All Through the Night

by Connie Brockway

  She speared him with a look of distress and anger. She did not want to be here. Too damned bad.

  He closed his eyes and pulled her closer still and breathed deeply. She smelled warm and angry and clean, devoid of any masking properties of perfume or soap—

  His eyes opened slowly, like a man who knows he will witness some horror. His breath grew shallow. Strength and passion, no betraying scent. Dear God, no.

  She stumbled in the steps of the dance, falling against him. He caught her body against his. So intimate, so familiar. She pushed her hand flat against his chest, in the same place she had five nights before.

  She jerked back.

  Somewhere, Jack thought dully, Satan laughed.

  Jack’s body shook. He had never been closer to losing every aspect of self-control. How fortunate for her that they were not alone. Because, just at this moment, he was not at all certain he wouldn’t have killed her.

  He grasped her shoulders and stared down at her. She gazed up at him defiantly, with eyes lit up like a midnight pantheon of dying stars.

  “My thief,” he said.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Did you think I wouldn’t know you? That I don’t carry the imprint of you burned into my skin?” he demanded in a low, furious voice.

  “You’re hurting me,” she said softly.

  His hands dropped from her shoulders. A couple nearby stared at them and, with a sound of frustration, Jack guided her back into the steps of the dance.

  “God help me, I can taste you. My body knows yours. There’s no escaping such recognition.” His silky rough voice had never been silkier or more deadly. She’d thought she was beyond fear. She wasn’t.

  She could feel the blood draining from her face. Play the game to its end. Pretend he referred to his gentle kiss outside the Norths’ town house.

  “Colonel. Please.” She did not have to feign acute discomfort. “I am not as wanton as my actions the other day proclaimed me. I can only plead that your … your kiss took me by surprise.”

  His lips curled. “You don’t want to do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Play these games with me.” His grip must have tightened once more because she realized that her fingertips tingled.

  Lightning flashed, thunder boomed, and the rain sheeted the glass pane with coursing water. The room closed in on her. Her head spun.

  “It’s over,” he grated out. “Accept it. You’re mine.”

  “Is this some sort of flirtation? Though I accept responsibility for seemingly encouraging your advances, I …” Her voice faded, a dim buzzing had begun in her ears. Hurt rolled over her in waves. No more Jack. No more tenderness. She’d already lost it all. “I must protest. I was caught off guard being unfamiliar with the ways of … your sort of men and—” Pain flickered in his gaze like a moon shadow crossing the luminous gray of his eyes. Say it. “I wish to remain unfamiliar with them.”

  His head snapped back as though she’d slapped him. His lips parted and he drew a sharp breath. “You are lying.”

  “Please, Colonel,” she said softly. “I find this conversation highly repugnant. Perhaps we should quit the dance?”

  His eyes narrowed. A second passed and his expression smoothed, fury banked beneath the cool ash of his gray eyes.

  “Oh, no, madam.” His tone was diamond hard and diamond polished. “I most humbly beg your pardon and beg you to finish this waltz.”

  She should leave him. He’d given her more than ample cause. But she could not force the dismissive words from her throat, could not compel herself to abandon him on the dance floor. He did not await her answer.

  They described a slow, elegant arc around the room. The music joined them in rhythms as austere and intricate as the game they played. Even through the thin silk tissue of her dress she felt the impression of each of his fingers, the breadth of his wide palm, the curve of his hand riding her flank. The feeling intoxicated and bewildered her, stunned her with sensual provocation, set her afire, and she thrilled to it.

  This was self-immolation. Madness. She had to get away.

  “Are you certain this is what you want, madam?” he asked.

  He gazed unwaveringly on her as if he would read her thoughts from the fluctuations of color in her skin or the steadiness of her gaze, things she could not control.

  “You do not appear to be a fool, Mrs. Wilder,” he continued tightly. “Yet the course you have set yourself on can only have a tragic outcome.”

