One Step Behind

by Brianna Labuskes

  Gemma shifted in her seat in hopes of relieving the strain on her back. And Mr. Matthew Cooke continued to drone on about West Indies trading policies—a topic that could be fascinating in the right hands. Mr. Cooke’s were not those hands. While she did not expect every Travelers Society lecture to have her on the edge of her seat, she’d had higher hopes for one titled “Adventures on the High Seas: My Life Among Pirates and Natives of the New Lands.” From what she could tell, Mr. Cooke had had a tame journey to the West Indies and then proceeded to live an uneventful life once he was there. They were an hour into the presentation and not a single pirate had made an appearance.

  The two ladies behind her chattered about the latest gossip, and an older gentleman several seats down was snoring, a soft rumbling she was sure could be heard even several rows ahead.

  “Can you believe he offered for that little country mouse?” The whisper grabbed her wandering attention. It came from the women who had long since given up on poor Mr. Cooke. With a sideways glance she was able to determine that they were well dressed in deep blue and green day gowns, and evidently a few years older than her own twenty-five.

  “She’s connected to Lady Andrews, but it is too distant a relation for it to weigh on the decision. And she’s a homely little thing, isn’t she? It couldn’t have been her great beauty that hooked him,” the second woman murmured. Gemma stiffened. They had arrived later than she had, so they must not realize she was in front of them.

  “There were rumors a few weeks back that they were caught in an indelicate situation, and that is why…”

  “No! I had not heard. Well, that makes more sense—she trapped him into it. Did you hear about the Thatchery miss?”

  Loud buzzing filled Gemma’s ears as the ladies turned their attention to some other unfortunate soul. So, people did gossip about the engagement. This was not unexpected, she told herself. However, there was something about hearing just how unsuitable she was for Lucas that shook her. Logically, it should not bother her. The engagement wasn’t real, and maybe they were right. The only way she could catch someone like Lucas would be to trap him. That’s why the sooner she solved Nigel’s murder and returned to the country, the better. The more she was around Lucas, the harder it would be to walk away. She already had difficulty maintaining her logical composure, of which she was so proud, when he looked at her in that certain way. She imagined the two women clucking over the news of their broken engagement and struggled against the embarrassment, even as her face heated.

  The smattering of polite applause stopped her emotional spiraling. She held her breath as Cooke asked for questions, and she did not think she was the only one who let out a sigh of relief when there were none. Cooke seemed disappointed, but he rallied as a small group of devoted society members encircled him. She popped open her delicate fob watch. Lucas was picking her up at a quarter past three for a stroll and some iced cream. A perfectly respectable and unexceptional afternoon for an affianced pair. That gave her several minutes to chat with her friends in the society before she was due outside.

  That also meant standing up and confronting the two gossips behind her. She wondered if she could slink off without their notice, but anger was overtaking mortification. She gathered her courage around her like a protective cloak, rose, and turned to look them directly in the eyes. Theirs widened in recognition, as though they were running through what they’d said, checking if anything was beyond the pale.

  “Ladies, I do not believe we’ve been introduced,” she said, her voice as sweet as sugar as she gracefully extended her hand. “Miss Gemma Lancaster.”

  “Congratulations on your engagement, Miss Lancaster,” the woman in the deep blue dress said. Gemma noticed that the other could not help but smirk knowingly.

  “Thank you. We are overjoyed to have found one another. Lord Winchester just goes on and on about how bored he was with the silly, insipid, and…perhaps I ought not say…plain women who were offered up to him before we met.” She let her eyes trail up and down the two ladies. “Oh,” she said softly, as if coming to a realization. “You set your cap for him a few years ago, did you not, Lady Matthews? I’m sure he was not talking about you. Well, I must be off. You ladies have a wonderful afternoon. Good day.” Gemma turned on her heel without awaiting a response.

