Chapter Seven
Mel felt a shiver run through the upper arm under her fingertips. Lord Kemble was not unaffected by her. Come to that, she was far from unaffected by him.
Nonetheless, the invitation to share a private room with her was not about bedding the man, as much as her mind might linger on the thought. If they could get away from everyone else, she planned to take her mask off and introduce herself properly.
If she was here in the club when she told him that she was Mel Black, and if he reacted badly, she could call on reinforcements to defend herself. In the tower, she would be locked in with him and his brothers.
However, he said, “I must regretfully decline, Lady Mnema. I am not available for those duties. I can introduce you to several other men who would be willing.”
Bother. Mnema shook her head. “I want you in particular, Lord Apollo.”
“I oversee all the men, my lady, and must be available to sort out any problems. It is our rule that no one is allowed to enter a private room during the time it is hired. I cannot be away from the public rooms. Besides, with all due respect, there are some activities I cannot perform for hire. Call it a personal quirk, if you will. But the answer is no, my lady.”
Their conversation was attracting attention. Two of the escorts had approached and were smiling hopefully at her. “May I present Kairos and Matton?” Lord Kemble asked. “Either gentleman is bound to give satisfaction in the bed chamber.”
Mel waved them off. “Not tonight, gentlemen, but thank you for your interest. Lord Apollo, perhaps you could show me the library?”
It did not suit her purpose, since several other ladies were already enjoying its wide array of books, its comfortable sofas and chairs, and its commodious desks. Lord Kemble showed her an unoccupied private room, but stayed in the corridor, where anyone passing by could hear their conversation.
Back to plan A, Mel decided. She would make her way back to the tower. Kemble was usually the first man to rise. She would set her mental clock to wake her early, and speak to him before the others were up.
“Thank you for the tour, Lord Apollo,” she said. “I shall remain in the library for a while. Please feel free to return to your usual routine.”
The man bowed and quit the scene. His eagerness to escape her company was discouraging, but she supposed he now saw her as a predatory female who had difficulty accepting “no” as an answer.
Her head was hot under the wig that gave her the full head of hair required by fashion. In fact, she hadn’t been feeling at all well all evening. Harriet had had a sniffle, and perhaps Mel had caught it. A glass of brandy might help her sore throat. Just one. She had never had a head for liquor.
She had hoped to confront Lord Kemble, make an alliance with him—or fail to do so—and then leave.
But there was more she could learn just by walking around and observing.
Were the other brothers as fastidious about selling their bodies as Lord Kemble?
Did they have any favorites among the women?
What, in fact, were they up to here at the Golden Adonis?
*
Allan wasn’t quite sure why he checked Black’s bedchamber when the brothers got home. He had an uneasy feeling about the whole evening, but he did not really expect their intrusive investigator to have returned.
However, Black was there, in bed, apparently asleep.
Allan put a hand on the back of his neck.
Black didn’t react, but the touch was enough to make Allan concerned.
After checking Black’s pulse and his forehead, he went looking for Baldwin.
“Black is back. He is unconscious. His skin is chilled, and his pulse is fast. Will you take a look?”
Baldwin nodded and took the stairs two at a time, and while the other brothers crowded in behind him, he pulled back the blankets. Black didn’t move. Baldwin placed a hand on his back and then on his calves. “Hmm,” he said, then bent over the man and sniffed.
“He’s been drinking,” he reported. “His temperature suggests he has been out in the cold. I suspect he arrived home shortly before we did and passed out from a combination of the cold and the drink. He shall probably wake with a sore head, but just in case, I’m going to sleep with him for a while, and make sure he lives long enough to wake up. ”
Allan felt a revulsion of feeling that he could not explain. Watching over Black was his job. He found a reasonable explanation and gave it to Baldwin. “You’ve been with a client all night. Have a wash and a sleep. I’ll watch Black and call you if his condition changes for the worst.”
His brother grimaced but agreed, and told Allan what to look for.
“Call me if he gets colder still or begins to feel clammy. If he has trouble breathing. If his pulse beat speeds above 100 beats a minute or slows below 40. It is at about 70 at the moment, which is too fast for a man who is sleeping. Don’t let him roll onto his back.