  There was an odd air in his last words that in a less self-possessed man might have verged on a plea. Ridiculous. He would think that she had used his interest in the widow to conceal her identity as the thief. He would feel betrayed and duped. He must hate her. But if he looked at her much longer like that she would surrender—

  “You are speaking of my less-than-stellar performance as Sophia’s chaperone,” she said. “Have I really been that poor a doyenne? I know Sophia may be a bit strong-headed, but what girl of spirit—”

  “You purposefully misunderstand me.”

  She sighed. “I constantly disappoint you, Colonel.”

  He did not disagree.

  “Then let us find another topic of conversation. How goes your search for the Wraith?” She forced a mocking tone to her voice, certain it was better to reveal his hate rather than torture herself with illusions.

  For a moment she’d thought she saw concern in those cold eyes and heard regret in his hard voice. That couldn’t be. It was another fairy tale. She’d lived a fairy tale once before. It had nearly destroyed her. Perhaps it had.

  As if in answer, an angry drumroll of thunder shook the house. “Not that the poor fellow is likely to be out on a night like this,” she said brightly. “He’d have to be desperate indeed. Though there are certainly temptations aplenty here tonight.” Lady Dibbs twirled by in the arms of an aging roué. “Lady Dibbs is sporting a fine new necklace. And Lady Pons-Burton’s tiara would make a plum prize.”

  She glanced up. He was watching her carefully now.

  “You must be horribly frustrated not being able to catch him. But you mustn’t feel badly,” she said. “Who could possibly anticipate the movements of a criminal? Their thoughts can’t follow the same pattern as normal people.”

  She angled her head back. His expression was devoid of emotion. “I hope I’m not boring you, Colonel. Or should I call you Jack?” She said his name defiantly. He would not be indifferent. Hate was preferable to apathy.

  “Oh, I assure you I am not in the least bored,” he answered. His smile was a mere matter of muscular contractions.

  God, he must hate her. Hysteria brushed the little burble of laughter that broke free of the pain choking her throat. She could not control the trembling that suddenly seized her. She misstepped and stumbled, seizing his crippled hand to keep from falling. He grimaced.

  “Oh!” she cried. “I’ve hurt you.”

  “No,” he denied softly. “I won’t give you quite that much of an advantage ever again, my dear.”

  His thief. Fragile preoccupied widow merged with lissome audacious thief. Lust and tenderness. Desperation and pride.

  She taunted him. She flung his illusions in his face. Not that it mattered. His desire for her enraged him far more than her open ridicule.

  His breathing labored. She’d played him, allowed him to court her, reveal himself to her, and trust her. That knowledge could not kill his desire.

  He pulled her nearer and put his lips near her ear. “Forgive my familiarity, Mrs. Wilder.”

  She flinched and his lips opened on a feral smile. Beneath his hand she felt delicate and slight. Her fragile, otherworldly pallor and her dark haunted eyes had duped him, but his body knew hers. Oh, yes. He’d never experienced such visceral recognition. Nothing so intense and elemental had ever touched him before.

  The waltz ended. They stopped, neither making any move to step away from the other. Her gaze lifted to his.

  “Anne—”

&n
bsp; “Don’t be familiar,” she said in a panic-stricken voice. “What gives you the right to be so presumptuous? You don’t know me. You don’t know me at all.” She lashed out at him like the threatened wild thing she was. And like a wild thing, he’d catch her. Anger burned white hot in his veins, distilling into savage resolve.

  “Do not test me much further,” he said.

  “Go find your thief, Colonel Seward.” Beside them people began to turn in response to her rising voice.

  “I already have. You are my thief,” he muttered thickly, securing her wrist and dragging her arm over his. She was insensible to her surroundings. At any minute she could reveal herself. He would not allow that.

  “Calm yourself,” he said harshly. “You don’t want to draw any more attention than you already have.”

  Her frantic gaze wavered from his, passed over the interested and amused faces nearby.

  He raised his voice. “If you wish to find Miss Sophia we will, of course, do so immediately, Mrs. Wilder.”

  Her feet dragged as he propelled her before him. She held her head high, like someone going to the gallows. Dark circles stood out beneath her eyes like coal marks. At the far side of the ballroom, he led her into the hall and ushered her ahead of him. “Come with me. We need privacy.”

