by Shana Galen
He looked down at her face, but her eyes were hidden by long, thick lashes that threw a crescent shadow onto a cheek burnished by the glow from the windows above. Her skin was spun gold, the wisps of hair blowing across her cheek were ribbons of polished mahogany, and her lips… He forced himself to take a breath. Her lips were ripe and swollen, so ready to be kissed, suckled, tasted.
Her gaze met his, her eyes dark. “Will you allow me to kiss you?”
He recognized his own words, almost laughed that she would give them back to him this way. But he could not laugh. Not when his entire body was tense from her nearness, not when it took everything he possessed to keep the erotic images of her his brain insisted on conjuring in check, not when he felt completely powerless against whatever it was drawing them together.
“Yes.” That had been her answer. No. That was what he should have said. No.
But she’d already risen on tiptoes, the softness of her breasts crushing into his chest. He held his breath. If he inhaled her fragrance, he would never resist her. And he was going to resist her. He was going to stop her. He had every good intention, until her lush lips brushed across his and a frisson of heat passed between them. His body jerked, and then warmth spread from his mouth to his fingertips, where he held her.
And that was when his illusions of good intentions evaporated. He dug his hands into her soft arms and crushed her against him. Her body was so giving, so pliant. She melted into him, and he wrapped his arms around her, pushing her back against the wall of the assembly hall. His hands slid into the deep ocean of her hair, and he angled her mouth where he wanted it. Her sweet kiss made his chest hurt, and he could not stand the ache. It was a familiar ache. He would not allow himself to feel the unnamed emotion. It was one he knew, one he trusted. He slanted his mouth over hers, pressing it to hers possessively. He nipped at one of her plump lips, then sucked it to ease the sting. She tensed, and he felt her surprise. Flynn trailed sweet kisses across her upper lip, traced that same path with his tongue, then kissed her, teasing her lips open until he could slide his tongue inside.
“Oh!” she murmured.
He stroked her tongue, sliding against it as he wanted to slide his body against hers. Her breath hitched, and he thought she might push him away. Instead, her hands fisted in the wool of his coat and pulled him closer. Her own tongue, so tentative, sought his, touching it, stroking him as he’d shown her.
Flynn was on fire now. He dug his fingers into the wall behind her to stop from pulling her hair painfully. The action also stopped him from touching her as he wanted. But there was no such safeguard for the rest of his body, and his knee parted her legs, spreading them wantonly and brushing gently against her warm core.
“Oh…” she breathed against his mouth.
She was so sweet, so innocent, so far, far away from all that he was or would ever be. He was doomed. Even he, jaded as he was, knew when a kiss was so much more than a kiss.
“Emma…” He did not know what he planned to say. With any other woman he would have asked her to his bed, in less polite terms. With Emma, he feared he planned to propose marriage.
She looked up at him, the light from above illuminating her eyes so he could see just how large they were and just how much she wanted him. His gaze trailed to her mouth, now pink and swollen from his lips. And, because he was a fool who could not resist torturing himself, he dropped his gaze to her breasts, which rose and fell rapidly, and which his hands itched to touch.
He dug his fingers harder into the wall, feeling the splinters prick his calloused flesh, and concentrating on the pain to give him fortitude. Anything—the sound of approaching hoofbeats, the faint strains of the orchestra above, the thump of footfalls—to keep him from focusing on those short, quick breaths that forced their bodies flush against each other. “I…”
“Lord Chesham?”
Flynn jerked back, shielding her with his body. Her face showed surprise at the voice, but not alarm. It was not her chaperone.
He turned, still angling so she would not be seen. Behind him stood a young lad of probably ten or eleven.
“Do you know where I can find Viscount Chesham?” the youth asked. “I have a message for him.”
Flynn blinked, his thoughts fuzzy and slow to clear. “I am he.”
The lad’s face scrunched in disbelief. “I-I was sent to deliver this note personally to the viscount.” The boy indicated a square of parchment he held tightly in his hand.