If he vomits while on his back, he might choke to death. Other than that, let him sleep it off.”
Baldwin and the other brothers wandered off to bed. Allan took his book and a candle upstairs to sit with the investigator. Baldwin was right. The man’s cheek felt as if it had been chilled by the bitter wind outside, and when Allan fumbled under the covers, he found hands that were almost as cold.
Perhaps he was not asleep. Perhaps he had only just arrived home and was feigning slumber.
He continued to breathe deeply and slowly, and his pulse, when Allan counted the beats, had dropped to a little faster than a beat a second.
Allan pulled the chair so that he could look up from his book and see Black’s face, then set the candle in its holder where the light would fall on the page.
He read for a while and then checked again. Black’s face was no longer icy and his hands were warm. His pulse had slowed, too, and was within what Baldwin said was normal for sleep.
No point in waking Baldwin. Allan could stay awake, and doing without sleep for one night would do him no harm.
But at some point in the next hour, his good intentions succumbed to his exhaustion, and he fell asleep in the chair, for the next thing he knew, he was woken by a shriek from the bed, almost instantly muffled.
“Lord Kemble,” said Mr. Black’s voice, in a far lower register than his shriek, “to what do I owe the honor of your company?”
Allan’s eyes did not want to open but he forced his lids far enough apart to focus on Black, who was sitting upright, the covers held primly up around his chin.
The candle had burnt out at some point, and the room was gloomy, but there was light enough to see the man’s face and the bundled bedding below it.
“Mr. Black.” The unlikely thoughts that were teeming around Allan’s brain needed to be put aside for the moment while he dealt with this.
“You alarmed my brother Baldwin last night. We thought you might be sickening for something, because you were so cold. I sat with you so that I could monitor your wellbeing.”
“Then I thank you,” said Black. “Perhaps it was something I ate, for I feel well now, if a little sluggish.”
Sluggish was normal. The illness in the night was nothing serious, then.
If it was an illness. Black had been out, and who knew where and with whom.
He had been drinking. No man had ever found out the tower’s secrets without being shown them.
If Black was a man. No. Allan’s thoughts were too outlandish to be true.
“Something you drank, I gather. If you are well, then I shall leave you. We mean you no harm, Mr. Black, but we shall have an explanation from you of your little expedition these last two nights.”
“And I mean you and your brothers no harm,” Black insisted. “Indeed, the reverse is true.”
That remains to be seen. No one was around when Allan walked downstairs, and his pocket watch confirmed it was still before noon. He would have to catch a few winks later in the day, but for now, he would make do with coffee.
The smell of the beverage must have drawn his brothers, for one by one they appeared in the living area, yawning and stretching. Each claimed a mug and poured the morning drink of their choice—Allan had also made a large pot of tea and one of chocolate.
Mr. Black came too, strolling down the stairs in his shirtsleeves and breeches with his hair mussed and his eyes sleepy.
Allan’s new suspicions were strengthened by a close look in the better light of the living area—luxurious lashes, fine bones, no Adam’s apple, and a morning shadow that had not been present on Black’s cheeks less than an hour ago.
His body already believed those suspicions to be true.
It was responding to Black’s disheveled appearance as if it was personally responsible.
Allan moved to put the table between him and everyone else while he tied an apron around his waist as further concealment.
“I shall chop the meat for the stew,” he said, to explain the apron.
“Is there hot water for a shave?” Black asked, his tone deceptively innocent. Her tone. Tell it like it is. Either Black was a woman or the marquess had finally succeeded in driving Allan mad.
“In the kettle on the back of the stove,” he replied. “Jugs in that upper cupboard,” he pointed, “on the left of the dresser.”
“Thank you.”
Black poured her water and wandered off back up the stairs.
Even though she strutted like a man and she’d left her shirt untucked at the back so it hid the flare of her hips, Allan could see the difference now he was watching for it—the slight tilt of her pelvis at each step, necessitated by the wider set of the bones.
She must be wearing padding around her waist and binding at her breasts to disguise the rest of her womanly shape. Allan had no doubt that she had one.
“Are we not going to question Black?” Donald asked.
“You didn’t wake me,” Baldwin commented.