by Tracy Sumner
“Being a success in society is bloody dreadful,” Finn murmured, the only one of them, due to his astounding good looks, who could be considered a moderate success in the ton.
The nagging itch started between Simon’s shoulder blades. Setting his jaw, he glanced around for something to steal and seeing nothing—because everything in the room was already his—dug a half crown from his pocket and twirled it unsteadily between his fingers.
Emma. Married. And not to him.
“No comment?” Julian murmured.
“None,” Simon returned, the coin getting away from him and bouncing off his boot.
“Pointless being possessive of a lass you don’t want,” Humphrey added for good measure. “Maybe a bonny thing if she marries someone else. You’d never know one day to the next if she’s planning to stay in the same year as you, which could make for a rewarding union. Most marriages, the wife never being around is a blessed event.”
“Tell them about the problem, Si. The tracer.”
This from Finn. Lobbing his own firecracker into the church, Simon thought. “Thanks for the mind read,” he muttered, going to his knee to root around for the half crown.
Finn stacked his linked hands on his belly and gave another resounding yawn. “Anytime.”
Julian glanced up from his sketch. “Tracer?”
Locating the coin beneath a mahogany drum table, Simon rose to his feet and started an unsteady trek around the study. Just what he needed—Julian asking questions he wasn’t sure he wanted to answer. “This didn’t come up in my research, and we have nothing about it in the chronology, but there are people, time travelers themselves, who track those who travel. From the little Emma’s told me, they sound like Bobbies.”
“The tracer brings them back to their own time before any troubles occur,” Humphrey said from his spot resting against the sideboard.
“Complicating the situation, he casts spells, as Emma describes it, rendering her…” Simon halted in the alcove overlooking his beloved club and rapped his knuckles on the polished walnut balustrade. He didn’t need to show this perceptive group his face when rage and apprehension washed over it. Then they’d know everything. “She said he touches her, and she faints. Instantly. Which is when he returns her to her time. Completely helpless.”
Julian drew his pencil across his bottom lip in thought. Simon could see the wheels in his mind turning. His brother loved nothing more than discovering elements of the supernatural world the League had no prior knowledge of. “It’s likely he could use this power on others. A clear threat until we know the extent of what he can do. We’ll add this to the chronology and document as we learn more.”
Simon flipped the half crown between his fingers and lost it again, this time over the balustrade. He winced when he heard it bounce off the gaming salon’s marble floor with a dull clink. “I want the tracer kept away from Emma, from this family. I’ll speak to Ashcroft about increasing the footmen guarding her, the patrols on his townhouse, on yours, Finn’s. A few of the duke’s former soldiers are still in his employ. If pressed, we need men able to take care of business and take care of it promptly. Back to a time when we have to worry, I’m sorry to say.”
“We’ve never been able to let down our guard, Si, not once in twenty years. Anyway, I think I have a plan,” Julian said in a judicious tone that had Simon wishing for another coin to toss, unease a chilling dance along his spine. “The guards, of course, I agree with. We protect our own. But…” He gestured with the pencil to Simon’s pocket, where the Soul Catcher continued to glow, a brilliant, iridescent blue. A neat trick it had never done before Emma’s arrival. It was as if the stone recognized her presence in their time, as Simon did. A pulse strong as his heartbeat. “Your girl doesn’t have the stone, which helps control her travel. Therefore, the tracer will have to come to her.”
“No.” Simon took a halting step forward. “We’re not using her as bait in some damned mystical game, Jules. I won’t have it.”
Julian continued as if Simon hadn’t tendered an argument. “Her gift is blindingly unique, Si. And extremely valuable to us. Even if she never travels again, stays in Mayfair the rest of her days, we can record every facet of a supernatural talent we know nothing about.” He held up a hand at Simon’s exacting expression. “What did you find in the chronology during your years-long examination into locating a portal and reaching her? Not much. We had to use our contacts in other countries to begin to dip our toes in that pond and find a way to her. And, now, this information she’s told you about there being others who track? It’s astounding. Inconceivable.”