Flynn nodded and held out his hand. “I am he,” he repeated.
Still the lad hesitated. Flynn hardly blamed him. Viscounts were not typically found accosting women, looking disheveled and disreputable. Unless they were the Viscount of Vice.
Without warning, Lady Emma peered out from behind him. “He really is the viscount,” she said. “You can trust him. Hervey?”
The boy’s jaw dropped, almost comically. “Lady Emma!” The lad shot daggers at Flynn. “What did you do to her?” Emma’s young protector lunged at him, and Flynn raised his hands defensively. It was ridiculous, really. The lad couldn’t have hurt a puppy, but Flynn had been taken off guard.
The boy collided with him, and Flynn held him back with a hand on the youth’s forehead. The little thug was undeterred, though his small feet moved uselessly on the packed earth beneath his feet. “You know this…rantipole?” he asked Emma over his shoulder.
“He works for Doctor Emerson.”
Flynn peered down at the little fighter. “That true, lad?”
“I’ll kill you!”
“Why would Doctor Emerson be looking for me?” This question was directed once again to Emma, who, though she could probably not answer it, could at least speak in phrases other than death threats.
“Doctor Emerson has a good practice, though he also volunteers at the hospital. Perhaps your mother sent him.” As she spoke, she moved out from behind Flynn. “Hervey. Stop. Settle down.” She laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder, and he ceased attacking.
Flynn raised his brows in surprise. She was either some sort of lion cub tamer or the boy trusted her. But Flynn’s question remained. His mother did not know he was in Bath. The message could not be hers.
“Why did Doctor Emerson send you here?” she asked.
The lad nodded at Flynn. “He’s looking for that one—the viscount.” He held out the now crumpled paper to Emma, and she took it, passing it to Flynn. Flynn opened it, but the boy spoke the missive’s contents before he had a chance to read them.
“Doc’s treating a real gentleman, a Sir Brook Derring.”
Now the lad had Flynn’s full attention. “What’s wrong with Derring?” Derring was the only one who knew where Robert was hidden. The investigator was Flynn’s last hope of finding his lost brother—if the man Derring had found was actually his brother.
“He’s not coming,” the boy said. “He’s been stabbed.”
* * *
Emma stared at Hervey. “What did you say?”
At the same time, Flynn said, “How the hell did that happen? Is he still alive?”
Hervey ignored the viscount and directed his words to Emma. “Doc wouldn’t let me see the wound.” He sounded disappointed, which might have seemed gruesome to her, but she knew young boys and their fascination with blood. “I heard Mrs. Emerson say the man had been stabbed. He was alive when I left. At least alive enough to write.”
“Take me to him,” Flynn said, starting forward. “Shall I signal for a hack, or is it close enough to walk?”
The boy scowled at him. “I’m not taking the likes of you nowhere. There’s innocent ladies about.”
Flynn’s expression grew dark. Emma could see he was in no mood to tolerate this sort of foolishness. He could easily have argued that it was she, not he, who had done the accosting, but he said nothing. Perhaps he was more a gentleman than he wanted to appear. Quickly, she
stepped forward. “I’ll take you, my lord. He lives in King’s Circus. It is within walking distance, but at this hour, a hack might be more prudent.”
“No.” Flynn was shaking his head. “Lady Emma, you are not coming. Simply tell me the direction, and I will find my own way.”
“I will go along. I know the doctor and his wife. They might need my assistance.”
“You will go upstairs and find your sister-chaperone, and have her escort you then.”
“We can stand about the street arguing all night,” Emma said, “or we can go to your friend.”
Flynn stared at her with those hazel eyes, while Hervey continued to look from one to the other. Flynn’s look might have intimidated some—very well, it intimidated her—but she was not giving in. Resisting the urge to wilt, she did the only thing she could think to avoid such a fate: turned on her heel and began walking.
“Where is she going?” Flynn asked Hervey from behind her.
