Authors: Victoria Lynne
She pulled back — not far, but abruptly and distinctly. “Not here.”
“Where?”
“Someplace… private.” She reached into her reticule and passed him a small linen card with an address already written on it.
A wry smile touched his lips. “How very convenient. Flattering as well. You must have known I would be here tonight.”
If she was at all aware of his sarcasm, she chose to ignore it, letting her silence speak for itself.
So she isn’t a wolf at all,
he thought, changing his original assessment.
Merely a married kitten playing her little kitten games.
Ignoring her sudden urgency, he idly twisted the card between his fingers as he asked, “When you dance, do you always lead? Or do you permit the man that small honor?”
Anger flared in her eyes. “I don’t recall lifting you from your seat and dragging you bodily to my side.”
A feisty kitten,
he amended, silently pleased. That should make it interesting. “No, you didn’t,” he allowed.
“You’ll meet me?” Again, that odd urgency in her voice.
Of course he would. He gave a brief nod and watched relief blossom in her expression.
“Wait fifteen minutes, then meet me there.”
She lifted her skirts and moved rapidly away. He watched as she stopped to whisper a word to her husband. The man bowed down low to hear, nodded, then stiffened his spine and sent Morgan a disapproving glare — a glare that Morgan returned with calm indifference. The moment quickly ended as the cuckolded husband turned and obediently followed his wife from the room.
Well. So the evening wasn’t entirely a mistake. Morgan sipped his champagne. It had been a long time. Too long. He watched the woman leave, his gaze riveted on the unconsciously seductive sway of her hips as she exited the room.
Very nice.
Apparently Tyche hadn’t deserted him after all.
Julia Prentisse stepped from the hackney and stared at the ramshackle buildings before her. The address she had given Morgan St. James led here, to a row of run-down warehouses just off the docks. She was well acquainted with the site and therefore accustomed to the deterioration of the buildings, but this was the first time she had visited at night. The moonlight did little to enhance the architectural blight.
She let out a soft sigh, telling herself it wasn’t as bad as she thought. The attempt at self-delusion was useless. For even as she tried to bolster her confidence, the rowdy, drunken laughter of a group of sailors spilled out from a nearby pub. Apt, she thought, for the warehouse itself slanted drunkenly to one side, as though the task of remaining erect were simply too formidable an undertaking for the dilapidated structure.
Behind her, Mr. Randolph’s disapproving voice drifted out from within the confines of the hired coach. “Are you certain you wouldn’t like me to stay?”
Forcing a brave smile, Julia turned toward the elderly man and shook her head. “No, really, I’m fine. You’ve been so kind already, and it’s late—”
“Which is exactly why you shouldn’t remain here alone. It’s unseemly; dangerous as well.”
“I won’t be alone. At least, not for long.”
“Hmmph. Your uncle would never—”
“My uncle isn’t—” she began sharply, but let the words drift away unsaid. There was no point. She took a deep breath, and then let it out slowly. “Thank you, Mr. Randolph,” she said firmly. “Good night.”
He let out another disapproving snort. “I don’t like this. Not one bit.”
Nevertheless, he pulled the coach door closed and gave the interior ceiling two sharp raps with his cane, calling his direction to the driver. As the coach began to roll away, he thrust his head through the window and sent her a stern glare. “I expect you to send word to my office first thing tomorrow morning. If I don’t hear from you, I shall assume the worst.”
On that dire pronouncement, he resumed his seat and the hackney rumbled away. Julia watched him leave. Feeling suddenly vulnerable, she wished she had thought to give Mr. Randolph the bills she held in her reticule. But it was too late now. She pulled her cape tightly around her shoulders, fighting back a sudden chill. No sooner had the coach faded away into the night when she heard the echo of heavy footsteps behind her. She turned sharply and scanned the wharf.
No one was there.
She took a deep breath, forcing herself to remain calm. There was a reasonable explanation. A sailor who had stepped into the pub, perhaps. Or a pursesnatch hiding in an alleyway. Or
him.