  Her departure was somewhat ruined when she smacked into a solid wall of man standing a few feet behind her. She might have tumbled to the ground had he not steadied her with his strong, rough hands. She looked up and met amused emerald eyes. “Lucas! You cannot just stand in people’s way!”

  He grinned down at her without releasing his hold on her arms. “Darling, you rammed into me. I was standing here minding my own business, basking in the prospect of our joyous union”—she blushed at the realization that he had been there long enough to hear her attempt to cut down the busybodies—“when I was almost toppled at no fault of my own.”

  “Oh posh!” She swatted at his chest. “As if I could hurt you.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” he said in a slightly different tone. She did not know what to make of the words, which had all of a sudden lost their playful edge. But before she could delve further, his eyes shifted to the now empty space behind her. “They were bothering you?”

  She glanced back as well and wished he hadn’t heard any of the exchange. “They were vacuous gossips. Apparently our engagement was a delicious morsel they were examining thoroughly before devouring.”

  “They upset you? What did they say?” His voice turned downright dangerous.

  “It was nothing I did not expect. They simply did not realize I was sitting directly in front of them, the little fools. It’s all right, Lucas, I handled it.” She steered him away from her seat and toward a group of members with whom she’d had fascinating conversations before.

  “Hmm.” Lucas still looked ready for a fight, but he let himself be directed toward the group of men near the front of the room.

  “Really, you would think you’re about to challenge them to a duel, my lord. Here, let me introduce you… Mr. Afton, how lovely to see you. And you, Mr. Tiddle.” The group tumbled into a lively discussion on a lecture from earlier in the week, each member eager to give his take on the American West.

  …

  The day had turned sunny and bright, a true rarity in the city of fog and rain. Gemma tipped her face up toward the light, and Lucas let himself soak up the sight of her happiness. She had begun to wear her emotions closer to the surface since she had abandoned her dull wallflower act, and he could now read her easily.

  Or maybe he was someone with whom she felt she could show her true emotions. Someone with whom she could be herself. The thought pleased him.

  When he’d walked into the lecture hall that afternoon, she had been radiating upset. The casual observer might have seen her as composed when she confronted the two gossipers, but he’d seen the tenseness in her shoulders, the barely contained anger in her tightened mouth, the flush of embarrassment on her delicate, pale skin.

  The intensity of the rage that burned in his stomach on her behalf surprised him. It was as if her anger and his were inextricably tied. He’d wanted to cut down the two ninnies with a withering remark, and at the same time kiss Gemma until all the hurt and unhappiness was replaced by passion.

  He’d done neither and seethed at the missed opportunity. Though, he had to admit she had handled herself well.

  They strolled now on the crowded sidewalk. Much of the beau monde was out enjoying the mild weather. They walked in a comfortable silence for a stretch while Gemma enjoyed her iced cream. He realized this was the first normal excursion they’d had since they’d begun their investigation, and he enjoyed the feeling. He even let himself a few fleeting touches of the soft skin of her arm. Nothing improper, of course. Just. Sometimes he needed to touch her. Even if it was just her hand. Her elbow. He laughed at himself. If someone had told him a month earlier he’d be all but writing an ode to an elbow he wo
uld have thought the person mad.

  He was in uncharted territory with this woman, and for some reason that didn’t terrify him.

  “Have you traveled to many places?” she asked. They had talked at length with her friends from the society, and she had lit up when he mentioned some of the destinations he’d frequented.

  He slid his gaze to the side, assessing her profile. “I have traveled, although not so widely as some of my acquaintances.”

  “Was it during your years in espionage?” She turned her face toward him, eagerly curious. He wanted to laugh at her persistence.

  “I did not have years in espionage, my dear,” he told her. “But, yes, when I was younger I traveled. I spent a year on the Continent after Oxford. I met a good friend who turned into a mentor. Benjamin Slack. He taught me what I know about…travel.”

  “Are you still close?” she asked, the smile gone from her face. She must have heard something catch in his voice.

