Night Storm (29 page)

“Anything is possible, though my gut shies away from Riordan.” He paused a moment as if gathering his thoughts. “With Lady Winthrop being a benefactress of the theater, she would have had plenty of reasons to spend time with him.”

Sweat trickled down the back of Charlotte’s skull. She dabbed a bit of salve over the stitches to help them glide through his swollen skin. Without the salve, the process would take twice as long and she would worry about breaking the thread.

“I would be curious to know how much influence her money bought, though,” he said.

“I don’t follow.”

“Even the most selfless donor has some degree of expectation. Better seats, a voice on a new purchase or a lead role, an accounting of every penny spent. They will eventually want something in return for their generosity.”

“Could she have become too demanding…and Mr. Riordan killed her?”

“It’s one possibility.”

“Not a likely one.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He would have killed off his revenue source.”

“But what if he didn’t intend to kill her? Maybe his temper got out of hand.”

“Five separate stab wounds.” Charlotte rolled her shoulders, releasing the tension. “If Mr. Riordan is the killer, he harbors a powerful anger.”

“Being backed into a corner can be a strong motivator.”

“You think she was blackmailing him?” She shook her head. “I feel as though I’m living inside a Gothic novel.”

“I don’t
think
anything at the moment. I’m merely contemplating multiple possibilities.”

Neither of them spoke for several minutes while Charlotte finished removing his stitches. For the first time ever, she found herself too distracted by the conversation to continue. It had to be the conversation causing her to pause at odd moments, rather than the soft heat radiating from Cameron’s body or his faint spicy scent.

How he managed to bear her ministrations with nothing more than a few facial grimaces, she would never know. The pain had to be excruciating.

“There,” she said finally. “All done.”

He released a breath and closed his eyes. When he reopened them, she saw the strain of his endurance marked in the whites of his eyes. Thin red lines streaked toward the blue-white rings, making him look demonic and vulnerable at the same time.

“Have some more whisky and lie down.”

He regarded her for a knowing second, then complied without a word. She wondered if the liquor combined with the pain had made him light-headed.

After removing the tray to a nearby table, she fetched a pitcher of water and a linen towel. She folded the cloth several times and placed it close to the head of the bed.

Muscle rippled along the back of his torso as he stretched out. His abdomen came into view, and she watched the tight bundles contract before smoothing into a lean, hard plain of perfection. For a brief, dangerous moment, she fought the urge to brush her fingers over his mesmerizing contours.

It had been so long since she’d seen him thus. An ache bloomed between her thighs, spreading up and down like a slow fire.

The sigh he released and the way his head lolled to one side confirmed her suspicions about his current state. “Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?”

“I’m fine.”

“Let’s see if you say the same after I irrigate your wound.”

“Irrigate?”

“Lift your right shoulder, please.”

His lips thinned in displeasure, though he followed her direction.

She readjusted the folded linen. “All right, back down.”

He eased his body onto the makeshift pad.

Dragging the stool closer, she hoisted up her skirts so they wouldn’t hinder her movements before sitting on the edge. She retrieved a six-inch-long, round wood peg from the tray and held it above his mouth. “Open.”

He shook his head.

“Don’t be stubborn about this, Cameron. It will help you endure what’s to come.”

True to form, his mouth remained closed. His teeth were clenched so tightly that she thought his jaw would break. She glanced down at where his clasped hands lay against his midsection. She burrowed the wooden peg between his fingers. “In case you change your mind.”

Not wanting to prolong the inevitable, she slowly poured water over his now-open wound, then switched to whisky. His eyes squeezed shut and his neck arched into a severe line.

Blocking out his suffering, Charlotte counted to ten before raising the bottle. The moment she did, the tension released from his body like an archer releasing his bowstring.

Lighting another lamp, she drew it close and worked quickly, checking the wound for pus or other pieces of foreign material. When she was satisfied with the result, she spread a liberal amount of her special salve over the area and rebandaged his shoulder.

Acting on instinct, Charlotte rested a hand against his forehead, leaning close. He lifted his gaze to meet hers.