Had he been there tonight? She would swear she had felt his eyes upon her while she had been speaking with Viscount Barlowe. Had he followed her here? The thought sent a shiver racing down her spine. She retrieved her key and quickly let herself into the warehouse.
A dark, heavy stillness surrounded her. Eerie shadows leaped up the walls, weaving back and forth in the dull moonlight. Her hand moved automatically to the small desk by the door, where she felt for a box of sulfur matches. She struck one and held the flame before her, letting its meager flare guide her as she moved about the space lighting kerosene lamps.
Within seconds a gentle golden light filled the warehouse. The shadows that had seemed so menacing only moments earlier now presented themselves as nothing but tall stacks of crates and a miscellany of shipping supplies. She shrugged off her cloak and hung it from a nail, willing herself to remain calm. Morgan St. James would be here shortly. All she had to do was wait.
And wait.
Too anxious even to consider sitting, she paced back and forth between the shipping crates. The drunken laughter of the men in the nearby pub echoed through the thin walls, as did the gentle
lap, lap, lap
of the water sloshing against the pier. She strained to catch the dull clatter of a coach drawing up outside, but the street was ominously silent.
He was coming, wasn’t he? Her heart skipped a beat as she considered the alternative. He
had
to come. He had to. She idly fingered the gold medallion around her neck, brushing it against her lips. Saint Rita. Patron saint of the impossible.
I wish
— She stopped abruptly. She wouldn’t get greedy in her prayers. She thought for a moment, and then sent a different plea heavenward. A simpler plea.
Courage. Give me the courage I need to continue.
That was small enough to ask, wasn’t it?
She reached the end of the narrow aisle she had been pacing and turned around. As she did, her stomach flipped, and she let out a startled gasp. There he was.
Morgan St. James.
He was dressed in the evening attire she had seen earlier: a black serge suit that had been immaculately cut to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders and the length of his legs, complemented by a crisp white shirt and black leather boots. Simple, yet undeniably elegant. Around his shoulders he had tossed a black cape. It billowed about his knees as he moved, giving him an almost sinister appearance.
The Beast.
She brushed the thought off impatiently. He had come. That was all that mattered.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.
She shook her head. “No, you didn’t,” she replied, relieved she didn’t sound as breathless as she felt. “It’s just… I didn’t hear your coach.”
“I didn’t bring my coach. My mount is tied outside.” He drew off his riding gloves and tucked them inside his coat pocket. “I imagine it’s safe to assume that someone has stolen him by now.”
A fleeting smile touched her lips. “Yes. Well…”
She searched for something witty to say, but her mind abandoned her. His presence was completely unnerving. He seemed larger than she remembered him and vaguely threatening somehow. Although they had stood much closer on the balcony of the Devonshire House, there had been swarms of people nearby. Now they were completely alone.
Unable to hold his gaze a moment longer, her eyes moved past him to a stack of heavy crates.
“Nervous, princess?”
Her gaze snapped back. “Hardly,” she replied, drawing herself up with what she hoped was an expression of regal authority. “I’m glad to hear it.” He gestured vaguely around the warehouse. “Interesting choice.”
“Yes. I thought it… practical.”
“Rotten cabbage and sour cheese do tend to set a certain mood, but I’m not certain it’s entirely appropriate to this…” He hesitated, as though searching for the right word. Finally he finished with “arrangement.”
“It’s certainly private,” she countered. “And spacious.”
He arched one dark brow. “How much space do you think we’ll need?”
Unthinking, she lifted her shoulders in a casual shrug. “The bigger the better.”
A slow, seductive smile curved his lips. “Any other preferences I should know about?”
Julia stared at him in blank confusion, then felt her cheeks flame as understanding set in. “This isn’t what you think it is.”
“Oh? What do I think it is?”
She cleared her throat, tilted her chin and returned bravely, “An assignation.”
