by Robyn DeHart
“James,” his mother said. She glanced at the large clock in the corner by the sidebar. “I thought perhaps you weren’t coming. I’m afraid we started without you.”
James made his way over to the empty seat inconveniently sandwiched between his mother and brother. The glaringly empty seat across from him was for his wife. He was convinced his mother had developed this seating arrangement for that precise purpose. Her primary method of attack had always been guilt. He supposed it was the way of mothers.
“I apologize, Mother.” He placed his napkin in his lap and leaned back to allow his plate to be served. “I’m afraid my investigations are often more pressing than my meals.”
“Nonsense,” his mother said.
He filled his mouth full of juicy beef before he could say another word.
“Stephen was only just telling us about some of the debutantes who’ve been introduced this Season. Ellen, did you say it was your cousin, dear?” she asked her daughter-in-law.
“Yes. Felicia is my mother’s brother’s youngest daughter. She’s such a lovely girl,” Ellen said.
“James, I’m certain we can secure you an introduction,” Stephen said.
“I’m certain you can,” James mimicked. “But I’ll meet my own ladies, thank you.” Why had he come tonight? He knew the conversation would end up in this direction. It had only been a matter of time, and judging by the clock and the fact that he’d only been in the room all of fifteen minutes, his mother had pulled a record tonight. He tossed an annoyed glance at his father, who, he could have sworn, hid a smile behind his wineglass.
His father had long ago given up on interfering with his wife and her will. So, he sacrificed his poor children to her whim and then sat back and enjoyed it. If for no other reason, James should marry so he could do the same to his own seed.
“How is the brood?” James asked.
Ellen practically beamed. “Delightful, and as rambunctious as ever.” She smiled at her husband. “I keep asking Stephen if he was as mischievous as they, but he won’t admit it. Tell me, James, was your brother a scamp when he was a boy?”
Before James could even form a reply, his brother piped in. “I told you, love, James was the rotten one. I was perfect from the beginning. Right, Mother?”
“You were both awful,” his father said, finally breaking his silence. “Terrible, loud, disobedient, all of it.” He pointed at Ellen. “Don’t let him fool you. We Sterling men are all scamps.”
“Perhaps,” Stephen agreed. “But it was James’ fault we went through so many governesses. I was so relieved when I went off to Eton. Just to be rid of the pest and all of his nefarious plans.”
“Come now, brother, I wasn’t that calculating. There were never plans, I merely seized upon opportunities as they arose.” James took a bite of warm bread.
“I suspect Governess Wilkens never worked with children again,” Stephen said. “At least not boys.”
“Wilkens? Which one was she?”
“The one with the, uh…” Stephen let his words trail off, but he motioned to his chest.
James snapped his fingers. “Right. The one with the very large breasts.”
“James!” his mother exclaimed.
“Well, they were. I always wondered how she managed to keep her balance. And as a grown man today, I can say I have never seen a bosom that rivaled hers. In size, that is.”
“Nor I,” his father said quietly, which garnered a laugh from both of his sons and an “Oh, dear” from his wife.
“This is not the sort of talk gentlemen have in front of ladies,” she chided. “I shouldn’t have to remind you of such things.” Then she began to mutter as she often did when her patience was tried. All James could catch was the occasional “grown men” and “so improper.”
His mother really would love Willow. She would be utterly convinced that Willow could put James on the straight and narrow, be a good and proper influence in his wayward life. But it was he who wanted to be the influence. Persuade Willow into his arms, where he could kiss her and touch her until the desire subsided.
“We received word today that your Uncle Felix is ill,” his mother said. “I am still trying to decide if I should journey all the way out to that infernal bit of country to see how he fares.”
“He doesn’t deserve it,” James said.
“Honestly, James, he is your uncle,” his mother chided.
James downed his wine, then motioned for a refill. There was no reason to have that conversation with her. Evidently he was the only one who thought what Felix had done unforgivable; the rest of them seemed content to pretend that the little incident had never happened.
“If you wish to make the trip,” Stephen said, “I would be more than happy to accompany you.”
“Thank you, dear.” She gave James a wounded look, then turned to face her daughter-in-law. “Ellen, have you received your invitation to Henrietta March’s masque ball? I believe it is honoring Viscount Mandeville and his new bride.”
“Yes, he married Meg Piddington a few months ago, I believe. Her father owns the confectionary,” Ellen commented.
“Oh, those delicious chocolates,” his mother said.
“Have you tried their latest? The milked chocolate? It’s positively divine.”
“No, I don’t believe I have. Harry, we must get some of the new chocolates.”
His father nodded but never stopped eating his dinner.
“We did receive our invitation and I immediately sent out a notice that we will attend. It looks to be the biggest party of the Season,” Ellen said.
Meg Piddington, why did James know that name? Oh, that was right; she was one of the lady sleuths, one of Willow’s friends. A ball to celebrate one of her friends. Surely Willow would be in attendance. A chance to dance with her again.
“Will your cousin be in attendance?” his mother asked.