  “He died,” Lucas said, no longer choking on the words as he had in the early days of it. The sharp stabbing pain under his left rib cage had turned into a dull ache. He did not want to tell her. And yet, he also wanted it more than anything.

  I trust her.

  The realization was jarring. Trust meant vulnerability. At its most dangerous, it meant weakness. A fatal flaw.

  He turned the thought over in his head, examining it, before letting it shift and settle into an empty space in his chest. Then he met her eyes. Trusting her didn’t feel like it made him weaker. It was entirely possible that it did the exact opposite. It made him strong.

  “It was my fault.”

  “Oh, Lucas,” she murmured, squeezing his arm. “What happened?”

  He was quiet for a moment.

  “We were…travelling. I put my faith in the wrong person.” Her fingers pressed into his forearm again, a gentle reassurance. He dragged in a breath. “I was new to the game. Arrogant, maybe, thinking that I knew everything. The attack happened too fast. It was too fast. I couldn’t get to him in time. They weren’t after me. They didn’t care about me.”

  “I held him when he died,” he said, and she leaned her head slightly to rest against him for a brief moment. Warmth spread from that point on his shoulder. It didn’t erase the pain, but it was a balm against the sting of it.

  “Did you…” She paused and cleared her throat. “Did you find the men responsible?”

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t justify. He didn’t explain. If she was horrified by his actions so be it. She wasn’t the only one who could be driven to seek vengeance.

  “Good.”

  The answer shocked a dry laugh from him, more from surprise than any type of humor. He met her eyes. They were deep pools of liquid, the tears there but held back. Her chin was set, though, her mouth a resolute line. He wanted to kiss her. He settled for squeezing her hand on his arm.

  “I came home to Beatrice,” he said.

  “I am sure she was thrilled to have her brother home and safe.”

  “Yes. I am not sure I did my best to protect her even then, but at least I was there to help clean up the mess,” he said, still frustrated with himself over it. The ache at having failed to protect his partner abroad had only been echoed and magnified when he’d come back to find that he was just as powerless to protect his sister at home.

  “Believe me, there’s only so much you can do when it comes to a young woman in love,” Gemma said with a smile in her voice. “They are rare, unpredictable creatures. But Beatrice has turned into a lovely young lady, and that is partly because of you.”

  He swallowed hard past a lump in his throat. He would not argue with her. Beatrice was a bright spot in his life.

  They walked a few more streets in silence once more, but he knew he had to tell her his news. He’d been putting it off, but the longer he waited to inform her, the more upset she’d be.

  “I received another blackmail demand last night,” he finally said, wishing he didn’t have to bring a dark cloud to their sunny day.

  Gemma stopped midstride and had to sidestep when the couple behind them almost plowed into her. She murmured her apologies to the disgruntled pair, but then she swung her piercing sapphire eyes back to him.

  “Details,” she snapped out. Lucas pulled her back into step with himself, so they were not making a spectacle.

  “I came home to the envelope on my desk. The amount was double the last payment, and the date it is due is the end of the week,” Lucas said. “Three days, or else he releases Beatrice’s journal to the hungry hounds.”

  “How is she taking it?” Gemma asked.

  “Better, I believe, than she would have taken it a day or so ago,” he said. “She talked her way into helping Harrington with his research of shops that sell antique pocket watches. They have not found much yet, but I think being a part of the investigation has given her a new energy.”

  “Oh,” Gemma exclaimed. “That is wonderful. She must have been feeling so impotent.”

  He raised a brow at her choice of words, but decided not to tease her over it.

  “Yes, I only realized she must have been feeling out of sorts over it when she came back from her outing yesterday,” he said, and he swore he heard her utter something that sounded like “men!” under her breath. He would not defend himself or his gender. He had told Beatrice that she could work with Harrington, after all. True, he had made no move to promote their collaboration, but, well…no man was perfect.

