by Clee, Adele
For a second, she thought she might cry. It wasn’t the sharp pain that brought a rush of emotion, for it soon subsided. It was the overwhelming feeling of love for this man.
“God, Beatrice. Everything about you is divine.”
He started moving, slow pulses of his hips at first, but soon he was pumping fast and hard. The bed creaked. The frame hit the wall. Mr Ashwood could probably hear their passionate moans across the hall.
Dante didn’t treat her like an incapable virgin. Perhaps it was his huge appetite for pleasure, but he couldn’t seem to get enough of her. And she certainly couldn’t get enough of him.
She came again, jerking beneath his expert strokes.
He withdrew, groaned in ecstasy as he emptied himself on her abdomen. He fell onto his back, dragging breath into his lungs, a grin filling his handsome face.
They lay there, slowly climbing down from dizzying heights. And yet her need for him had not abated. She laughed aloud, for she could not contain the euphoria.
Dante looked at her and laughed, too. “Was it what you imagined?”
“So much better.” Insecurity surfaced. “I doubt you’d say the same.”
He rolled onto his side, draped his leg over hers. “Beatrice, I’ve never made love, but I made love to you. I usually gather my clothes and leave, but I want you again so desperately I can hardly think straight.” He brushed her hair from her cheek. “You touch me like no one has before. You reach places I didn’t know existed.”
Her heart soared. “We don’t need to sleep. We might indulge ourselves again. There must be more you can show me.”
He explained she would be sore, then climbed out of bed, fetched a damp linen square from the washstand and wiped her clean. She caught his hand as he washed traces of blood from her sex, took the linen and cast it aside.
“Touch me, Dante.”
The first stroke of his fingers was their undoing.
It was some hours later when they finally fell asleep in each other’s arms, their nightmares a distant memory.
Chapter 14
Lust thrummed in the blood. It stirred every nerve to life, sent one’s heart galloping. The internal sensations were only evident when one spoke or glanced at the object of their desire. Yet the memory of the night spent with Beatrice sent it powering through Dante like a team of wild horses, trampling over every other emotion in its wake. Surely those seated in the drawing room in Hart Street heard the thundering beats, felt the ground tremble and shake.
“D’Angelo?” Cole’s voice penetrated Dante’s inner chaos. “Did you hear what I said?”
Dante dragged himself from his reverie, though his body reacted as if he were still buried deep inside the woman who occupied his thoughts.
“Mr Sloane rode to Farthingdale yesterday to speak to Mrs Pickering,” Beatrice said so calmly she wasn’t thinking about ravaging him senseless. “He should return with her statement tomorrow.”
“Excellent.”
The weight of Lucius Daventry’s stare bore down upon him. “D’Angelo, I know how difficult it—”
“I’m tired,” Dante interjected. “That’s all.”
Tired, and craving Beatrice’s touch. Who would have thought making love to her would have such a profound effect on him?
Ashwood’s lips twitched. “You hardly slept last night. Perhaps when we’re finished here, you should return home.” He glanced at Daventry. “We were forced to share a bed barely big enough for one man, let alone two Herculean specimens.”
Dante forced a light laugh. “You neglected to mention the fact you snore.”
“Amid all the grunts and groans at the inn, I’m surprised you heard me.”
Teasing devil!
“Did you sleep well, Miss Sands?” Daventry was by no means a fool and could read the implicit meaning disguised as gentlemen’s banter.
“Very well, once I recovered from my nightmare.” Beatrice’s innocent smile seemed convincing. “Indeed, I pray I never have to set eyes on my uncle again.”
“I wish there had been another way to gain the information we needed. While his tale of Lady Deighton’s infidelity is plausible, I find it hard to believe a respected enquiry agent would borrow money from a cutthroat like Manning.”
“Most men would rather do a stint in the Marshalsea than borrow from Manning,” Cole added. “Manning harasses the family of those who cannot pay their debts, although whether the moneylender was as powerful eighteen years ago is something we need to investigate.”
