Chapter 12 #2
“Living beyond her means. Your brother is quite familiar with the state.”
I gave him a haughty stare and returned to the papers.
Butler needs replacing. Hardly knows what to do with himself. In the old days, I would have had him under my heel and begging like a dog to serve.
“She seemed quite…scathing.”
“Do you mean comments like this, ‘Maid a twit. Frame her for jewelry theft next week.’”
I stared at him and then pressed the note in his hand down so I could read it. “Does it really say that?”
“No.”
The note said to purchase legumes from the grocer. I whacked him on the thigh. “I almost believed you too. I’ve read more than a few of that sort.”
“How do you think I came up with it?”
“Knave.”
“Noddy.”
Warmth spread through me and I leaned in a little closer as we continued to read.
I gave a hoot in triumph. “She hired an investigator!” I flipped through the pages in my hand. “There are several observation pages, a name—Thorne Worley—and an address for him.”
I held out a page detailing the man’s activity on a Wednesday two weeks past. “Seemed a man really was following her around. How frightening that must have been.”
He bumped my shoulder in a comforting fashion and took the page, skimming it. “Gather everything. We’ll take it with us.”
“What if someone notices?”
“I’ll return everything after we read through it. With no servants, it shouldn’t be too difficult. I saw a lease agreement on the desk. The house is rented through the month.”
I nodded and grabbed the haphazard stack, shoving it into my bag.
“Let’s see if we can find anything else.”
Upstairs revealed zealous fastidiousness. Given the strict sense of order with everything else in the house, the writing case was even stranger for its mess.
A peek into an armoire drawer showed a few things that a straitlaced woman would not possess. Implements of various sizes were nestled into clothing that a lady would never wear.
Ladies that weren’t trying to free their brothers.
“If you want one of those, I can make you one. But you are assuredly not taking hers,” his low voice whispered in my ear.
“I don’t even know what these are for.”
He turned me around and pulled me against him, his body connecting with mine. “A thing easily changed. But not here.” He looked around with a dark light in his eyes.
“Are sexual pursuits always on your mind?” I whispered, though I didn’t know why—we were completely alone.
“When you are pressed against me, most definitely,” he said, gaze heavy. “Let’s be done here.”
I was happy to leave. There was something about the over-organized feel and stripped smell of the house that made my skin crawl. He picked up the key ring and the invitations and locked the door behind us. The birds chirped discordantly as we walked down the path and back up the street.
“What do you think of Octavia Winstead?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” It felt like bad form to say I found something about her house off-putting when she had died so horribly. I looked at him. “What do you?”
He stayed silent for a minute as we walked past brownstones and lovely brick facades, colorful flowers trailing from their pots and troughs.
“Single-minded.”
I nodded. “So likely single-minded about the man following her too?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think she might have gone after him?”
“Perhaps. But she was murdered on a corner far from here. Far from the address of her stalker as well.” He tapped the bag containing the papers we’d collected. “Why?”
I shook my head. “Perhaps we will find an answer in her papers.”
~*~
I settled in with Octavia’s journal after dinner in my room in Gabriel’s Ashfield house. He had stepped out, but I expected him back shortly. I’d had to retrieve the journal from his room. How it had ended up there, I didn’t know. It had been in my bag.
He had called the journal silly, but I couldn’t help seeking it out. The words on the pages unfolded like a story. Fascinating and horrifying.
We have a new one. He is so delightful. We call him our little avenger.
He is more prickly than our last, full of spirit—seems to think we are blackmailers!
I laughed, for it is nothing but the truth.
And yet we have so much to teach him. I see the way M.N.
looks at him. How they all do. He is beautiful. A crown jewel.
A hand touched my shoulder, then drew up my throat, under my chin to my cheek. I hadn’t even heard him walk up the stairs; I was so absorbed. I leaned into the touch, as I had for the past two days, and turned the page to the next entry, dated a week later.
He is more beautiful than anything we’ve seen. And defiant. I have never seen a more defiant servant. Must be his mother that put ideas in his head. Or the way the other servants dote on him. He acts above his station.
But there is something quite seductive in that.
I doubt our little avenger would be as near to our hearts were he a beautiful face on a bland, eager package.
There are so many of those and they can’t keep our interest for long.
They don’t respond to the toys as well and their disgusting eagerness shows their breeding—like dogs.
Not like our little avenger. And the sweetest part is the look in his eyes.
When reminded of his place and what will happen to his family if he doesn’t comply, they always so blazingly speak of retribution.
Banked fire and eternal damnation. I find it amusing that he thinks he might hold the key to our downfall.
That he would try to beat us at our own game.
The fingers on my cheek lifted. “What are you reading?”
I was left staring at my hands as he plucked the book from my grasp. “Octavia Winstead’s journal? Where did you get this?”
“From the pile inside your room. Speaking of which, I put that in my bag! How did you get it?”
“You put all the documents in your bag. I started going through them.”
“Well, you already dismissed the journal.” I waved my hand. “Hand it here.”
“There is no reason to read this tripe.” He gripped the book, his eyes a dark jade.
“I beg to differ. It gives a terrible insight into the deceased.”
“Here is an insight—she’s dead. This book is ten years old. Go through more recent documents.”
“But the book is filled with reasons to murder her.”
Gabriel stilled, and I took it as a sign to continue.
“They were debauched, this circle of six women.” I lowered my voice and leaned forward.
