mausoleum…it's too much of a coincidence."
He didn't seem surprised, so it must have occurred to him too.
"Marguerite also seems to be fond of him," I added. "Too fond for a sister-in-law, if you ask me."
"I hadn't noticed." He nodded slowly, however, as if he thought the idea had merit.
"Buchanan must have recently learned that the baby was full-term. He then came here to find out for certain, and confronted his brother about it. Why not Marguerite, I wonder?"
"We don't know that he didn't. They may have spoken prior to the argument."
"What a tangled family," I said. "Marguerite was, and probably still is, in love with Andrew, yet Andrew was in love with Julia. And Julia is in love with you."
He flinched. I picked up my glass and sipped, watching him over the rim. He met my gaze. "Charlie…Julia's feelings are irrelevant."
"Not to her."
He spread his fingers out on the tablecloth. "That's not what I meant."
For a self-assured and articulate man, he had a lot of difficulty expressing himself when it came to matters of the heart, both his and others'.
"Julia and I are no longer, and never will be, together. She was a mistake I will not repeat."
I snatched up my glass and stood. "Ah, yes, mistakes," I bit off. "You said that kissing me was a mistake. At least I am in illustrious company with the lovely dowager." I spun away and marched to the hearth. Damn him for making me feel this way, like a pathetic, silly girl with an inappropriate infatuation. I hated him for it, yet I hated myself more for allowing him to affect me so.
I lifted the glass to throw it into the fireplace, but found my hand enclosed in Lincoln's. He stood close behind me. His breathing sounded ragged, like my own.
My heart stopped beating.
"Different mistakes," he murmured. "Very different."
I angled my face to look up at him. His stubbled jaw was very close to my eye. It was hard as rock. I kissed his throat above his collar and felt the throb of his blood against my lips, the tiny shudder ripple across his skin.
"This is not a mistake, Lincoln," I murmured. "You don't feel—"
He wrenched himself away. "Don't pretend to know what I feel."
Hot tears stung my eyes as he turned his back to me. "I know you better than you think," I whispered. "I felt your body respond to me. I saw the heat in your eyes."
He dashed a hand through his hair. "It doesn't matter what I feel," he growled. "Don't you see that?"
"No."
"We cannot be together."
I crossed my arms, wishing that could somehow keep the pieces of myself from fracturing. I didn't want to shatter in front of him. If I did, and he walked out, I couldn't bear it. "But you want to be with me," I said, without conviction. I wasn't entirely sure of his feelings, despite saying so. A few small signs might prove he desired me, but he was a man and I was a woman and we were alone. Of course his body would respond to my attentions. It was only natural. But anything more…I didn't know.
"Yes." His voice cracked.
My heart soared. Giddiness swamped me. "Then be with me, Lincoln. Lie with me."
He spun round. There was no heat in his eyes, no sign that he cared for me or wanted me. Only anger, cold and fierce and raw. "No. It would mean the end of our friendship, of working together. Of this."
I rubbed my arms. "It doesn't have to be."
"It will, whether we want that or not. This will pass, Charlie, this…need. I'll see to it."
I spluttered a harsh laugh. "You'll see to it? There is no switch to turn feelings off and on, Lincoln. That is absurd."
His back straightened. His nostrils flared. Had I offended him? Angered him further? It was difficult to tell. "Don't suggest we act upon these feelings again. There is a line between us. Do not cross it if you want to continue to help me investigate Buchanan's disappearance."
I watched as his face slowly lost its hardness and his fists unclenched. My own temper also dampened, making way for confusion. I wasn't even sure my feelings were hurt. He did, after all, admit that he desired me. That was something, a base, of sorts. But I was no longer certain how to act on that desire. It seemed that forcing him to do so was a sure way of awakening his temper.
"Raise him," he said shortly. "Then we'll part for the evening and return to London tomorrow."
I nodded and sat by the fire. "Afterward…" I swallowed. "After I raise Buchanan's spirit, will you continue to want me to work with you? Or have I destroyed all chance of that now?"
He rested his elbow on the mantelpiece and stared down into the glowing coals. "Your necromancy comes in handy, from time to time, and I admit that your questioning of Edgecombe today was inspired. You think and act quickly, and you're good with people, whereas I'm not. We work well together." His fingers twisted around one another and he glanced at me before once more staring at the fire. "I'd be a fool to shut you out of the investigation now, and any future ones."
"Thank you," I said, smiling, despite myself. "I appreciate it."
"Buchanan's middle name is Myron. Let's begin."
I blew out a breath and dragged my thoughts away from Lincoln to the task at hand. "Andrew Myron Buchanan, do you hear me?"