“Manning is in Newgate awaiting trial,” Ashwood informed them. “However, he’s still capable of ordering a man’s murder from behind bars, and would have had no issue instructing his men to shoot everyone in that carriage.”
Dante recalled the argument between the two villains. One had fired without compunction, his steel-grey eyes cold and lifeless. During his childhood nightmares, he’d imagined the fiend ripping off his mask to reveal a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Beatrice said. “If my aunt sold the house to pay my father’s debts, why move to Rochester? Unless they didn’t pay the debts and were hiding from Mr Manning.”
“Or moved because they didn’t want you to learn of your inheritance.” Dante wished he’d tortured the truth from the devil. “It could be another case of fraud. One we can investigate once we’ve dealt with Mr Coulter and my devious relations.”
Dante shivered at the memory of the time spent with his maternal grandparents. The depth of the earl’s hatred had been evident from the outset. Did it have something to do with Dante’s Italian heritage, Daphne’s elopement, or did the earl know of his wife’s betrayal?
Cole sat forward. “Coulter has lived in Wilson Street for twenty years and is in his early forties now. He hails from Lancashire, inherited a substantial sum when his parents died.”
Beatrice jerked to attention. “Mr Babington hailed from Lancashire.”
They all fell silent, no doubt wondering at the connection.
A light knock on the door brought Mrs Gunning. She approached Ashwood. “A letter arrived for you, sir, from Bow Street.”
Ashwood took the note and broke the seal. “Thank you, Mrs Gunning.”
The housekeeper left them to their business.
“It’s from Sir Malcolm.” Ashwood read the missive. “Someone broke into Babington’s house last night and ransacked the place, emptied every cupboard and drawer, yet stole nothing of value.”
“Surely his staff heard the commotion.” Dante suspected someone had got wind of Babington’s penchant for stealing expensive trinkets and hoped for the return of their heirloom. “Can they identify the intruder?”
“Apparently, no one heard a thing.”
“You mean no one wants to be embroiled in a criminal investigation while seeking new employment.” Dante wondered if it might be worth questioning the staff about their master’s light-fingered hobby.
“You may all disagree,” Beatrice began, “but I think we should call on Mr Coulter. Mr D’Angelo can question him about the brooch and his connection to Lancashire. If Mr Coulter believes he’s a suspect in Mr Babington’s murder, he may be forthcoming with information.”
It was just like Beatrice to suggest they confront the fellow rather than skulk about in the shadows gathering evidence. She had done a remarkable job of gaining information from her uncle—an even better job of extracting Dante’s secrets.
“Miss Sands should question Mr Coulter,” Dante said, struggling to hide his admiration. “I shall accompany her and offer assistance where necessary. She has a remarkable ability to bring calm to a volatile situation, whereas I’m likely to punch the cad should he prove uncooperative.”
Daventry considered the request. “Agreed. You will go there directly. Ashwood, speak to Sir Malcolm about Manning, find out what you can about the moneylender’s history. Cole, study Henry Watson’s notes in case we’ve missed something. And see if there’s any connection between Babington and C
oulter. I’ll talk to Babington’s servants.”
They arranged to meet the following day to discuss any new developments, but as they made to leave, Daventry pulled Dante aside, his expression pensive.
“Take Bower with you. Let him wait in Coulter’s hall if you think he might prove too intimidating, but I feel the need to exercise caution.”
“I can take care of Miss Sands.” Dante lowered his voice. “I would sacrifice my life to keep her safe.” It was not a flippant remark made to appease Daventry. The moment Dante uttered the words, he felt the truth of it deep in his bones.
“My concern is not for Miss Sands. Your parents were murdered because of a secret, or because Manning sought revenge on Watson. Babington stole your mother’s brooch, and now he is dead. Slain in the street like a dog.” Daventry gripped Dante’s arm in a rare gesture of affection. “My greatest fear is that whoever’s responsible will seek to silence you, D’Angelo.”