Simon crossed to Julian, braced his hands on the desk and leaned in. An intimidating stance, one his eldest brother might not appreciate. It’d been a marvel when he’d grown big and broad enough to challenge his family, not be immediately shoved into the dirt. The duke had trained them in hand-to-hand maneuvers, but until a man had the size to defend, skill mattered little.
Simon might go down, but he wouldn’t go easily.
“Here comes the temper.” Finn stretched his legs out and gave a sleepy sigh. “I love this part. Certainly, better entertainment than that atrocious play by the Prince of Wales I saw last month at the Globe. He’s a horrible writer.”
“A tantrum every now and then is good for the soul,” Henry advised from his spot in the dark corner where he’d retreated.
“Shut it, you two,” Simon snapped, digging his fingertips into the desk’s smooth grain. “You supported my researching time travel, finding Emma so that we could record every goddamned detail in that book of yours, Jules. Am I right?”
Julian placed his sketchpad on the desk and scooted his chair forward with a squeal that splintered the charged silence. His stormy eyes pierced Simon through his fine woolen coat. Threatening—telling a little brother to stand down. The touch of gray at Julian’s temples giving him an air of wisdom he’d had since long before the gray arrived. “The plan has always been to investigate Emma’s gift. Have her join the League once you found her.” Julian flicked his pencil like a baton, gesturing to the men assembled in the room. “As my wife, Finn’s wife, Humphrey’s, have joined. Provide protection and the opportunity to live without censure. To live as one is, not as one is expected to be. I’ve devoted my life to creating the League, to safeguarding those with supernatural abilities. And to investigating the occult, yes. I understand, all too well, caring for someone who is at risk, Si. As Piper was. You were a key piece of her rescue, just a boy, but already one of us. What is it now…?” Julian tapped his finger to the bridge of his nose. Reserved, dignified Jules, whom Simon loved to his core.
He could only think, of course, this is how you’d play it.
“Eighteen years, almost nineteen,” Simon whispered, well aware of what his brother was doing but tangling himself in the web anyway. Rolling the dice when he hadn’t even known a game was in play.
“A long time, that, and now you think to question my loyalty, my concern for you and those who matter to you?”
Simon shook his head and rocked back on his heels, chastised. His fingertips itched with the need to twist a coin between them. But he was in the middle of a game—and his obsession with keeping his hands busy was a colossal tell.
Julian sighed, dug a loose button from the top drawer, and flipped it to Simon, who caught it with a one-handed snatch. “If you care about the girl, I care about the girl. I propose that we prepare for this tracer to seek her out, perhaps even send signals to him, never knowing, of course, if he receives them. We have those in the League who can communicate without speaking. Telepathic. That footman who arrived from Spain last year and is working for Finn is quite good. If someone can procure an item from this tracer’s person, something as inconsequential as a toothpick, and I’m able to read it, God knows what we’ll find out.”
“Let’s go with Spain,” Finn said, surprisingly not asleep. “He and I have contests to see who can read a mind faster. I’ve got him there, but of
course.”
Humphrey sprawled on the sofa, his colossal frame taking up half the space. “Going after this bastard before he comes after her, young pup, if you’re not getting the strategy.”
“The duke’s ball.” Simon rotated the button between his fingers. “We could try and draw him out there. Of course, we’ll all be in attendance.”
Julian smiled, and with his index finger, nudged his sketchpad back into drawing range. “We’ll secure protection that will shame Buckingham Palace’s. Ashcroft can make it a fortress without a single soul attending having any idea.”
Finn grazed his fingers across his brow in a lazy salute. “Count me in.”
Julian held out his hand. His wife, Piper, was American, and long ago, he’d taken to the very un-English act to seal a deal. “Well, young pup, what say you? We go after the tracer as a family?”
Simon looked into Julian’s steely gray eyes and held out his hand, Emma’s passionate kiss circling his heart, uncertain thoughts of the future corrupting his mind.
Chapter 10
She was going to apologize.