“I think they used men, younger boys, to do what they wanted. She hasn’t spelled it out yet, but it becomes more apparent in every sentence.
” I whispered, as if spilling a dark secret. “I think they had male sex slaves.”
“Sex slaves? Quite a bawdy opinion for a woman who just recently experienced the pleasure of sex for herself.”
“Don’t poke fun at me. This is serious. They used young men for ill deeds.”
“Used them?” He seemed amused, but there was something in his eyes that made me shift in my seat. “I would think most men would be thrilled to have six—is that how many you said?—women use them.”
I bit my lip and looked at the book. “I don’t know. It sounds like some of the victims were willing, but there were a few they forced—”
“Victims?” He gave a harsh laugh. “Most would scoff at your use. How old were these boys?”
I thought back through the entries. “Sixteen to twenty-four?”
“A normal sixteen-year-old boy wouldn’t know what hit him if six women pounced.”
“I can’t believe that. You are saying that a man could not be taken advantage of?”
“By six willing women?”
“It doesn’t matter if the women are willing, if they are the ones doing the abuse!”
“Were they ugly, wretched hags?”
I frowned. “What difference does that make?”
“A normal sixteen-year-old would be pleased by being targeted by a group of gilded women with access to beauty enhancements, would he not?”
I crossed my arms. “You are horrible.”
“I am saying what most men would tell you.”
“I don’t care.” I reached out and grabbed the journal. “It sounds like this boy right here didn’t want to participate, and they made him. With magic.” I flipped through it. “They called him a pet name because he stood defiant, their aven—”
He plucked the book from my grasp and hurled it. It hit the wall with a thwack and landed face-down on the hardwood floor. “Stop reading that.”
“No!”
His gaze connected with mine. His thumb brushed my jaw. He leaned forward, and I leaned in too. When his lips met mine, I savored the feel of softness and strength.
My body was already responding—warmth rising, tingles flowing. Did I have no measure of resistance? He would have me. I would let him. It would be so easy to give in.
Too easy. I pushed away slowly. “I want to finish reading that book.”
“No.”
“No?” Resistance turned to indignation. “You can’t tell me no.”
“Can I not?” Green eyes full of challenge and warm hands full of desire pinned me to the seat. “I seem to remember from the very first night of this little exercise telling you that I could, if you wanted my help.”
“For matters that required it for the case.” I bit my lip as I stretched the truth. I clearly remembered the conversation. But I’d been afraid of him then. How different the feeling of security made a person act.
“Desperation breeds strong capitulation, and you did, my dear.” He tipped up my chin and ran his fingers along my jaw. “With your stained dress and gaunt frame. Your desperate eyes.” His hand curved into my hair and tugged.
“You were already strong and fierce. But food, comfort, and security have given you even more. Hopefully it didn’t clear your memory.” Warmth trailed down my neck. “I said that you will do exactly as I say throughout the task. Everything I say. You agreed, if I recall.”
My memory was perfectly intact. Security gave me the nerve to keep arguing. “You aren’t being reasonable. This has to do with my brother’s fate. Both brothers. You think I would fritter my time away on some mad woman’s journal if I didn’t think it was pertinent?”
Strong lips captured the ent in pertinent. Magic pushed and I answered. The vow marks on my wrist pulsed, and I moved into the demanding kiss. My fingers wound into his hair.
He was right. I couldn’t deny it. Food, comfort, and security had restored much of me. I’d never felt as safe as when he was close. And wasn’t that a scary thought? To entrust those feelings to a man who already held all the power. Even when we were arguing about a woman’s journal—
I pulled away, pushing into the chair’s back. Every thought purged from my head by a few skillful kisses. Manipulated. He manipulates women with little effort. When had I forgotten that the statement applied to me as well?
“Whenever you don’t want me to do something, you seduce me.”
“As if it is that easy. The snap of my fingers and you are seduced?” His face was a mixture of irritation and something else. Guilt?
My heartbeat galloped. “With your kisses! With your proximity and searing looks. With your declarations that I am yours.” Thoughts started to roll faster. “You are trying to control me. Spirits. Could my emotions have confused things so badly? I thought I was safe.”
I was feeling a little hysterical as one thought crashed into another ripping my safety net apart—a web broken from its bindings.
His eyes were hooded, his face dark. “You know little of what you speak.”
“You are good—fantastic at seduction—of that there is no doubt. How many women have told you no? Very few, I’ll bet!” Hysteria built. Sharp and uncontrollable. “And to a one, I’m sure they were very happy with their choice. But I won’t allow myself to be controlled.”
“Interesting.” He circled me. “So you will deny yourself pleasure because you want to be the dominant one?”
“There you go again with your games and dominance.” Frustration tangled with my hysteria and I craned my neck to see him as he passed behind.
I was so light-headed I felt close to passing out, erratic energy coursing through me more powerfully than usual.
The lights flickered. “I don’t know what you are on about, but why can’t you just be normal? ”
A lopsided, broken smile lifted his mouth, reflected in his eyes as he stopped in front of me. There was something in that smile, in the self-loathing gaze, that made me want to snatch back my words.
“Yes, why can’t I be normal?” Every lamp extinguished—throwing us into darkness. “It’s an excellent question. One I ask myself frequently.” The lights turned back on slowly, one by one.
He turned. “I’ll see you in the morning.” It was clipped, polite, informal. Like a butler to the mistress of the house.
It wasn’t until I heard his door click closed down the hall, sealing me out, that I realized he had taken the journal with him.