Ellen smiled knowingly. “I believe she will be.”
“You must attend, James,” his mother pled. “At least pretend you are attempting to secure yourself a wife before I pass into the grave. At least the appearance of it might give me some peace.”
He doubted that. “If you must know, Mother, I was already planning to attend.” Now he needed to get home and dig through all of his mail that had stacked up during the last few weeks. Surely he had been sent an invitation. If not, then he would simply attend with his family.
Lady Fiona’s eyebrows rose and she dabbed lightly at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “Indeed. Well, that is splendid. Splendid, indeed.”
With his mother finally pleased and his belly full, James excused himself before the men left to smoke. It mattered not that none of the men in his family, himself included, had ever smoked; they still retired after dinner to his father’s study for a “smoke.” But he had no desire, tonight, to chat about politics or the latest inventions.
By the time James arrived home, he found himself whistling as he mounted his front steps. He frowned. Precisely what the hell was he so damned cheerful about?
Chapter 11
The next evening James paced his office for hours, long after the other detectives had gone home for the day, running the scenario over and over in his head. The scenario where Willow’s mother went to see Drummond, perhaps to end an affair, or merely an obsession, and things had gotten out of hand. But none of it lined up.
You could shoot a man during a confrontation, but he hadn’t been shot. He’d been hit over the head with something heavy and so hard that it had cracked his skull. Which, more than likely, meant that the killer had snuck up behind him and hit him before he’d even known someone was in the room. And James had a nagging suspicion about the murder weapon that might eliminate any of the women involved, including Willow’s mother.
But he needed to test his theory, so he’d sent a carriage and a note to pick up Willow. There was certainly a chance she might not agree. After all, it was a quarter of nine and well past dark. It was risky, but he had
n’t wanted her in the offices again with all the other men. The way they leered at her unnerved him.
He peeked out the window in time to see the carriage he’d hired pull to a stop. It only took him a moment to race down the stairs to the back door. He opened it in time to see Willow ducking out of the carriage. Her eyes were wide and she met his glance with concern.
“Is everything all right? Your note sounded so urgent,” she said.
The tenderness in her voice caught him right in the chest. For a moment no words would come, he could only stare into her deep brown eyes. Then he shook his head in an attempt to shake some sense into himself.
“Everything is well. I didn’t mean to alarm you.” He took her arm and led her forward. “Let’s go inside before someone sees you.”
Once inside, she turned to face him. “I’m not accustomed to scurrying about at night. Might you enlighten me as to why you called me down here?”
“Follow me.” Then he led her up the stairs and past the office door and down the hall to another door. “This is where we keep the evidence,” he said as he fingered through his keys, trying to find the appropriate one. “Here we go.” Then a click of the lock and he opened the door.
Scotland Yard had been wired for electricity once they moved to their new location, so he turned the switch on and the surge crackled and popped as the light flickered on.
“All of this is evidence for existing investigations,” she said, her voice lined with wonder. She was looking at everything as fast as she could, as if to memorize it should he whisk her away.
“We haven’t always been diligent about keeping and protecting evidence. But as investigative techniques improve, so must our procedures. So now we hold on to items such as bullets or bloodied clothing because we’ve learned how to use these items to help identify either the method of a crime or the perpetrator.”
She gave him an excited smile. “It’s wonderful.”
She was wonderful. Intoxicating. He could have stood in that moment, simply watching her amazement and been perfectly content.
“Over here.” He forced himself to walk around a row of shelving until they hit the correct one. “This is what I want to show you. Well, in actuality, I need your assistance with something.”
He had laid out the evidence on one of the black-topped tables, and he stood back to allow her to examine the items: the bronze vase, still streaked with Drummond’s blood, the man’s shirt and trousers, the contents of his pockets, and a few other miscellaneous items.
Her eyes narrowed in confusion. “How would you like me to assist you?”
“I want you to pick that vase up and hold it over your head.” He grabbed the vase and held it out to her.
“You could not get one of the other inspectors to assist you with this?” she asked, clearly confused.
“No. I need you to do this.”
Her hands did not move. “This is about my mother.” Then her stance went rigid and her chin tilted up a notch. “I will not help you convict my mother of this crime. I can not even believe you would have the audacity to call me down here and assume that I would help with such a thing. Have you paid no attention to me at all to believe that I would not put my mother’s well-being, not to mention my belief in her innocence, above all things?” Her hands moved to her hips. “Precisely what kind of fool—”
He put one finger to her lips. “Willow,” he interrupted her. “Might I explain?”
She clenched her jaw, but nodded slightly.
“It occurred to me that this vase was rather large and I was trying to imagine a woman, especially one of your mother’s stature, holding it above her head and then bringing it down on someone with enough force to kill him.” He shook his head. “The image doesn’t fit. I brought you down here tonight because you have a similar form as your mother and I thought this little experiment might prove her innocence.”
She eyed him a moment more with some unidentifiable emotion crossing her features. Then she reached out and placed her hands on the vase.
He didn’t release his hands immediately. “Do you have a firm grasp?” he asked.