Dilated pupils.

Not completely unexpected, given the ordeal he’d just endured, but she would have to keep an eye on him. “Close your eyes and get some rest. No one will bother you here.”

He shook his head. “I can’t stay.”

“Why not?” She removed her hand, straightening.

Her direct question surprised him.

“Trig worries when I’m away.”

“Then I’ll bring him here for the evening. I have a spare bed upstairs.”

“He won’t come.”

“You sound certain.”

Cameron stared up at the ceiling a second before his eyes fluttered shut. “Trig spent years living on the streets, never sleeping in one place for too long for fear of being molested, killed, or worse, thrown into a factory. He hasn’t stopped moving, except for one place.”

“Where he sleeps?”

He nodded. “I’ve always made sure Trig has an area he can call his own, whether at my former residence on Temple Lane or at the Mirador.”

“Mirador?” She arched a brow. “Have you taken rooms there?”

He pried open one eye, peering up at her. “Shocked?”

Yes
. The Mirador was considered one of London’s finest hotels. Barely ten years old, the luxuriously appointed Mirador already laid claim to hosting two kings, a Russian prince, and an Italian delegate.

“I suppose I am. Why did you not mention this when we were there?”

“We had more important things to discuss.”

Indeed, they did. And, yet, she still could not fathom how he could afford such accommodations. “The thief-taker business must be quite profitable.”

He closed his eyes again. “I achieved success with a few high-profile cases in the early days. Through word of mouth, my client list has steadily grown. A few wise investments have also served to pad my coffers.”

Pieces of Charlotte’s heart broke away like dying leaves releasing their death grip on a tree branch. A part of her had hoped that the reason Cameron had never returned to her was because he hadn’t yet secured an income large enough to support a family. Now she knew better than to hold on to that last fragile thread of hope.

“I’m happy for you.” Her throat closed around the lie. No, not a lie. She was happy he’d managed to break free of the awful poverty that had strangled his family through much of his childhood. But she couldn’t hold back the terrible hurt—and all the bitter thoughts—the knowledge of his success engendered.

She bent to pick up the tray, and Cameron rolled swiftly into a sitting position. He grasped her elbow, cursing beneath his breath.

“Give me a moment,” he ground out. He clamped his thumb and forefinger against his temples. They stayed that way, suspended in time, for five, six, seven, eight… “I said something wrong.” His hand fell away from his temples. Strain bracketed his full, tempting lips.

The smile she sent him lacked warmth, but it was full of conviction. “No.” And she meant it. Finally, Cameron had given her something solid to act upon. Something her heart could understand.

She tugged at her arm until his grip gave way. The tray clattered against her worktable. Charlotte fanned out her fingers and cringed to see them trembling so badly. She rolled her fingers open and closed a few times before capping the jar of salve. She packaged the salve, a small jar of chamomile to reduce his fever, and several strips of linen together and handed them to Cameron.

“Have Trig help you,” she said, her voice back to its normal, efficient self.

“I told you, he’ll make a muck of it.”

“If not Trig, get Jules or one of the hotel maids.”

He balanced the package on his thigh, studying it as though he struggled to say thank you, but couldn’t think how.

“Do you need help dressing?”

Her question snapped him out of his reverie. He stood abruptly, forcing Charlotte to step aside.

“I can manage.”

Although she knew she shouldn’t, Charlotte watched the play of movement beneath the flesh of his torso as he reached for his shirt. The realization that this would be the last time she enjoyed the sight of his bare chest was not lost on her. She ignored the tingles burning at the back of her throat.

Once he’d slid both arms into his woolen greatcoat, Charlotte lifted the package from where he’d set it on the bed. “You must take better care of your wound this time. It’s more vulnerable to infection now. Shall I check your leg wound while you’re here?”

“No, it’s healing fine.” He accepted the package. “How much do I owe you?” he asked, matching her businesslike manner.

“My patients do not pay for my mistakes.”

Their gazes caught, held. Something fractured in the depths of his silver-blue eyes. “I had best go.”

