'Til Death Do Us Part (21 page)

S
HORTLY
BEFORE
FOUR
o'clock in the morning Calista heard a hansom in the street. Relief shot through her. Andrew was home.

She leaped out of bed, grabbed her wrapper, and hurried out into the hall. A door opened at the far end of the corridor. Trent appeared, tying the sash of his dressing gown. Another door opened and Eudora joined them.

They all gathered at the top of the stairs and looked down at Andrew.

“Sorry,” Andrew said. “Didn't mean to wake you.”

“Any news?” Trent asked.

“Afraid not.” Andrew shoved his fingers through his hair. “Kettering went to the theater, had supper with friends, and spent much of the rest of the evening playing cards at his club. When he left the club he met briefly with Dolan Birch. Unfortunately, I could not get close enough to hear what was said but I got the impression they
were quarreling. I think Birch was demanding something from Kettering.”

“Where is Kettering now?” Trent asked.

“I followed him back to his residence on Lark Street a short time ago. All quite routine. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to get some sleep.”

T
HEY
DID
NEED
sleep, Calista thought. But for her, at least, that was going to be hard to come by.

She tossed and turned for a few minutes before she gave up the attempt altogether and got out of bed.

The only solid evidence they had to work with consisted of Mrs. Fulton's sales journal, Andrew's notes, and her own client files.

All of those things were downstairs in the library.

She pulled on a wrapper and let herself out into the night-darkened hallway. The big house seemed especially gloomy at night. It was as if her grandmother's ghost hovered in the atmosphere, complaining endlessly about ill health, slatternly servants, and ungrateful offspring who brought scandal and shame on the family name.

But tonight she and Andrew and the Sykeses were not alone in the big house. For the first time in all the years they had lived here, there were houseguests. More than houseguests, she told herself as she started down the stairs—Trent and Eudora surely qualified as loyal friends.

It was good to have friends.

She reached the bottom of the stairs and went toward the library. There was a thin bar of light under the door. For a few seconds she froze, pulse skittering wildly. It struck her that she might be about to surprise an intruder. Someone had managed to enter the house in a clandestine fashion on one other occasion. Perhaps he had come back.

Common sense descended in the next moment. The flaring light under the door told her that the fire was still going strong in the hearth.

No intruder would bother to light a fire.

Nevertheless, her nerves flickered and sparked a little when she put out the candle and opened the door.

Trent lounged in one of the large armchairs. He was still in his dressing gown. His legs were stretched out toward the hearth. Mrs. Fulton's journal was open on his lap.

He looked up when the door opened. Setting the journal aside, he got to his feet.

“Couldn't sleep?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “It would appear that you couldn't, either.”

“I've been thinking about what you said earlier. You were right. I have made inquiries and I am hopeful that Mr. Pell will be able to provide us with a lead. But this situation has become extremely dangerous. We need to act now—not wait for answers to fall into our lap.”

“I agree.” She walked forward a few steps and stopped. “I came down here tonight to take another look at my client files. The question I keep asking myself is, why did Nestor Kettering come back into my life recently? He showed no interest at all in me for most of the past year.”

“Perhaps because he was occupied with hunting governesses.”

She tightened her grip on the lapels of her wrapper. “Yes.”

“I have a theory,” Trent said deliberately.

“About Nestor?”

“Yes. It occurred to me that if he is, indeed, the one who seduces and
then murders the governesses, he may wish to expand his hunting territory beyond the Grant Agency. After all, over time someone would be bound to notice so many young, healthy women succumbing to infections of the throat. Your introductions business offers many of the same advantages as the Grant Agency. You have a roster of single women who seek companionship and love.”

“But to get access to those files, he must first convince me to let him back into my life, is that what you are saying?”

Trent's expression was grim. “Something along those lines, yes.”

“I suppose that explains why he sent the flowers and then showed up in my office a few days ago. But if that was the plan, why did he attempt to frighten me with the memento mori gifts at the same time? It doesn't make sense.”

Trent went to stand, looking down into the fire. “Damned if I can see the whole story at this point but it's all connected somehow. I'm sure of it. We must find a way to link him to the murder of Mrs. Fulton or one of the governesses. We need evidence.”

“But how can we obtain it? We don't have anything except our suspicions.”

Trent watched the flames. “I've been thinking about that. If there is any evidence to be found it will no doubt be in Kettering's house.”

“That is the reason I suggested that we talk to Anna Kettering.”

Trent shook his head. “I told you, the odds are she won't help us. Worse yet, she might warn her husband.”

“Then what on earth can we do?”

“A small act of burglary might solve our problem.”

Raw panic crackled through her.

“No,” she said. “It's too dangerous.”

“Perhaps not—if I plan well.”

“No, you must not even consider such a scheme,” she said. She hurried across the room, the skirts of her wrapper flaring out around her
legs. “I will not allow you to break into the Kettering house. You might be arrested, or worse. If that hired killer is guarding the place you could be killed.”

Trent looked up from the flames. The ice-cold determination in his eyes alarmed her as no words could have done.

“Trent, please,” she whispered. “You have taken so many risks already. I could not bear it if you are imprisoned or murdered because of me.”

Gently he captured her chin on the edge of his hand. His thumb traced her lower lip.

“It's my choice,” he said. “Always remember that.”

“Trent—”

He silenced her by the simple act of covering her mouth with his own. In that moment she knew that the deep hunger that had swept through her the first time he had kissed her had been no spark of fleeting passion brought on by nerves and the dark thrill of danger. The same sensation was heating her now, more intense than ever. She was on fire with a bright, sparkling, disorienting energy.

In Trent's arms she was learning the true power of passion. It was a precious gift, one she had given up all hope of ever receiving. And even as she surrendered to the fever, she knew it was also a very dangerous gift because it so easily could be lost.