  “They did not find anything useful, though?” Gemma asked.

  “A few names that repeat on both our lists are on theirs. Peterson’s on all of them. As are some of the members of the society we just left,” he told her. Before she could rush to any of their defense, he made sure to add, “However, there are a shocking number of collectors in society, and I am not sure the current list will help us much. Perry is on it.”

  “I do not think he was lying to us, though, do you?” she asked, distracted from the implication that any of her new friends could be the villain.

  “I think he is hardly clever enough to pull off so brilliant an act, but I have been wrong before.” He smirked. “It is rare, but it has happened.”

  She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Oh, sir, it is so brave of you to admit such a thing.”

  He laughed, and they continued their stroll.

  “What if we never catch him?” Gemma finally asked, breaking the silence after a few moments of contemplation on both their ends.

  “We will,” he said, and the words hung over them both with a solid certainty.

  …

  The missive arrived early the next day. Gemma was sitting at her writing desk in her aunt’s study when Bird trooped in.

  “You’ve a letter, miss,” he said, offering up a silver tray. Gemma snatched it and tore it open:

  Gemma—

  Meeting has been arranged. I shall pick you up at two this afternoon.

  — W

  Gemma squealed with excitement and clutched the paper to her heart. She imagined it was how other women reacted when they received their first invitation to a ball.

  She laughed at herself then dashed past a curious Bird to find Roz in the drawing room, sifting through the post.

  “We are to meet with Lord Winchester’s informant,” Gemma cried out to Roz, unable to contain herself.

  “Well, this is exciting news.” Roz reached out for the letter and gave the lines a quick glance. “But, dear heart, you are being careful, are you not?”

  Gemma sank into the opposite chair. “Why, of course, Roz. You know I can take care of myself, and Lord Winchester certainly is no slouch in that area, either.”

  Roz peered at her over the unfashionable spectacles she only wore in the privacy of their own home. Her deep brown eyes were full of concern. “That is all well and good, of course. But I mean to ask whether you are being careful with Lord Winchester. I do not want you to emerge from this devastated, with not only your reputatio
n in tatters, but also your heart.”

  “Oh, Roz, that is not going to happen.” Gemma tried to reassure her aunt even as her stomach dipped. Was she truly being careful? Last night she had not been able to sleep. Images of him had kept her tossing and kicking at her bedsheets. She refused to remember or acknowledge the throbbing in a part of her body she had just recently become aware of in his carriage. But it was more than that. She wanted to tell him about little things she noticed. She’d wanted to share humor over Mr. Cooke’s dreadfully dull lecture, or secret smiles across crowded ballrooms. She was convincing herself it all stemmed from the bond over the investigation. Being in dangerous situations with only each other to rely on would necessitate a connection deeper than the normal friendship. But what if it was more than that? Was she really guarding her heart? Or would she end up crushed in the end? She pushed the thoughts away.

  “I took responsibility for you from the moment you stood on my doorstep and asked me to help you with this wild case,” Roz said. “I may not have kept you from a path of completely ruining your social standing, but it would break my heart to see him crush yours.”

  “Where is this coming from?” Gemma tried to hide her dismay. When even one of her biggest champions could not foresee a positive outcome to this affair with Lucas, she knew it was hopeless.

  “I see how you are when you talk about him,” Roz said gently. “I just want you to be happy, Gemma.”

  “Pish posh.” She put on a front, waving her aunt’s concerns away. She would have to deal with her own feelings eventually, but now was not the time. Nor did she particularly want to delve into it with Roz. “I will be happy when we catch Nigel’s killer. I am excited because we are making progress. I have developed quite a bit of admiration for Lord Winchester’s intelligence and investigative skills, but that is all. At the end of this, we shall go our separate ways without a single thought,” she said, ignoring the little clutch around her heart at the idea.

  “Hmmm.” Roz searched Gemma’s face for a moment before shaking off the topic. “Well, tell me about this informant.”