by Tanya Wilde
The doorknob turned.
Claire felt the disturbed air on her skin as the door slowly opened.
Her grip on the poker tightened. She wouldn’t die tonight. And certainly, not by the hands of some fiend.
Her heart thumped in a painful beat.
Sweat broke out on her brow.
Then a shadow filled the threshold, followed by a man entering her room. Until that second, the entire moment had been a dream, a nightmare she might still wake up from. Not anymore. Not with the manifestation of this dark figure.
Claire watched as the man moved further into the chamber and then paused, his head angled to the bed. Her heart sank as her gaze whipped to the sheets. Splendid, Claire. But no sooner had her eyes swept the bed than she swallowed a breath of relief. By some small miracle, the linens were crumbled in such a way that it appeared as if someone lay huddled beneath.
The moment had arrived. He took another step. With a deep breath, she stepped out from behind her shelter and, feeling quite like a horror-stricken acrobat performing for the first time, lifted the poker above her head and struck the man with the swift swing of her arm.
Had she been an acrobat, the crowds would have applauded her near-perfect execution.
If only her blow had been hard enough.
The man, who promptly let loose a string of foul curses, crumbled to his knees, his hands covering his head, but did not fall. He also wore a cloak, so it was impossible to tell his features. Not that she intended to remain a second longer to attempt to identify him. Only precious moments separated the burglar from recovering and seizing her.
Without further ado, Claire dashed from her chamber, down the stairs and shot straight through the front door, which she presumed he’d entered from, a presumption gathered from discovering her front entrance open earlier that very day.
She made a note to have the locks changed.
Once the frisk air of the winter night hit her face, Claire’s lungs protested against the cold, as did her entire body. It couldn’t be helped, however, for there was only one direction she could go and she could not pause in her flight, not if she wished to arrive unscathed. And alive.
Alive.
Indeed, she was grateful. She was also terrified.
Her bare feet hit the ground hard as she ran and for one ridiculous moment, Claire wondered what her neighbors would say if they saw her darting down the street in nothing but her nightgown. She imagined them gawking down at her, their wide eyes gleaming with the prospect of juicy gossip.
How absurd to think about such things when her life was in danger. But they were much more preferable to the other thoughts hovering around the edges of her mind.
Who was this man? What did he want? And was Claire being hunted?
Chapter 12
Claire watched as the two handsome Bow Street Runners moved around her shop, taking stock of everything, right down to the layout of the interior. Every candle she’d managed to ferret out had been lit in an effort to warm her bones. Exhaustion pulled at her eyes, which was to be expected since her feet hadn’t stopped until she’d reached the offices of Bow Street. There she’d been promptly assisted by the gentlemen now occupying her space. Unfortunately, they had insisted she first supply them with a detailed account of the events before returning home.
That was hours ago and though she’d been given a blanket to wrap herself in at the station, she was only able to put on a warmer robe and coat—not to mention shoes—upon her return. She could still feel the cold in her bones.
“Do you live alone, Miss Northrup?” Mr. Hunt, the taller of the two, asked. He had not looked at her when she first entered their offices—other than to quickly check that she wasn’t bruised or bleeding. After that, he’d averted his gaze until they’d fetched her a blanket.
She’d appreciated the kindness in the action. It was one thing to acknowledge and disregard the absurdness of one’s attire when one’s life was in mortal danger, but another to barge into the Bow Street office, barefoot, hair wind-blown, and wearing a nightgown that did not allow much in the way of imagination.
Her cheeks still hadn’t quite lost their color.
Now, his gaze was on the notebook he clutched in his hand, his brows drawn together in fierce concentration,
“Yes,” she murmured, feeling her face once more heat up.
“How many people are aware of your living arrangements?” the other one, Mr. Piers, asked.
Claire stared at him dumbfounded for a moment. Her independence was well-known, at least amongst her fellow peers. Everybody knew everyone else’s business. She was also respected, for everyone knew James Northrup, her father, who was a renowned pugilist who championed families targeted by ruthless thugs. He had saved more than one life in the course of his. She relayed that information to him.
“I see,” Mr. Piers said, making a note in his similar black notebook.
Claire wondered if he did, indeed, understand. She was not unused to men disapproving of her independence, especially since she lived completely alone. And these men were men of the law. Black and white was how they perceived things. Yes or no, right or wrong. And a woman with her living arrangement was most decidedly on the gray scale.
“And the staircase is the only way to your room?” Mr. Hunt asked.
Claire nodded.
“Perhaps you can show us the precise location where the incident occurred?” Mr. Hunt pressed.
“Of course,” she murmured and motioned for them to follow her. It was only then, as she led them to her chamber, that she noticed every stair creak under their weight. If not for the time-worn floorboards, she may never have gotten out of her home unscathed.
“He opened the door to my chamber,” she explained as she showed them how the events had unfolded. “I was waiting with a fire poker here,” she indicated to the spot. “As soon as he entered far enough into the chamber, I struck him over the head and ran off.”
Claire turned to glance at them, surprised to find them staring at her with blank expressions.
“It is shocking, I suppose, that a woman would attack a man breaking into her home.”