“How delicately put.” His gaze moved with deliberate insolence over her form, as though committing her body to memory. Then his eyes flicked back to hers. Leaning one slim hip against a makeshift trestle table, he idly swung one booted foot to and fro beneath him. “Is this part of your game, princess? This” — he paused, waving one hand in a gesture of vague boredom — “resistance? Shall I shower you with copious flattery until you succumb to the heat of my passion and fall helplessly into my embrace? Shall I praise your beauty, your soul, your wit, and swear that I will surely perish if forced to live another day without you? Is that what you’re waiting for?”
Once again Julia felt the heat of embarrassment rise within her. Refusing to give him the upper hand, she greeted his words with cool silence. Then her gaze moved over his body with the same deliberate insolence he had shown her.
He was just as she remembered him, she thought, then immediately corrected herself, for it wasn’t true. He still had the same aristocratic bearing, the same silky black hair, the same lean, muscular form. But she had misjudged his eyes. She remembered them dark, level, rational. Not stormy gray, eyes that looked quick to passion and quick to temper. Moreover, the man she had met years ago had been one of London’s most notorious rakes, a man who had commanded attention and admiration wherever he went. A man rumored to be notoriously at ease in any situation, whether he found himself in a married woman’s bedchamber or speaking before the House of Lords.
But Morgan St. James had changed; that much was evident even to her. It went beyond the scars that marred his hands and the back of his neck. Years ago his gaze had been open, warm, and brazenly suggestive. Now there was a coldness beneath his smooth charm. He seemed guarded, inaccessible, icily distant, even as he tried to woo her to his bed.
She brushed the thoughts away. It didn’t matter.
Get on with it.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I invited you here,” she said. When he didn’t reply, she continued bravely. “I have something to show you.”
Her heart pounding, she moved to a small cabinet and unlocked the bottom drawer. She lifted a thick parchment envelope and withdrew the letter contained therein. As she unfolded it, the words seemed to leap out at her.
Flame,
Did you miss me? I’ve missed you, my love. Through circumstances beyond my control, I’ve had to abandon you to do our work alone. But I’m back once again.
I saw you walking in Cheapside last Thursday eve, and my heart leaped with joy. You were wearing a golden gown.
How the colors of fire do become you. Crimson, orange, gold.
So warm. So pure. So beautiful.
Lazarus
With shaking hands, she passed the note to Morgan. He skimmed the contents, and then lifted his shoulders in an indifferent shrug. “A love letter,” he replied flatly, looking supremely bored. “If you think this charming little missive came from me, princess, I’m afraid I must disappoint you.”
“No, not from you.” Julia drew a deep breath, then her eyes locked on his. “From the man who set your servants’ quarters on fire.”
Julia wasn’t sure what sort of response she had expected from him. She only knew she had expected some sort of reaction.
Something.
Instead, Morgan St. James stared at her with a look of polite disinterest.
“Indeed,” he said flatly.
“But I thought you—”
“The man’s dead. Even if that letter did come from him, I can’t imagine what use it is now.”
Of course.
Idiot,
Julia thought, cursing herself for her shortsightedness. She had been so absorbed in her own worries; she had completely forgotten that the rest of London believed the arsonist had come to a fiery end in one of his own blazes.
Two separate fires had been deliberately set after the one on Viscount Barlowe’s property. The stables belonging to the Earl of Chilton had been set ablaze; a month afterward the estate of Lord Webster had gone up in flames. Found among the smoldering remains of Webster’s property was an unidentified man, a man presumed to be the arsonist himself. When no fires had occurred thereafter, that presumption had been considered confirmed. The city had breathed a collective sigh of relief, and life had resumed as before.
Even Julia had been lulled into a false sense of security — a security that had vanished the day she received this latest letter.
“He didn’t die,” she said. “I don’t know who that body belonged to, but it wasn’t the arsonist. He’s alive, and he means to begin setting fires again. I’m certain of that.”
“I see.” He hadn’t moved. He was posed exactly as he had been earlier: one slim hip propped upon a trestle table, one foot swinging to and fro beneath him. But his expression was entirely different. No longer coolly seductive, he regarded her with a look of naked disdain.
“Upon what evidence are you basing this rather hysterical presumption?” he asked, his voice ringing with aristocratic superiority.