  “No. We do not.” She had regained her calm. The hectic fever in her eyes had died away, leaving them opaque and unfathomable. “If you think I am your thief, you are mistaken, Colonel Seward.” Her voice was calm, too calm.

  “Don’t push me any further,” he suggested grimly.

  “If your attentions to me have been because you thought I was this Wraith you seek, I am sorry you wasted your time.”

  Very nice, he thought approvingly, furiously. The angle of her head, the slight quiver of her lips, the timbre of her voice, all bespoke her offense and pain.

  He wouldn’t let her mock what he’d felt for her. It did not deserve to be used like this.

  But hadn’t he used others just as cleverly, just as ruthlessly as she had used him? The unbidden question arose from nowhere. Hadn’t he preyed on others’ illusions and weaknesses to gain him what he wanted?

  He refused to consider such matters. Rage owned him.

  He grasped her elbow. She struggled against him as he drove her out into the shadows. In the hall, he claimed her hand and held it up between them like a challenge. He grasped the edge of her glove, peeling the fabric from her forearm. She realized his intent then. A flicker crossed her face, a momentary and harsh, self-mocking humor. Their gazes locked and strove against each other. He stripped the glove from her fingers, exposing her bare flesh. Little half-healed cuts covered her forearm.

  “You received these crashing through my window, shielding your face,” he snapped out.

  “Pruning the holly into floral arrangements,” she shot back.

  “You have a scar. On the bottom of your little finger.”

  Her eyes widened. “How could you—”

  “I felt it.” He turned her hand over and, without breaking eye contact, traced the ridge of raised flesh. “When you put your hands on my bare skin. I can still feel it.” The words were an accusation.

  She swallowed. “You’re mistaken.”

  Her words touched off a bonfire of anger in him. “Do you think that you only have to say ‘It isn’t me’ and like some poor besotted fool I will simply doff my cap and stammer, ‘Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, I must be mistaken’?”

  She tried to bolt. He yanked her back and dropped his face within inches of hers. He spoke, keeping the words soft and low. “I’ll be paying you a visit tomorrow, Mrs. Wilder. I suggest you be at home. Alone.”

  She shook her head. Thunder rumbled ominously above and without.

  “You’ll be at home.” He forced the words between his teeth. “If you aren’t, I will—” A woman knocked against him, upsetting his balance. He spun angrily. Lady Dibbs blinked up at him.

  “Oh! Excuse me, Colonel Seward.” She saw Anne and her eyes went hard with enmity.

  Lady Dibbs’s companions appeared behind her. They stood in a little queue, like sheep before the pasture gate, all fluffy and white, eyeing him as if he were some wolf.

  They looked beyond him to Anne and their faces hardened. She’d donned a remote expression. Her bare hand was safely hidden in her gloved one. Unfortunately Lady Dibbs had sharp eyes and a sharper desire to find fault.

  She spied the glove he still held. Playfully she flicked it. “Mrs. Wilder!” she said. “You appear to have lost your glove. Don’t tell me …” She pressed a hand to her heart and turned to the other two women. “My dears! We have interrupted a tête-à-tête!”

  Avid glances darted between Anne and him. They were rehearsing their stories even as they stood. Jack could hear it now: The little Sussex nobody having already acquired position through an incomprehensibly brilliant match could now afford to indulge the base side of her lineage by dallying with a bastard.

  Lady Dibbs smiled, toying with the gaudy necklace draped around her plump throat. Anne’s gaze fixed on the movement as if hypnotized.

  “Tit for tat, Mrs. Wilder,” Lady Dibbs finally said in a quiet, deadly voice. “I hope your charity’s generous and elite patrons are also … open-minded, shall we say?”

  Anne regarded her blankly. She seemed to have drawn in on herself, like a little hedgehog, playing dead. Certainly her eyes looked vacant, hopeless.

  He jerked his gaze away from her. He would not have pity on her, he thought savagely.

