Unraveling Secrets (The Secret Trilogy) Page 5

  Dizzy, his head pounding, he crawled to Michael first. He shook his unconscious friend, scared he’d lost him. After hearing a moan, Stephen had made his way to Lucas who’d been even closer to the transducer. He’d shoved pieces of debris off Lucas but hadn’t been able to rouse him. The pulse beating at the base of his neck had been the only sign of life.

  Professor Grisby had stood near one of the coils, next to the switch that powered the device. Stephen finally located the professor sprawled on the floor. The sight was something he’d never forget.

  One side of his mentor’s face was marred beyond recognition. His hands were burnt severely and his leg was turned at an odd angle. Fear roiled in Stephen’s throat as he’d put a trembling hand to the professor’s neck, hoping for a pulse.

  There’d been nothing.

  He’d gone for help, but the doctor had not been able to revive the professor. He’d told Stephen it was for the best—the damage Professor Grisby had sustained would’ve made surviving difficult, let alone having a normal life again.

  Lucas’s physical injuries had taken months to heal, but his mental and emotional wounds festered. He’d left for Brazil soon after he’d been physically able with nothing more than a gruff goodbye. As a second son, his presence in England wasn’t required. Stephen could only surmise that Lucas had decided a change of scenery would make life somehow more bearable. Whether he’d gained the ability to read auras, Stephen didn’t know, for Lucas had refused to speak of it before he’d left.

  Michael still lived in London, not far from Stephen, though he might as well live in America for as often as Stephen saw him. Michael pretended as if nothing untoward had occurred, as if they hadn’t been damaged and left with abnormal abilities. But Stephen knew better. Michael could see auras of success and failure. He’d greatly prospered since the accident. Many in London believed he had the most amazing luck. He seemed to have adjusted well to the change as he moved about in society easily, at least as far as Stephen knew.

  Stephen didn’t blame Michael for denying his aura-reading, but didn’t feel as forgiving about Michael denying him. Michael treated him like a distant cousin twice removed, making Stephen realize that Michael blamed him for the accident.

  The last time they’d spoken at any length had been at the professor’s funeral. They’d been stunned and sick with disbelief that they’d lost their mentor, that what had seemed such a simple experiment had resulted in his death. Watching the professor’s family—his sister and her children—as they grieved at the funeral had been heart wrenching and doubled his own grief.

  And his guilt.

  Why hadn’t he stopped the experiment when he’d realized it would fail?

  Stephen spun the device in his fingers. He’d conducted a few experiments of his own since then, trying to re-create what they’d done that night on a small scale. He’d hoped to reverse the affects—remove the curse they’d all received—that had left him abnormal, living on the fringes of society. But so far, he’d had no success. Certainly not to the scale needed to recreate what had happened.

  The scar he bore across his chest, not far from the gun wound, often pained him when the weather changed. Worse was the deep misery that buried him in darkness, always accompanied by a headache so severe he could barely function. In addition was the damned aura reading, which was impossible to ignore.

  His life might be imbalanced, but it was the best he could manage with the hand fate had dealt him.

  “Lord Ashbury?” Winston stood at the doorway of the library.

  “Yes?” He frowned, surprised his butler had bothered him. Winston was well aware of his preference to be left alone.

  “There’s a young lady here to see you.”

  Stephen stared at him, unable to comprehend such an occurrence, certain there had to be some sort of mistake. “A lady?”

  “Her name is Miss Abigail Bradford. She insists it’s important she speak with you.”

  A ringing noise sounded in his ears. “Abigail? She’s here?”

  “Shall I send her away?” Winston seemed as puzzled by the situation as he.

  “No. No, show her in.”

  Before Stephen could contemplate the wisdom of his decision, Winston had disappeared and soon after, Abigail entered the library. Immediately he realized he wasn’t prepared to see her again so soon.

  Or ever...for that matter.

  Five days seemed like nothing.

  His heart pounded. His mouth grew dry.