She nodded, so he released the vase. She managed to keep her stance as it was, but her arms sagged beneath the weight. “It’s quite heavy,” she said.
“Can you lift it above your head?”
She managed to raise it above her head.
“Now swing it down upon my open hands as hard as you can,” he said.
She frowned. “I will hurt you.”
“I don’t believe so.” He nodded. “Go ahead.”
She did as he instructed, heaving the vase downward until it smacked into his hands. The impact stung and pain shot up to his elbows, but there was no great damage. He took the vase from her and set it back on the table.
“Precisely as I expected. There is no possible way that your mother could have killed Malcolm Drummond. She simply wasn’t strong enough. In fact, I’d wager that none of the women he wrote about or photographed would have the necessary strength to have made that blow.”
He could tell she was trying to suppress her relief, but her shoulders sagged in confirmation. “I have been telling you that all along.”
He reached over and gently squeezed both of her arms, kneading the flesh ever so softly. “Are your arms sore?”
“I am stronger than I look.”
Always so defiant and hell-bent on proving herself to those around her. “I never doubt your strength, Willow. You are the strongest woman I’ve ever known.”
“How are your hands?”
He wiggled his fingers. “I’ll survive.” He took a step forward and she, in turn, took a step backward and stopped at the edge of the table. There was only breath between them—no light, no space. “You don’t always have to be so strong, though.”
For several moments they locked eyes and James’ breath caught as her brown eyes pulled him in. With one abrupt movement, he lifted her off the ground and set her on the table. It moved under her weight and made a scraping noise against the flooring. She tried to move away, but he settled himself between her legs, trapping her in front of him.
He traced one finger down the side of her face, then lightly stroked her jaw. “What is it about you that I find so appealing? I haven’t been able to figure it out. You”—he moved his finger farther down so it rested on her collarbone—“are a mystery to me. You are all starched and proper, yet I’ve seen hints of the woman you hide inside.” His finger trailed down her throat.
She swallowed. “I’m not hiding anything.”
“Yes, you are, and I simply can not decipher why. Why you would want to hide such a passionate and beautiful creature?”
Her pulse flickered beneath his touch and her breath came in short gasps.
“You must know I enjoy a clever mystery. I’m stubborn, Willow, and I won’t give up until I unlock all the secrets.”
She licked her lips, then chewed at her bottom lip as she fought to keep her eyes open.
“What kinds of secrets will I discover if I keep investigating you?” he asked.
“I don’t have any secrets,” she said in barely a whisper. “I am afraid I’m rather dull.”
He leaned in and feathered kisses along her cheek and ear. “You, my love, are far from dull.”
An almost imperceptible moan escaped her lips, and he felt her lean in to his touch.
It was enough of an invitation to him to take what he really wanted, so he tilted her chin back and devoured her mouth. He didn’t ease her into the kiss, but allowed his passion to pour through as his tongue delved deeply into her. Her hands clenched his shoulders, her nails biting into his flesh despite the fabric between them and his skin. She met him with as much fervor as he delivered.
She wanted him.
That thought sent blood rushing to his groin. Never had he wanted a woman to want him as badly as he did tonight. But the thought of her wanting his touch, craving his mouth, the way he had wanted and craved her, nearly sent hi
m over the edge.
Their tongues molded to each other and stroked and grazed, and the kiss went on for what seemed like blissful minutes. Her passion was heady. Her legs flexed at his sides and while she did not wrap them around him, he had the distinct feeling she’d thought about it. That her body had wanted to envelop him, but still a modicum of her restraint remained. Nevertheless, her knees were tight at his hips.
He pushed himself closer to her core, wanting to press his hardness against the ache he knew she hid between her legs. But if he went too far, too fast, he would frighten her. So as much as the blood pounded in his ears and his guttural instincts screamed for him to take her, he forced himself to slow down.
With one hand he clutched at her hip, pulling her gently toward him. All the while he kept his mouth on hers, seducing and loving her lips and tongue. Then both hands were on her hips, inching closer to the roundness of her bottom, which he could feel quite perfectly through her dress as she wore no bustle this evening.
God he wanted her. And she wanted him. He let his mouth trail off of hers to kiss down the thin column of her throat. Her skin was pure like honey, so soft and supple, he longed to trace his tongue over every milky inch of her.
He let his right hand move to her breast and he squeezed her flesh gently. She released a deep moan, which fueled his exploration. Bolder and bolder he became, until his attentions beaded her nipple and he could feel it through the thin fabric of her dress. He flicked at it and she nearly came off the table.
Her eyes flew open and abruptly pushed at his chest. “Enough,” she said breathlessly. She shook her head. “We can not do this. It isn’t proper.” She squirmed, trying to inch herself off the table, so he assisted her down.
He forced himself to step away from her. More than anything he’d wanted to continue touching her, to continue to feel her passion wrap around him. But she was right. It wasn’t proper. Not with her. And he’d nearly lost control, which simply didn’t happen. At least not in this type of situation.