But tonight it was hers to savor.

The kiss went from tender and seductive to dark and desperate in the space of a heartbeat.

Trent groaned, framed her face between his hands, and wrenched his mouth away from hers. He looked down at her with hot eyes.

“I want you,” he said, his voice rough around the edges. “No, I
need
you. Tell me you want me, too. I must hear the words.”

“Yes.” She gripped his shoulders to steady herself. “Yes, I want you, Trent Hastings.”

He released her. Without a word he walked across the room and very deliberately locked the door. When he returned to her she smiled and opened her arms.

He uttered a deep, low growl, a sound that could have been interpreted as either desperation or soaring triumph. Perhaps it was both. He undid the sash of her wrapper. When the garment fell away his fingers closed gently over her breast. She could feel the heat in him through the thin fabric of her nightgown.

He deepened the kiss. The intense intimacy left her shivering in a hot whirlpool of sensation. When he finally tore his mouth away from hers to kiss the side of her throat she could scarcely catch her breath.

The world spun around her. She thought she was falling, but in the next instant she realized that he had picked her up and was carrying her across the room. A strange panic assailed her. It was unnerving to be hoisted off the floor in such a fashion.

She clenched the front of his shirt. The old fear that had troubled her dreams for years—the fear of knowing that she and Andrew were alone in the world and that she was the only one who could protect Andrew—somehow blended with the physical reality of being lifted off her feet.

But in the next moment she felt the strength in his arms and knew that he would never let her fall.

He carried her to the desk and seated her there, her legs dangling over the edge. One by one Trent undid the front buttons of the nightgown. He made a place for himself between her knees and kissed her again.

Her fingers shook a little as she undid the front of Trent's dressing gown. She eased her palms inside the garment—and caught her breath when she felt the rough, etched skin that covered his left shoulder.

He was nude above the waist. Below that, he was garbed in a pair of loose-fitting trousers of the sort men wore as nightclothes. She could
see the clear outline of his rigid erection pressing against the fabric. The sight made her go very still.

He raised his mouth from hers. Shadows moved in his eyes.

“I should have warned you,” he said, his voice raw with some edgy emotion and the control that he was exerting to mask it.

“About what?” she asked.

“The scars are not limited to my face.”

Very deliberately she rested one hand on the ridged skin of his shoulder.

“It is not the look and feel of your scars that shocks me,” she said. “It is the knowledge that you must have endured a great deal of pain at the time you acquired them. Eudora told me Bristow hurled acid at you—acid that was intended to destroy her face.”

Trent took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

“It was a long time ago,” he said. “The only thing that matters to me tonight is whether or not you are so repulsed by the sight of my scars that you cannot allow me to make love to you.”

“There is nothing about you that I find repulsive. Quite the opposite. You are the most attractive man I have ever met.” She risked what she hoped was a sultry smile. “And I assure you, I have met a number of gentlemen in my business.”

He ignored her weak attempt at humor. Instead he watched her with a seriousness that tore at her emotions.

“Have you loved any of those other gentlemen?” he asked.

“No.”

“I'm glad.”

He kissed her and she was once again lost to passion.

She barely noticed when he drew the hem of her nightgown up above her knees. But the feel of his warm hand on the inside of her thigh sent a shock through her. She went still, her breath tight. Everything inside
her was tight, as well. A tension unlike anything she had ever known seethed deep within her.

He moved his mouth to her throat. “You are so soft. I could spend the rest of the night just touching you.”

“I think I would enjoy that very much.” There was a shivery note in her voice now. “I like the feel of your hands on me.”

He groaned again and his touch became ever more intimate. She knew a sudden wave of embarrassment when she realized that she was growing damp. Trent's hand was wet and slick now—because of her. She stirred uneasily, at the mercy of a great confusion of the senses. She wanted more, needed more, but she was not sure exactly what it was that she craved.

He did something with his hand and she drew a sharp breath. She gripped his bare shoulders, desperate now. What was happening to her?

“Trent.
Trent
.”

“Come for me,” he said.

“I don't understand.” She was breathless.

“There is nothing to understand. Just abandon yourself to pleasure. I want to know that I can give this to you.”

He probed deeper, slipping his fingers inside her. She almost shrieked aloud. She would have done so had she been able to catch her breath. Instinctively she tightened herself around him, searching for an escape from the impossible tension.

It was as if he were drawing a bowstring tighter and tighter until it threatened to snap.

When the release came she was overwhelmed by the cascading waves of sensation. Lost in the wonder of the moment she was only dimly aware that he had opened his nightclothes and freed himself.

He gripped her legs and wrapped them around his waist.

“Hold me,” he said.

It was a command and a plea.

She obeyed because there was nothing she wanted to do more than hold him. She wanted the moment to last forever. She tightened her legs around him and gripped his shoulders with all of her might.

He thrust deeply, heavily into her. A sharp, lancing pain shocked her nerves, jolting her back to reality.

Trent froze. “Calista.”

“It's all right,” she managed. She gripped him very tightly between her thighs. “It's all right.”

Trent hesitated and then, when she did not release him, he began to move within her. Slowly, deeply, deliberately at first. And then with more force.

She was still struggling to adjust to the feeling of being so tightly stretched when Trent stiffened. The muscles of his shoulders were like steel bands beneath her hands.

With an effort of will he pulled free of her body, grabbed a handkerchief out of his pocket, and sheathed himself in the large square of linen.

With a barely muffled groan, he gave himself up to his release.

When it was over he clutched the damp handkerchief in one hand and braced himself with his other hand planted on the desk beside her thigh. He loomed over her.

“Calista,” he said.