  “And fancy this,” Lady Dibbs went on triumphantly. “I have been talking to some of my friends and we’ve discovered a rather interesting fact about your little charity. Did you know that the majority of people robbed by Wrexhall’s Wraith are those who’ve donated to your cause? It quite concerns us. You don’t suppose the thief is one of your destitute soldiers, do you? I mean, we cannot be asked to support people who victimize us, can we?”

  Anne turned her head slowly toward him. “You’ll excuse me if I leave you, Colonel? I must see about getting Sophia home. There’s so much to do.” Her tone was indifferent; her gaze returned to the trio of ladies. “Lady Dibbs, have I complimented you on your lovely necklace? Ladies, I bid you good evening.”

  With a dignity he could not help but admire, she curtseyed and brushed past Lady Dibbs.

  Anne had ended the interview and spiked his guns. He could not follow her. To do so would be to invite comment, and attention was the last thing he wanted.

  But he watched her until she disappeared.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The storm gathered power as the night continued. It came from the coast and when it found London, it hunkered down as if to stay. Adam Burke had arrived on the early mail coach from Sussex and walked the four-mile distance to the address the colonel had given him.

  By the time he’d arrived, his boots were soaked through. Now every time he moved he made squishy sounds. A special agent assigned to Colonel Seward oughtn’t make such undignified noises, Burke thought.

  He crushed his soft cap in his hands and waited for Colonel Seward to stop thinking and start speaking. Another clap of thunder shook the rafters, rattling the bric-a-brac. Burke looked around.

  Not much of a place the colonel rented. Adequate and clean but not much in the way of creature comforts. Even the bric-a-brac turned out to be nothing but an empty glass set too close to a decanter.

  Burke glanced at the colonel. This matter was playing hard with him. His hair was rumpled as if he’d run his hands repeatedly through it, and his jacket was off. In the six years Burke had worked for the colonel, he’d never seen either. Added to that, he looked bone-tired. But seeing how it was two o’clock in the morning, weren’t they all?

  Burke had spent nearly a month following a fascinating paper trail. He’d finished reciting his findings, and mighty interesting findings they were. He couldn’t figure out why the colonel wasn’t clapping him on the back and saying “Good work, Burke lad, and
thank you for comin’ out this godawful night” instead of staring into the hearth like a cat mesmerized by the firelight.

  “Tell me more about Anne Wilder’s father and Jamison.” The colonel’s sudden question caught Burke off guard.

  Tribble and Jamison? He tried to remember everything he’d learned about the odd association between a thief and a … a Jamison. He didn’t know what to call Jamison’s position, just as he really didn’t know what to call the colonel, who worked directly below Jamison or the dozens of others—himself included—who worked for the colonel.

  “I started with the banks,” Burke said, “trying to get a handle on who needs money. Well, the answer is they all do or did … except Anne Wilder’s dad, Sir Tribble. He had money.”

  The colonel nodded encouragingly.

  “But on looking closer, I found something odd. Tribble’s money doesn’t come from any investments; it comes in regular payments from someone in London. And I can’t get no further than that. So I visit Sussex and talks with them what served Tribble before he died. They tell me how he came up from London with a dockland’s accent and a trunkload of money. He bought himself a manor and married into the local gentry.”

  The colonel turned away from the hearth and leaned his shoulders against the mantel. The light coming from behind him made it look as if he’d walked straight out of the fire. The notion was unsettling.

  “This is all fine, Burke,” the colonel said, “but it doesn’t explain Tribble’s association with Jamison.”

  “Well, soon the Tribbles have themselves a daughter. Mr. Tribble dotes on the girl. Won’t have her out of his sight, not even when the missus goes off to visit her folks in Bath, which she does thrice yearly. Mr. Tribble doesn’t go with his wife, in spite of them being what you call a devoted couple. Fact is, Mr. Tribble never leaves Sussex.”

  “Go on,” murmured the colonel.

  “Now things start falling into place. The servants say that as soon as the missus is gone, Tribble’s got his kid up to all sorts of outlandish tricks. Tree climbing, opening doors without any keys, walking on a rope strung between two trees, tumbling.…”