To Simon. For the trip to the past she’d taken with Mollie.
Emma gave the ivory fan she held a punishing rap against her thigh, recalling how much she hated apologizing. Although it appeared they’d saved Mollie’s sister from ruin. Except for meeting up with the tracer and coming back bloodied and unconscious, the adventure had worked. A successful endeavor.
Like a canny wager at Simon’s gaming hell.
She would remind him of that after the apology.
Emma stalked the fringe of the duke’s ballroom in search of the veranda doors she’d seen Simon slip through minutes earlier, this quest leading her in the opposite direction of the retiring parlor she’d said she needed to visit to repair a hem that wasn’t damaged. The baron whose dance she’d rejected had offered to fetch her an ice sherbet, lingering in the event she had another open slot on her dance card. His determination stunned her when perhaps, it shouldn’t. Society had accepted the falsehood about her being a duke’s cousin, accepted her wobbly accent, her sudden appearance in their ranks, her hesitancy to provide details about her background, simply because the Duke and Duchess of Ashcroft demanded it.
Because they’d created a false history for her. Shy, retiring, Emmaline Breslin. Which she was not and never would be.
Even now, the ton’s gazes clung to her, interested, too interested, the men appreciative, the women speculative. She felt exposed and uncertain, sure she was a misstep away from disaster despite looking like she belonged. Her gown was a glorious pewter confection, a color Madame Hebert claimed no one else would dare wear. And she was right.
Ignoring the impulse to fidget, tug her suede gloves high on her arms or twirl her dance card, Emma nodded and smiled, hoping she looked demure, not determined, and continued on her way. She was following instinct, the moment of serenity at seeing Simon Alexander stroll down the ballroom staircase guiding her like a tug to her hand. With every man dressed in black, Simon’s navy coat set him apart like a chrysanthemum in a field of weeds, his height making it impossible to ignore him as he’d moved through the crowd. Accepted, even as the byblow of a viscount, because the duke and duchess required he be.
Same as her.
She wondered what years of living a lie had done to the rookery scoundrel Simon had claimed to be. Had it tangled him up until he didn’t recognize himself? This experience was changing her in ways she wasn’t sure she liked. Altering the person reflected in the cheval mirror in her lavish bedchamber.
Now, a cultured voice rolled from her lips, her extravagant gown—she smoothed her hand down her bodice—costing more than all the clothing she’d owned in her past life.
The chandelier’s radiance, a gaslight glory that still astounded, winked off her silver slippers as she lifted her skirt and stepped through the doorway and onto the veranda. The footman guarding her followed, but not too closely. Drawing a hydrangea-and-lilac scented breath into her lungs that corseting made near impossible, she searched each corner until she found him. On the far side of the terrace, shoulder propped against a column, a charitable wash of moonlight from the most transparent sky London had offered in days tumbling over him. However, a sharp chill and a deadly aroma from the Thames tainted the evening air, enough to keep society behind closed doors. Taking another inhalation she indignantly realized was layered with nerves, she wiggled a finger inside the duchess’s choker circling her neck and crossed the distance separating her from her gorgeous nemesis.
She wasn’t going to let that ridiculous kiss they’d shared stop her.
Even if the feel of his tongue guiding hers into play, his long body pressing her into the wall at every key spot she could imagine wanting it to, had kept her up at night, staring at a pristine ceiling without even one crack and wondering how she could get him to do it again.
He turned as her step echoed off marble, propping against the column. Taking a lazy sip from the flute he held, he eyed her over the rim. His gaze was relaxed, like a pleasure boat drifting along the Serpentine, taking its fair time, and then some. The orchestra started playing, music rippling over them like a breeze. After a long moment where time felt suspended, a bubble about to burst, Simon gestured with his flute to her guard, who turned, leaving her to Simon’s protection.
Again, her hand went to the duchess’s choker, another bout of nerves she was going to have him pay for making her feel.
His focus followed the movement, tracking her like a hunter would his prey. “Alexandra, Princess of Wales, has a scar on her neck she hides with jewelry. Hence the abundance of bejeweled collars in the assemblage this evening. We shall thank her for the trend.”
