Chapter 17
By the time Miles returned home, night had fallen and St. James’s Square was sunk into darkness.
It stretched between the inadequate glow of the scattered streetlamps, an oppressive, heavy gloom made worse by the unrelenting fog, smoke, and grit of the city to which not even fashionable Mayfair stood immune.
His driver set him down in front of the silent town house. The carriage pulled away immediately after, the clatter of wheels and the ring of steel-shod hooves fading as the coachman headed for the mews.
Miles hadn’t intended to work so late, but despite what Griffiths would have Nell believe—that Miles’s position as editor in chief was one of more general than specific responsibility—he still had a paper to get out.
There had been important articles to review, advertising revenue to discuss, and several meetings to attend with his subordinate editors.
Add to that, poring over old issues of the Courant and reading all of Cowgill’s previous columns published in the month of March, and Miles’s day had been long indeed.
He’d been obliged to stay until the very end.
It had nothing to do with any reluctance he might feel about returning home to his new wife. On the contrary, there had been several moments during his workday when he’d found himself foolishly anticipating sharing something with Nell. And yet…
He’d stayed away until he was almost certain she had retired.
It wasn’t because he didn’t want to see her. No. It was because he was beginning to want her too much.
A troubling state of affairs, finding himself physically attracted to the woman who had married him under duress. The same woman who had never left the confines of Miss Corvus’s Academy until two days ago. Who had only yesterday admitted to him tearfully that she’d lost everything.
Miles would be the worst sort of conscienceless brute to take advantage of her in her time of vulnerability. And, after the kiss they’d shared last evening…
He didn’t entirely trust himself not to.
Recognizing the impulse was the first step to overcoming it—or so he told himself. It helped that Nell had preferred to be out of his company today. Perhaps she would choose to do the same tomorrow and the next day, too. Given enough time apart, Miles may yet conquer this.
He used his latchkey to let himself in. The gasolier had been left on for him.
It was turned down low, giving only enough light for him to see through the hall.
He was mounting the stairs, a bundle of various documents he’d taken from the office tucked under his arm, when he noticed a strip of light flickering under the wood-paneled doors to his library.
He stopped on the bottom step, his chest heavy with indecision.
After a long moment, he descended back to the hall. Setting his shoulders, he entered the library. It was a masculine space—the walls lined with dark mahogany bookcases, the furnishings oversized and heavy, and the years-old residue of pipe smoke lingering in the air.
Nell was seated in one of the large oxblood leather chairs in front of the fireplace.
Her head was bent over a scrap of embroidery, her fingers moving steadily as she deftly plied her needle.
She hadn’t changed for bed yet. She was still in the same blue silk dress she’d worn to his office this morning.
Two of his cats, Absalom and Virgil, were stretched out on the hearth rug in front of her, dozing in the warmth of the crackling flames.
“You’re still awake,” Miles said.
Nell glanced up. Shadows danced over her face, lending a brittle cast to her countenance. It was surely a trick of the firelight, but…she appeared unusually fragile. As though she were crafted of too-fine porcelain that might crack at any moment. “I am.”
Miles went to her, the heaviness in his chest transformed by swift concern. He retrieved the tinderbox from the mantel and lit the branch of candles that stood beside it. “You’ll ruin your eyes sewing in this dim light.”
“I can see well enough,” she said.
He doubted the truth of her statement. She was doing detailed work.
Another sampler, it seemed, this one characterized by a border of tiny blue flowers.
Equally tiny butterflies flitted among the blooms. There was a small raven, too, with a stitch of white on its wing, just as Miles had observed in the sampler she’d been working on at the Courant.
“Have you eaten?” he asked.
“I dined with Mr. and Mrs. Royce,” she said. “And you?”
“I had something at my office.”
Flack had brought in a box of questionable meat pies he’d procured from a street seller.
Miles’s gaze fell to Absalom and Virgil.
The former was a long-haired white cat with only one eye—the remnant of an injury he’d suffered during his days as a brawling tom in Fleet Street.
The latter was a short-haired gray with a wise, owllike little face.
“I see you’ve made new friends in my absence. ”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Nell replied. “I believe it’s the fire that’s drawn them here, not me. Though they have permitted me to pet them.”