“In some ways, I suppose,” Mr. Piers drawled. “It is more shocking that you did not hide.”
Claire lifted her shoulders in a shrug, remembering the terror she had felt, how her limbs had melted before her wits returned. “I had him at an advantage.”
Both men raised their brows.
“Indeed,” Mr. Hunt muttered. “Do you remember anything about the man?”
Claire wracked her mind for any details that may help the officers find the burglar. “He smelled of burned wood,” she murmured, reliving the moment again in her mind. “Not like the scent of laboring away before a fire, but more subtle. And he was average in height, I suppose,” she motioned with her hand above her head. “Not short but not tall. I didn’t see any of his facial features, and as I was woken by his footsteps, stealth is not one of his traits.”
“Where exactly did you hit him?” Mr. Piers asked.
“Why, over the head, of course.”
“So he is injured, then?” Mr. Hunt murmured. “That’s good. It will rule out many men.”
“Do you have any enemies, Miss Northrup?” Mr. Piers asked, sweeping the room with his hawkish eyes. “Anyone who’d wish to see you harmed or who would gain from your death?”
Death? No one wished her dead. Surely that was as laughable as a cat dancing up and down the street. “I’ve no family or enemies. But I did arrive home yesterday to find all the items in my shop rearranged and some vases broken, though nothing was stolen.”
Both men stiffened.
“And still you remained the night, without informing the authorities?” Mr. Hunt demanded.
“Where else was I supposed to go?”
“To us, Miss Northrup,” Mr. Piers scolded, displeasure darkening his brow. “You should have come to us the moment you realized someone had broken into your shop.”
Claire had
the good grace to look contrite. She felt foolish that she hadn’t reported the incident. “Since nothing was taken, I thought it perhaps a mischievous act, a prank of sorts.”
The men said nothing to that.
“What of a suitor? Have you recently rejected an offer of a gentleman?”
Claire immediately thought of Ashford and his wicked smile. In some ways, she had turned him down, hadn’t she? And while they did spend a night together in glorious rapture, they were not lovers. He still sought you out. She ignored the sentiment. It meant nothing. He had never made any offer to begin with, and they were to dine together as friends. And the burglar was not the Duke of Ashford; she would have recognized him even in the darkest pits of London rookeries just by the gooseflesh that spread across her skin in his presence.
No, this was another man, someone who had just crawled out of the woodwork, someone unknown. Could it be that perhaps Ashford’s visit had prompted this sudden behavior, this sudden attention?
But why?
“Miss Northrup?” Mr. Hunt probed.
“I have no suitors, rejected or otherwise.”
Both men looked surprised by her admission, as if the mere notion of an independent woman astonished them. One would think as Bow Street Runners, they would learn to school their expressions. Claire scowled.
Mr. Hunt cleared his throat. “So there is no one in your past?”
“My past?” Claire murmured, tilting her head to the side. It was a rather broad term.
“Have you any past or present lovers?” Mr. Piers asked bluntly.
Claire’s gaze whipped to him and blinked. She didn’t know whether to be insulted, annoyed, or mortified.
She opted for the first.
“I’ll have you know I am a woman of high standards, Mr. Piers. And I do not know of anyone who wishes me ill. There are no spurned lovers or an ill-fated romance I have to account for.”
Again, she thought of Ashford. But honestly, the man was hardly spurned. Why, she’d wager he had been the architect of more than his share of turndowns. Neither did she consider him an ill-fated romance, although, now that she pondered the matter, she ought to have declined dinner and removed the temptation altogether. She had no business thinking about a wicked duke. There was no future with him.
Walk away, Claire.
Aye, she would do just that. After dinner.
“Interesting.”
“What’s interesting, Mr. Hunt?” Claire asked.
His eyes lifted to meet hers, and admiration flashed in their depth. “That a woman of your special circumstance and beauty has not been snatched up.”
Claire’s cheeks burned at the compliment. Mostly because she was hardly virtuous. Well, that, and a rock could appreciate how handsome he was. Now, had Mr. Hunt waltzed into her life a week ago with such flattery, she might have preened in pride. Now she only recalled Ashford and how his body had brought her to heights she had never dreamed of imagining.
The runners left soon after that, just as the sky was beginning to turn a lighter shade. They promised to send over a locksmith in the coming day, and that Mr. Hunt would return that evening to stand watch, leaving Claire to reflect on the night that lay ahead. It still seemed too unreal. She was dining with a Duke and his Duchess, and the impossibly prepossessing Ashford.
Two dukes.
For the first time since her troubles began, Claire felt a flutter of nerves. What did one wear to such an occasion? Her best gown would not come up to scratch in their presence. Which may just be the point. After tonight, she would turn on her heel and never look back. But she also needed to remind Ashford how different they were, so that he would lose any remaining interest in her entirely. And for that, Claire need only go as herself.