* * *
Ordinarily, Dante would have reacted to Daventry’s warning with a snort of contempt. He would have welcomed the challenge, invited the devil to his door with the arrogance he wore like a second skin.
But something had changed.
One day you might find a reason to live, and then you’ll be sorry.
The coachman’s warning echoed in Dante’s mind. He glanced across the carriage, studied the woman who’d piqued his interest the moment he saw her across a crowded ballroom. Since then, he’d come to rely on her opinion, depend on her witty remarks, need her tender touch. The last thing he wanted was to miss the chance to discover what it meant.
She continued to stare out of the window, though he doubted she was interested in the hawkers offering their wares, or the street sweepers shovelling horse dung.
“Are you thinking about how you will approach the interview with Coulter?” Dante asked. “Or, like me, can you think of nothing but the passionate way you made love to me last night?”
Hell, he’d give anything to be back in that dismal room. Yes, Beatrice had gifted him her virtue. But he’d had a few firsts, too. He’d made love to her, not taken her just to sate his carnal cravings. He’d cradled her in his arms and talked for an hour, not dressed in a hurry and made a lame excuse to leave. He’d lay in bed exhausted, a sheen of sweat coating his chest, yet had to fight the irresistible urge to make love to her again.
She gave him her full attention. “It’s time to confront Mr Coulter with our suspicions.” A slow smile formed. “And yes, Dante, there’s barely been a moment today when I’ve not thought about you.”
That’s what he liked about her, no games, no pretence.
“Might you like to indulge your passions again?”
“With you?”
“Damn right with me.” Jealousy reared at the thought of her sharing an intimate moment with any other man. That was a first, too, the crippling panic that he might lose her.
She laughed, the teasing sound stirring the hairs at his nape. “If we discuss this now, I doubt we’ll be in any state to question Mr Coulter.”
“Perhaps you might call at Fitzroy Square and dine with me tonight?”
“Just dine?”
“And explore why this attraction has robbed me of my senses.”
Before she made a reply, the carriage rumbled to a halt outside Coulter’s townhouse in Wilson Street. Beatrice surveyed the facade while pushing her fingers firmly into her gloves.
Bower climbed down from the box and opened the carriage door. “The gentleman in question is home, sir. According to Mr Cole, the suspect has a mop of orange hair, a mop that appeared at the upstairs window a moment ago.”
“Thank you, Bower. Wait with Sharp. We’ll call you if we need you.” Despite Daventry’s suggestion, Dante doubted they’d get past the threshold with a beast like Bower in tow.
Dante approached the house but did not need to raise the brass knocker. A pretty young woman opened the door, though she had the jaded eyes of one whose appetites were far removed from her wholesome demeanour.
“Good afternoon,” she said, acting like a maid or housekeeper, yet she surveyed Dante’s form as if he were a haunch of beef and she’d not eaten for a week. “May I help you?”
Dante reached into his coat pocket and removed the letter written by the magistrate, one they used as leverage on occasion to gain entrance where they might ordinarily be refused.
“We’re here on behalf of Sir Malcolm Langley, Chief Magistrate at Bow Street, and wish to speak to Mr Coulter.”
The woman took the letter and peeled back the folds, but it was obvious from the way her gaze flitted about the page that she couldn’t read.
“I know who they are, Miss Keane,” the deep voice rumbled from within. “Show them into the drawing room, and I shall attend them shortly.”
“Yes, Mr Coulter.” Her teasing tone said her duties amounted to more than keeping house.
They were shown into an overtly masculine room furnished with dark oak and forest-green velvet, the sumptuous surroundings reminiscent of the private rooms found in exclusive gentlemen’s clubs.
“Might I fetch refreshments?” Miss Keane said as if she’d repeated the question ten times in front of the looking glass this morning.
“I shall take tea,” Beatrice said.
“And I’ll have the same.”
Miss Keane gave a coy smile and left the room.
“Keen?” Beatrice whispered. “She has the look of a woman who enjoys frolicking in the broom cupboard. No doubt she’ll ask you to come and inspect her bristles.”