She followed him into the shop. Each footstep marked a new, frightening path. What would her life look like without even the tiniest morsel of hope that Cameron would be in it? A desolate shudder ripped through her when she glimpsed an image of her future—without him.

Dear God, she was stronger than this. She could live without Cameron in her life. She could, and she had, until a few days ago. But losing him completely wasn’t something she was prepared to do. Not yet. They had been good friends long before they were lovers. She missed talking with him, bantering with him, sharing her hopes and dreams and hearing his in return. Could they go back to simpler times? Possibly not, but Charlotte was willing to give their friendship another try before losing him altogether.

“Do you plan on visiting Mrs. Scott tomorrow?”

He shook his head, pausing at the door. “I’ll track her down tonight.”

“Assuming she gives you permission, when do you plan on speaking to Felix?”

“Tomorrow.” He opened the door.

Charley bolted forward, blocking his path. The door slammed shut, and the tiny bell above them tinkled angrily at the sudden disturbance.

One of his brows hitched high, and she fought the urge to smooth a finger over the coarse, dark hairs. She didn’t blame him for being so surprised and confused. Her bold action had left her nerves reeling.

“What time and where?”

He answered her with an unwavering stare.

“We had a deal, Cameron. A kiss in exchange for attending your interview with Felix.”

He clenched his jaw so hard a muscle jumped.

“What’s the matter? Did you think I wouldn’t follow through on my end? Did you barter away something you had no intention of delivering?”

“I gave you little choice in the matter?”

“As in you forced me to kiss you back?”

His lips thinned. “Not exactly.”

“Then what? You held my nose until I deepened the kiss?”

“Enough.” The good people of London could have heard the long, deeply frustrated sigh erupting from the depths of his lungs. He swiped a bead of sweat from his temple. “You can attend the meeting.”

“When and where?”

“Tomorrow morning at his residence. His mother might wish to be there as well.”

Charlotte smiled, unable to contain the relief from her small victory. She wouldn’t have to let him walk away. Not yet.

Bracing his hand against the door, he craned his neck forward until they were nose to nose. “You seem set on ignoring a simple yet important fact—I’m tracking down a murderer. Every additional second you’re involved in this investigation is an additional second you’re in danger.”

“I’ll be safe with you.” The words emerged unbidden, though she felt them in her bones. Even when they were children, Cameron had always protected her—and everyone else in their small band of friends. Not once, while in his company, had she ever felt unsafe.

“I cannot shield you from something I don’t fully comprehend yet.”

“Yes, you can.” She gentled her voice. “I’ve never known you to fail at something you’ve set your mind to.”

A dark, volatile emotion crossed his handsome face. He lowered his voice. “By the looks of it, whoever killed the baroness did so in a fury. I have to figure out who hated her so much they would brutalize her body.”

“What if Lord Winthrop learned of his wife’s adultery? Perhaps he followed her to the theater the day of the murder and found them together.”

Cameron’s features took on the faraway look of deep thought. “Then I’d likely be investigating a double murder instead.”

“What if he’d known for some time and was planning his revenge?”

“Go on.”

Charlotte tapped a finger against her lips, thinking. “Maybe he waited until her lover went back inside the theater before killing her?”

“Why not kill her lover, too?”

“So her lover could take the blame for her murder.”

“He would need to plant some incriminating evidence that would lead the authorities to the other man.”

All the blood drained from Charlotte’s face.
The red tie
. Had Winthrop placed the article of clothing near his wife’s corpse with the intention of the authorities finding it? So they could convict an innocent man?

Sweet Mary, what a tangle.

“What’s the matter?” He studied her features. “Do you know something you’re not sharing?”

For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think beyond the fact that she’d done something vitally wrong and had no notion of how to fix it. She wanted to tell him. Needed to, in truth. But the necessary words refused to show themselves. Instead, she shook her head. “If Lord Winthrop wanted to lead the authorities to his wife’s lover, why has he been so adamant that the killer was an opportunistic footpad?”