Chapter 13
Claire strolled into the drawing room after a disgruntled butler announced her to the host and fellow guests. Never, in all her life, had she been in the presence of such elegance. Evidence of the Duke’s wealth was everywhere, from the extravagant door handle straight down to the polished marble of the front hall. If that still did not dazzle, the drawing room downright robbed the breath from her lungs. To some extent, she ought to feel awkward and flustered arriving in a drab frock of mousy brown, but she didn’t. Instead, she was having a devil of a time maintaining her composure and not giving into the laughter that threatened to overwhelm her. The poor butler had taken one look at her, and his features had slackened to comical. It had been hard, outright torturous, but she’d managed to press her lips together in a tight line to keep from laughing. It was not at all what one would expect someone to wear when attending dinner as the guest of a Duke. However, when she had stepped from her home to the sight of a waiting carriage with four perfectly matched chestnuts, their breaths puffing white in the frosty air, she had known she’d made the right choice.
The first person to greet her was Ashford, and Claire ignored the prickling sensation skittering down her skin. His eyes bored into hers for a toe-curling second before his gaze dropped, roaming her body in appreciation.
Then they narrowed.
He leaned forward until his lips were inches away from her ear and Claire inhaled the subtle scent of soap. “I know what you’re doing.”
Her eyes lifted to meet his. Lud, this was precisely the opposite of what Claire had wanted from her one lone night of adventure—a man from which she could not walk away. He made it deuced hard with those hot looks.
She lowered her lashes demurely, murmuring, “Perhaps you would care to enlighten me, your grace.”
“You could wear a potato sack and it would not hide your beauty.”
“Well, aren’t you the romantic?” she murmured, cursing when some of her tightly reigned resolution thawed.
He snorted, resting a hand on her lower back.
Claire skirted away from him and turned to the rest of the party, her smile freezing in place. The first person to catch her attention was the Duchess. It was hard not to be caught up. The woman commanded attention in her silk taffeta gown of lavender, the striking grandeur of the gown only matching the aquamarine stones swathed around her neck.
The Duchess greeted her with a warm smile.
This was an informal dinner?
Again Ashford’s blasted hand rested on her back, and Claire shot forward, evading his touch. She may not be in the same league as him, but she’d be damned if she was to be considered his “woman” by his friends. She’d been told that was not his or the duke’s intention, and while she didn’t believe Ashford, she had no reason—yet—to question the duke.
Her gaze traveled to their host, whose smile was as broad as a summer lit sky. It appeared he had also caught on to her approach of refreshing Ashford on the difference of their stations. Claire rolled her eyes at their apparent amusement, her gaze falling to another guest, one so unexpected her breath turned to frost in her throat.
Beside the duke stood Mr. Piers, the man she had only earlier that day told, in no uncertain terms, her standards were of high moral value, that she entertained no past or present lovers.
Confound it!
“It must be overwhelming, I know,” Ashford’s low voice murmured in her ear, startling her. “It’s just a room.”
Her gaze shot to his just in time to watch his eyes roam the wallpaper. Oh dear lord, he thought she was struck speechless by the splendor.
Claire gnashed her teeth.
Such a typical aristocrat, such a typical man. Another reminder of the vast chasm separating them.
Claire sighed, glancing back at Mr. Piers, and resigned herself to the unexpected turn of events. Then she allowed Ashford to introduce her to the Duchess.
“But please,” the Duchess was saying while Claire avoided Mr. Piers’s narrowed-eyed look, “Call me Anastacia.”
“Only if you call me Claire,” she replied, warmed by the Duchess’s kindness.
Claire caught Ashford’s smile at her words and sent him a dark look. Not you, she mouthed.
“C
ome now, Angel. That’s not fair,” he murmured, offering her a wicked grin.
Mr. Piers cleared his throat.
“Ah,” Ashford said. “And this is Dalziel Piers, longtime friend, Bow Street Runner and renowned doctor.”
A doctor, as well?
Mr. Piers executed a perfect bow. His eyes, however, were all too knowing. “Charmed, Miss Northrup. I have heard much about you. A woman of towering standards, I believe.”
Ashford’s brows drew together.
Devil take it.
“Mr. Piers, it’s a pleasure to make the acquaintance of an officer and a doctor. I feel safe knowing I’m in the company of such an accomplished man.”
“As you should, Miss Northrup. Not only do I rid the streets of burglars, but I also heal the people who have suffered injuries from those misdeeds.”
Ashford’s scowl deepened.
“I will be sure to remember that the next time I fall prey to the vapors.”
Mr. Piers’s lips pulled back in amusement. “Are you prone to them, Miss Northrup?”
“Only in the presence of dancing cats,” Claire muttered, noting the narrowed look Ashford was sending their way.
“Did you know,” Piers said, turning his attention to Ashford, “just last night a man broke into a shop down on Jermyn Street?”
Drat, the devil, Claire thought, shooting him a dark look. She wanted to stomp on his foot.
“Jermyn?” Ashford wondered, sending her a concerned glance. “Is that not where your store is located?”
“Yes,” she said. “I heard something to that fact. I believe the owner warded the intruder off with a fire poker.”
“What did the burglar want?” the Duchess asked.
“Nothing as of yet determined,” Claire chimed in before Mr. Piers could answer. When all eyes turned to her, she finished, “That I heard.”
Piers nodded—the rat. “True, while his motives do remain unclear, the intruder had made it to the bedchamber.”