Dante laughed, more so because he detected a hint of jealousy in her tone. “The man keeps company with the demi-monde. I imagine Miss Keane fulfils various roles and has more than a healthy appetite for work.”
Beatrice snorted. “She seemed keen to strip you bare and devour every inch.”
“That task is yours, love, after you’ve dined with me tonight.”
“Perhaps we might skip dinner.”
A look of barely restrained lust passed between them. Had they been in the bedchamber of the hostelry, they’d be tugging at each other’s clothes, panting with need. And yet when she smiled, he felt something else—a tug of a different kind.
Coulter marched into the room, his copper-coloured hair capturing their attention. The dark circles beneath his eyes spoke of a life of dissipation. He came straight to the point. “Mr D’Angelo, what brings you to Wilson Street?”
The fact Coulter knew Dante’s name came as no surprise. “Allow me to introduce Miss Sands. She is conducting an investigation into the murder of Mr Babington, and I am merely her assistant.”
With an appraising eye, Coulter scanned Beatrice as if she were a rare artefact in a museum. “Her assistant? Lucky devil. Though I’m not sure why you think I know anything about the murder of a man I’ve met twice.”
Beatrice gestured to the plush velvet sofa. “May we sit?”
“By all means.”
A maid arrived and set down the tea tray. She curtseyed to her master and batted her lashes like a harlot at the Blue Jade. The gentleman’s gaze remained fixed on her plump posterior until she’d left the room.
“We seem to have come unstuck.” Coulter gestured to the silver teapot. “I’d have had Bridget pour, but she has a terrible case of the shakes when asked to perform in company.”
“I’m more than happy to serve tea while my colleague asks questions,” Dante said, aware that this reprobate would go to any lengths to tease them.
“Most gentlemen would refuse.”
“I’m not most gentlemen,” Dante countered.
Beatrice cleared her throat. “Mr Coulter, you say you barely know Mr Babington yet you grew up together in Lancashire.”
Dante suppressed a groan. Yes, they had agreed to tackle the matter directly, drag answers from Coulter if need be, but he expected her to begin with facts, not supposition.
When Coulter made no reply, she said, “Perhaps you’re unaware of Mr Babington’s
penchant for fraud and theft, though considering he stole items from your home, I highly doubt it.”
Based on the sudden thrum of excitement in the air, the gentleman found this female enquiry agent more than intriguing.
Coulter stared intently. “Miss Sands, you have a rather vivid imagination, one which could be put to much better use than probing a man for information.”
The comment roused Dante’s ire. He’d hoped for an opportunity to knock the smirk from this devil’s face. “Answer her question. Tell us what Babington stole from the locked drawer in your study.”
Tell me why you had my mother’s brooch! Damn you!
“You know what Babington stole, else you wouldn’t be here.” Coulter’s arrogance seemed forced. “Though I caution you to forget about Babington, forget your personal vendetta, for it will only end in misery.”
“Is that a threat?” Dante’s pulse soared.
Coulter pushed to his feet. “Not a threat, a warning from someone who has suffered while pursuing the truth. And as there’s nothing more to say on the matter, I bid you good day. Miss Keane will show you out.”
He made to leave, but Beatrice quickly said, “Daphne D’Angelo died while pursuing the truth. Do you not owe it to her, owe it to your nephew, to bring the culprit to justice? Or are we to assume from your bitter reply, from the evidence stolen from your home, that you had a hand in her death?”
Nephew?
Dante’s mind reeled from the shock. Had he missed something? Had her uncle named Coulter as the illegitimate man claiming kinship with the countess, or was this more supposition?
Coulter froze.
Why wouldn’t he? Beatrice had practically accused him of murder!
But Coulter did not swing around in a violent rage, cursing them to the depths of hell. He stood still, shoulders sagging as he heaved a breath.
“Mr Coulter, my father died alongside Mr D’Angelo’s parents. We are committed to finding the man responsible and will not stop until we succeed.”
“Not stop until you’re dead,” the man muttered.