No white mist rushed out to me. The air in the room didn't shift and the only sounds came from a dog barking in the distance. I set my glass down on the table and tried again.
"This is a message for the spirit of Andrew Myron Buchanan. Please come to me here in this room and talk to me. I need to ask you some questions." Still nothing. I shrugged at Lincoln.
"Try again," he said.
"I wish to speak to the spirit of Andrew Myron Buchanan. Can you hear me? There is nothing to fear. I just want to talk." I waited then shook my head. "He's not here."
"Then he's not dead."
Chapter 11
The train left early the following morning. We had the compartment to ourselves. I thought Lincoln might demand we find one that had other passengers in it, to insure we weren't alone, but he didn't. He sat with his newspaper raised so I couldn't see his face.
I tried to concentrate on my book but ended up looking out the window while we sped through the countryside. I liked it immensely and didn't particularly want to return to London yet. While the city would always be my home, I wouldn't mind visiting Oxfordshire again. Or perhaps going to the seaside next time. Lincoln had even said he'd take me. I wondered if he now wished he'd kept his mouth shut, or if he even remembered making such a promise. He certainly wouldn't keep it. After our discussion the night before, such a journey would be too inappropriate.
"Lincoln," I said and waited until he lowered the paper. "You may regret bringing me along, but I want you to know that I'm glad I came."
He folded the paper and set it on the seat beside him. "I don't regret bringing you. I told you last night, we work well together. I don't want to lose that." He turned to the window. "I do regret not insisting Seth or Gus come. Having others around might have kept us from…indulging."
"Perhaps." I wasn't so sure. I think we would have stolen a few moments away from the others to indulge, as he'd put it. Some things were inevitable, like time ticking forward or the ebb and flow of the tide. There was no way to stop them. "Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you. Despite our unfortunate exchange last night, I've enjoyed being in the countryside."
He picked up the newspaper. "I noticed."
My face heated. Thank goodness he wasn't looking at me. I opened my book but couldn't concentrate on the words. "You must think me foolish," I mumbled. "It's just grass and trees, after all."
He unfolded the paper and began to read again. I'd thought the conversation over, until he said, "It's not just grass and trees. Not anymore."
I puzzled over what he meant for the rest of the journey home.
* * *
Cook made a special celebratory cake for our return, decorated with little cream swirls piped onto the top through a calico bag. "House was quiet without you, Charlie," he said, finishing the final swirl with a flourish.
I set out four plates, cups and saucers on the kitchen table, and another on a tray for Lincoln. He'd gone straight to his rooms upon our return, and I doubted we'd see him for the rest of the day. "That's sweet of you to say so," I told him. "This cake looks far too love
ly to eat."
"Speak for yourself," Gus said, holding out a plate for the first slice.
Cook placed it on another plate then handed the plate to me. "Ladies first."
Gus rolled his eyes and waited for the second slice. "Seth, you take afternoon tea up for Death. I've been mucking out stables all morning."
"And I've been in here helping Cook." Seth poured cups of tea then returned the teapot to the tray. "I want to hear all about Emberly Park when I get back."
He was saved from footman's duties by the entrance of Lincoln, carrying a letter. He looked refreshed after our journey, his hair loose, his tie, coat and waistcoat discarded. I found it difficult to meet his gaze. So much had happened between us since we left Lichfield, and I wasn't yet certain how to proceed.
"I'll join you all," he said, handing me the letter. "Charlie, this concerns you."
"You're receiving letters about me?"
He hitched his trousers at the knee and sat opposite. "It's from an orphanage in France."
"France?" I scanned the letter and passed it back to him. "It's in French. What does it say? And why are you receiving letters from French orphanages?"
"I wrote to several charitable organizations there and asked for names and addresses of orphanages, poor houses and lying-in hospitals for unfortunate women. I then wrote to each of those, inquiring about a woman known as Ellen who gave birth to a daughter eighteen years ago and gave her up for adoption to an English couple. I included as many details about Holloway as I knew."
I stared at him. He'd done that? For me? Or for himself? "When did you begin your inquiries?"
"Two months ago."
When I first came to live at Lichfield. So perhaps not for me, but to find my mother on the ministry's behalf. Still, he was telling me now when he could have kept the information to himself.
I wasn't the only one stunned into silence by Lincoln's admission. The other three had stopped what they were doing to stare at him.
"France," Seth said with a slow nod. "That's why the Calthorn woman found the information to give to Frankenstein. He took advantage of her self-imposed exile to Paris and asked her to do exactly what you did—make inquiries at orphanages and the like."