“There’s no telling with Lady Emma.” Hervey’s voice sounded full of reverence, which made Emma smile.
“Emma!”
She was tempted to ignore Flynn’s sharp call, but that would mean actually walking to the Emersons’ on foot in the middle of the night, and even she was not that foolish. She paused and peered over her shoulder. Flynn had signaled a hack, and he motioned to the approaching vehicle. “Get in.”
The short ride to Doctor Emerson’s was uneventful, if one did not take too much note of Hervey sitting beside her, giving Flynn warning looks every time he so much as attempted to speak to her. It wasn’t as often as she would have liked. He seemed more interested in the streets of Bath than in her. The kiss they’d shared suddenly felt like it had happened a hundred years ago or to someone other than she. Emma knew that wasn’t the case, just as she knew she would receive the scolding of her life when Katherine finally caught up to her. Emma would pen a quick note to Katherine at the Emersons’, so her sister would not worry. She often dined or took tea with Mrs. Emerson and assisted Doctor Emerson at the hospital. Katherine would not object to her being in their company—except that Emma was supposed to be dancing with prospective suitors at the assembly.
And then there was that small matter of dancing the waltz that had not been a waltz with Flynn. Her sister would have something to say about that—a great many somethings. Emma sighed, thinking about the long, long lecture she could expect. Her poor nieces and nephews. She pitied them for all of the lectures in their futures. Emma had given Katherine quite a bit of practice in lecturing lately.
The hack slowed, and Emma peered through the grimy, tattered curtains. Every window in the Emersons’ terraced house was lit. When the jarvey jumped down to open the door, Emma did not wait for Flynn or Hervey to descend and then hand her down. She flew from the conveyance and into the house. Having heard the carriage arrive, the Emersons’ housekeeper was already at the door. Mrs. Crane was a tall, thin woman with a shock of curly red hair she managed to pull under her cap but which never stayed tame for long. Frizzy tendrils of it bobbed against her ruddy cheeks as she spoke. “My lady! We were not expecting you!” she said with a quick curtsy. Emma had told her a dozen times she did not need to curtsy.
“Where is the doctor, Crane?” Emma asked. “Do you think I might be of some assistance to him?”
“I believe he has the situation well in hand, my lady. Jane brought him bandages a quarter hour ago, and I believe the doctor administered laudanum.”
Emma nodded. “Good. That will help him sleep.”
But Crane was not looking at her. “Oh my.”
Even without inquiring, Emma knew exactly who Crane was looking at. Oh my was an understatement. She turned and watched as Flynn sauntered to the front door. She did not know if he intended to saunter, but he did so nonetheless. Perhaps that was simply the way he always walked, although she had also seen him swagger. In any case, once she looked at him, it was nigh impossible to look away. He seemed to know this, since he gave her a smirk before turning his attention to Crane.
“I am Viscount Chesham. I believe this lad was looking for me.” He indicated Hervey, who was trotting down the steps outside to enter the house through the basement. He would not have dared enter through the front door of the home, the door reserved for the family and guests.
Crane nodded silently, her gaze fixed on Flynn’s too-handsome face. Emma hoped she did not appear quite so enthralled when she looked at him. “Crane?” she prompted.
“Oh, eh… Right this way, my lord.” She led the two of them to the room the doctor used for his practice. Emma knew the way quite well, and she took the chance to peer at Flynn. His jaw was set and his expression grim. Once again she wondered why he had been meeting Sir Brook, and how the investigator had managed to come to such harm. In Bath, no less. This was not London. She rarely heard of such violent attacks occurring here.
Crane tapped on the doctor’s door and murmured, “Lord Chesham and Lady Emma to see you.”
A moment later, the door swung open and Doctor Emerson peered out at them. As usual, his white hair stuck up on both sides of his head. He had a habit of scrubbing above his ears when he was deep in thought or particularly busy. He was a short man, about Emma’s height, and slim. His wife was always begging him to eat more, and at the moment, Emma could see why. His drawn face looked pale and bony.