Wordless, Emma squeezed the necklace, a small fortune in gems grazing her palm.
With a smile, Simon took the challenge her rounded neckline offered, his gaze sliding low. And holding. More scandalous than any gown she’d ever worn but perfectly fashionable, according to Madame Hebert, her skin nonetheless burned from the notice. “I’m sorry. That’s what I came out here to say,” she blurted when it appeared he wasn’t going to offer a single, encouraging word of welcome.
He froze, the flute halfway to his lips. “Care to repeat that?”
Halting before him, she huffed a breath through her nose, remembered Piper had advised her not to do that in public, then knocked her fan against her waist instead. Four firm taps. “I’ve found something good I can do with this gift. But I reckon”—she swallowed, opened and shut the fan two times before continuing—“I suppose it’s not fair, when you brought me here at great risk to yourself, to then turn around and place myself in danger. Using the League’s property. A bit of a reckless gambit, that.” Her voice dropped, a thready effort to hide her chagrin. “And ungrateful.”
“The swish stone,” Simon murmured, his gorgeous lips curled to hold back a grin, that if released, was going to have her bashing him over the head with her fan. He patted the pocket of his coat with his flute, and when she looked closely, squinting, she could make out a bulge that must be the Soul Catcher. His captivating, bronzed eyes met hers. “You need spectacles.”
She blinked, frowning. Touched the arch of her nose as if a pair were perched there. “I do not.”
He shrugged, bringing the curved crystal to his lips, a muffled hum his only reply as he drank deeply.
“You think you’re right all the time. It’s infuriating.”
His lips twitched, releasing a sheepish, wonderfully appealing grin. He leaned in to give the dance card attached to her wrist with a mauve ribbon a flick, sending it spinning.
She grew more vexed by the second as she counted off the things about him she found attractive—the dusting of freckles on his cheeks, the glints of gold in his hair, the fiercely stubborn jaw, the long eyelashes that were invitingly flaxen at the tips.
Heavens, he’s handsome, she thought wretchedly.
Perturbed, she glanced to the railing at her side, noted somethi
ng winking in the moonlight atop it. Looking closer, hiding her squint because she did, perhaps, need spectacles. An etched cufflink, a pearl earbob, a silver match case. Lined up along the marble railing like soldiers. Her laugh came quickly, nothing like the delicate interjection the duchess had instructed her to use to remain a ghost in the room, never attracting attention. “Did you steal these?”
He gave his flute a heedless toss into the bushes lining the veranda and trailed his finger along the stone wall as if the rough texture pleased him, then, finally, picked up the cufflink. Rotated the trinket between his nimble fingers without once looking down. “It’s possible,” he answered, his smirk diabolical. She could see the rookery rapscallion, clear as the mud that had daily coated her boots in her old life. How had the ton missed that? Why, sly thievery was written all over his face. “A reasonable bet if you decided to wager.”
Emma smiled and reached for the earbob. From society toff to street urchin in the blink of an eye. This was the charming, unpredictable man she could love, she reasoned, remembering how he’d dealt with Jonesy, tossing him about like a sack of flour with a reprimand that sounded like the Queen’s English. “You’re cracked, Simon Alexander, simply mad.”
“They see what they want, now, don’t they? A bandit among them, but they have no clue.” He dusted his hand down his lapels with a shrug. “It’s the nifty clothing, the blue-blooded background Julian prepared like a sumptuous meal for their partaking. They consume without thinking.”
She stepped back, perching her bottom on the balustrade, positive this was a breach in etiquette. “They do, indeed,” she said, alarmed his thoughts so closely matched her own. It would be the perfect time to ask how to navigate this disingenuous life…but she didn’t have the courage to delve into weightier topics with that sizzling kiss sitting like one of his stolen objects between them.
The cufflink glinted in the moonlight with each pass through his fingers. He wasn’t wearing gloves, and she couldn’t help but remember the pair shoved beneath her pillow.