“A triumph,” Miles said. Like all his rescued cats, Absalom and Virgil didn’t trust humans easily.
“I looked in on Shadow as well,” she told him. “She accepted a dish of cream, but she still won’t allow me to touch her.”
“Give it another week,” Miles said. He had seen it often enough with street cats. They needed to gain confidence in their surroundings. To trust that they’d be safe. Until they did, the best thing for them was quiet and consistency.
Miles hoped it would prove the same for Nell. Whatever had prompted their marriage, he wanted her to feel at home here.
“What time did you return from the Royces’?” he asked.
“Their carriage set me down an hour ago.”
“And you came in here rather than retire?” He studied her face. “I trust you weren’t waiting for me.”
Nell’s busy needle finally stilled. A troubled line etched her brow. “I didn’t realize it then, but…perhaps I was.”
Miles’s heart thumped heavily. He went to the sideboard on the opposite side of the room. It was, like most of the furniture in the house, large, dark, and more functional than fashionable. Yet more evidence of Charles Pelham’s tenure. The former editor in chief had been an unrepentant bachelor.
Setting down his stack of papers, Miles lifted one of the decanters.
The documents slid to the polished surface of the sideboard in a disorganized heap, revealing Cowgill’s notebooks, along with multiple old issues of the Courant that Miles had brought home for further study.
“Would you like a glass of brandy?” he asked.
“No, thank you.”
He promptly returned the decanter to its place. If she wasn’t going to have a drink, then neither would he.
She rose from her chair behind him, the rustle of her petticoats and crinoline as recognizable to him now as the velvet-edged tones of her voice. “I learned several things today,” she said.
He turned. “So did I.”
She looked at him expectantly, her shapely figure silhouetted in the glow of the firelight.
Miles leaned back against the sideboard. Given his unruly feelings, it was wiser to keep a bit of distance from her. He could think clearer then. Just. “I went through the death notices in the paper. I discovered that the late Lord Amstead died on the nineteenth of March.”
Her brows lifted. “The first date recorded in Mr. Cowgill’s notebook?”
“Exactly.”
“And the second date?”
Miles shook his head. “I read all of Cowgill’s columns from March.
The second date has no relation to any of them as far as I can tell.
There’s no evidence he was ever at Northwick Hall.
The only party he attended in Hertfordshire this year was at a place called Bricket Lodge, owned by a wealthy tradesman by the name of Jefford.
” He paused, adding, “Cowgill did mention Lord Amstead, however. It was in his column the week after Amstead’s father died.
” He reached into the half-spilled stack of papers and extracted the copy of the Courant that contained the column.
He crossed the well-worn red-and-gold carpet to give it to her. “It’s here.”
Nell stepped forward. Her bare fingers brushed his as she took the paper.
Miles’s pulse surged dangerously. If Nell was similarly affected, she didn’t show it.
She skimmed Cowgill’s column in the candlelight, reading the relevant passage aloud.
“A Hertfordshire lord is on the ascent, and not before time. Your humble correspondent hears that the vertically inclined gentleman was growing impatient to assume the title.” Her eyes lifted to his in question. “Vertically inclined?”
“Ambitious. Eager. Possibly something more.”
She handed the paper back to him. “The late baron was three-and-seventy. I suppose his son had been waiting a long time to inherit.”
“Impatiently waiting, according to Cowgill.”
Nell frowned. “Do we know how his father died?”
Miles returned the paper to the stack of documents on the sideboard, his blood still thrumming with heat. He ruthlessly refocused his attention on the matter at hand. “Succumbed in his sleep, apparently, after a decades-long battle with heart trouble.”
“So, his demise was not unexpected.”
“Not that I’m aware.” He turned back to her. “What about you? Any luck at Lady Belwood’s chasing down the third date?”
Nell was silent for several seconds. And then: “It’s a shooting party,” she said. “It takes place on the third of September.”
Miles felt a flare of satisfaction at her discovery.
Their investigations were making progress.
“So,” he said. “We have the date of the late baron’s death, the date of the new baron’s shooting party, and one unaccounted for date in between.