“Lady Emma.” He inclined his head toward her. “Did I call for you?”
“No, but I was in Lord Chesham’s company when Hervey came for him and thought you might need assistance.” She gestured to Flynn. “Lord Chesham, this is Doctor Emerson.”
“Flynn? Is that you?” a voice called from beyond the door.
The doctor peered over his shoulder then looked back at Flynn. “I presume he means you?”
Flynn nodded. The doctor opened the door wider to admit them, and Emma moved inside and into a corner, out of the way. Flynn approached the bed cautiously, in the manner of one not accustomed to the sickroom. A tall, broad man with blond hair lay in the bed, a sheet pulled to his shoulders. His shoulders were bare, indicating the doctor had removed his shirt and coat, and she scanned the room until she found the discarded garments. The coat was a dark, tattered splash on the wood floor. From its condition, she could ascertain it had been cut off in some haste. She found the shirt as well, white and draped carelessly over the arm of a chair. The crimson stain of blood marred what appeared to be fine linen.
“What the devil happened to you?” Flynn asked.
“Feinted left when I should have gone right,” the blond man said. “But, listen, I have something to tell you. I—” He paused, peering at the others standing in the room. Emma felt her cheeks heat. She had been leaning forward, eager for the information the wounded man had been about to impart.
“Might we have a moment alone?” Flynn asked, not looking at them.
“Of course,” the doctor said and moved toward the door, sweeping Emma and Crane with him. Once outside, he closed the door behind him. “My lady wife is in the drawing room, Lady Emma. May I escort you and have Crane bring tea?”
“Yes, please,” Emma said, “and if it is not too much trouble, I would like pen and paper. I should dash a note to my sister. I left her quite unexpectedly.”
“Certainly.” The doctor motioned for her to accompany him, and Emma started for the stairs, looking back only once at the closed door of the patient’s room, where she could hear the low murmur of men’s voices.
Four
“I saw him,” Derring was saying. It took Flynn a moment to comprehend the words. He could not seem to stop staring at the white sheet covering the investigator’s body. The man looked well enough. Beneath the sheet, was there a gaping wound where a knife had plunged into flesh?
“Flynn, are you listening?”
Flynn blinked. “Yes,” he lied.
“I saw your brother. I told him you were
here to see him.”
“And he did this to you?” Flynn indicated the sheet.
“No. The situation is more complicated than I told you initially.”
“Is it now? What a surprise.”
Derring ignored the sarcasm. “I found your brother in an opium den in a rather unsavory area of Bath known as the Dolmeades. He was eager to see you when I mentioned your—”
“An opium den?”
Derring nodded patiently. “Yes. He’s quite addicted, poor sod. I haven’t pieced the entire story together, but I believe what befell your brother is not entirely uncommon. There are men who create gangs of thieves comprised mainly of boys. Young boys are valued because they can be trained, are quick, and if caught, are often treated more leniently than men. I believe your brother was taken by the leader of such a gang.”
Flynn held up a hand. He had heard of these thieving rings, but his brother had not been some street urchin. There were plenty of orphans and homeless children for the gangs to prey upon. He had never heard of them abducting a child from a good family. “Is that usual?” he asked.
“For these gangs to take the sons of the nobility? No. They may have made a mistake or thought to ransom him. In any case, your brother was not as malleable as they had hoped. I believe the leader of the gang employed opium to make your brother more agreeable.” Derring went on, but Flynn did not hear.
Opium. A lifetime of opium. Flynn had never touched the stuff, but he was not unaware of its popularity with certain sets, or of the effect of ingesting too much. He had a vision of men in dark rooms, reclining on chaise longues in various states of consciousness.
“But he’s alive,” Flynn said, interrupting whatever Derring had been saying.
“He is,” Derring said with a nod.
“Then why did he not come with you?”