Another day in March, not long after the late Lord Amstead died. ”
“What could it be in reference to?” Nell wondered. “And what could any of it have to do with brothels and adulterated tea?”
“And five thousand pounds,” Miles reminded her. “It’s a princely sum. More than most people see in a lifetime.”
“Mrs. Pritchard’s brothel did shows signs of recent prosperity.”
“You presume she was the recipient of the money?”
“It seems likely,” Nell said.
Miles ran a hand over the side of his jaw. The coarse scrape of stubble abraded his palm. He was clean-shaven, but his beard always came in late in the evening. It had never mattered before. He’d lived alone. But now…
It occurred to him that, with Nell in residence, he might have to start shaving twice a day.
He pushed the thought out of his head.
“I must go to Hertfordshire,” he said brusquely. “I’ll need to speak to the locals. Try and find out the significance of that second date.”
“As to that,” Nell said, “Lady Belwood was able to provide some assistance.”
“What manner of assistance?”
“She’s arranging for us to receive an invitation to the shooting party.”
His hand fell from his face. “What?”
“I took the liberty of asking her to act on our behalf,” Nell said. “She wrote a note to Lord Amstead while Mrs. Royce and I waited, telling him that you and I were friends of hers and she required my companionship in order to—”
“Your companionship?” Miles took a reflexive step toward her. He stopped himself before going any further. “Are you telling me that this invitation includes you?”
“Naturally, it does. Lord Amstead’s party is short of ladies. My presence is the impetus for him to extend us an invitation. ‘My exceptionally beautiful and vivacious young friend,’ Lady Belwood wrote in her note. What gentleman could refuse such a temptation?”
If Miles didn’t know better, he’d think Nell was baiting him. She had only this morning reminded him that they were supposed to be partners. Perhaps this was a test?
“Are you serious?” he asked.
“Is it such an outlandish proposition?” she returned with deceptive calm.
Miles didn’t answer. Not directly. “Has it not occurred to you that they’ll know exactly who we are?”
Nell paced back to the fireplace. She was without her cane.
A hitch in her left leg marred her gait.
“It did occur to me,” she acknowledged. “Except that they don’t know you by name.
And the only ones who know our faces are Verity, Claudine, Mrs. Pritchard, and Silas.
The chances that any of them will be at an aristocratic shooting party in Hertfordshire are surely slim to none. ”
“They know your name,” Miles said. “If Lord Amstead is involved, they’ll likely have shared it with him, along with descriptions of both of us. Once he discovers I’m affiliated with the Courant—”
“The party is but three days in length. We’ll be gone in a blink. But once we’re there…” She looked at him over her shoulder. “We’ll be perfectly placed to search for clues. Not to mention, we’ll be able to talk with Lord Amstead, and his servants. Perhaps we’ll even find out who Innes is.”
Miles stifled the urge to utter an oath. He admired her initiative. Her intelligence, too. But a fellow had his limits. “A man has been murdered, Nell. The danger involved—”
“Isn’t it better to draw that danger out than to sit idle waiting for the next blow to strike at random?” she asked. “To face it head-on?”
“I commend your courage, but…no.” He shook his head. “There’s a fine line between daring and recklessness.”
Nell spun around to face him. “Not daring,” she said in a burst of impatience. “Action. I’ve spent too long allowing things to simply happen to me. My life at the Academy. Our marriage. Your kiss last night.”
Miles froze. “What about my—”
“I don’t care about courage. It’s control I want.” Closing the distance between them, she came to a halt in front of him, so close that her wide skirts bowed against his legs. She set her hands flat on his chest.
Miles’s breath lost its rhythm. Her touch was so light, so soft. He nevertheless felt the weight of it all the way through the layers of his shirt and waistcoat.
He didn’t let it distract him.
Indeed, staring down at her, he was possessed by the same suspicion he’d had when he’d first entered the library. That unsettling sense that something wasn’t right. She was too pale. Her gray eyes too fever bright. Raw vulnerability trembled beneath her every word.
His voice deepened. “Nell—”
She slid her hands up to his shoulders, beneath the fabric of his coat. “Miles,” she said.
And she kissed him.