  If not for her golden aura and those cobalt blue eyes, he might not have recognized her. Gone were the trousers and worn jacket. In their place was an attractive slim-fitting gown of dark blue, the skirt artfully draped to reveal a pleated cream-colored underskirt. A clever hat matched her attire, graced with black feathers. The hat made her eyes appear even larger. Her pale cheeks held a delicate hint of rose.

  How she’d ever managed to pass as a boy was a miracle.

  “Good day, Lord Ashbury.” Her eyes held steady on his.

  Trying to gather his senses, he let the silence linger a moment longer than was polite. He needed to make certain she knew she was not welcome to visit him, especially not at his home. In fact, he’d told her to stay away from him when they’d last spoke. “Come to check on my health? Or lack thereof?”

  “I’m delighted to see you up and about. You appear to be recovering nicely.” Her smile was strained, giving him hope he was making his point.

  “No thanks to you.” He held her gaze, not bothering to return her smile.

  “I wanted to apologize again. I didn’t mean to shoot you.”

  “But you were prepared to shoot the man to whom you were speaking?” Though he’d thought on it long and hard, he couldn’t imagine why she’d been in the East End dressed as such and with a gun, no less. Perhaps if he appeased his curiosity, his mind would let it go. Then he could forget her.

  “In truth, I only wanted to frighten him, but I have to admit I was tempted. It would’ve solved my problem which seems to be escalating daily.” She swallowed hard. “That man was supposed to hang for killing my father.”

  Sympathy stirred deep within him, much to his regret. “He was never caught?”

  “Actually he was. Caught and convicted and sentenced to hang yet somehow he escaped. How that happened remains a mystery.”

  “I’m sure the police would be quite interested to hear your story.”

  Anger flashed briefly across her face. “I tried that, but they’ve accused me of giving them false information. Among other things.” She dropped her gaze, causing him to wonder of what else they’d accused her. Then he reminded himself it was none of his business.

  “If a peer was murdered, the police will be certain to punish the culprit.”

  “They think they did. Their records show he hung ten years ago.”

  She didn’t look crazed, but he had to wonder. If she was lying, her aura would darken, but at the moment, it continued to glow. Yet her story made no sense. “Perhaps you’re mistaken. Maybe the man isn’t who you think he is.”

  Her bottom lip quivered and those eyes grew even larger. “I saw him. I saw him murder my father. I will never forget what he looks like.”

  “No. I don’t suppose you will.” Stephen knew all too well that there were some things a person never forgot.

  “Simmons—that’s the man with whom I was speaking when you interrupted—admitted his identity.”

  A slim gray spear spiked through her aura. Now she was lying...or at least exaggerating. He waited to see if she’d admit it.

  “Well, perhaps not in so many words. But he recognized me. He knew exactly who I was. He tried to give me some other name with the story that he was just released from prison. Why else would he skulk about outside our home if he were not the same man? Even worse, he broke in to our house three days ago.”

  “If all that is true, why would he bother you? Do you think he seeks revenge?”

  She swallowed hard, her gaze met his agai
n. “That is my worst fear.”

  The truth of her statement was reflected in the depths of her eyes. That vulnerability made him long to draw her into his arms, to comfort her, to offer his protection. But if she knew the truth about him, she wouldn’t welcome his assistance. Far from it. “Your situation appears to be a difficult one. I wish you well with it.” He sat down, grateful the desk was between them which forced him to keep his distance.

  Now, if only she’d take his hint and leave.

  Instead, she did the opposite. She sat in the chair on the other side of his desk, making herself quite at home.

  “I’m afraid I have an appointment I must see to,” Stephen said, unable to believe she’d sat down uninvited.

  He couldn’t help but admire the tenacity of this woman. That had to be the reason he hadn’t thrown her out already. It couldn’t be because of her golden aura, or her sparkling blue eyes, or that slight dent in her chin.

  Nor could it be because somewhere, in the depths of his soul, he was grateful she was here, sitting in his library.

  “I’m here to ask for your help.”

  “I thought you were here to inquire about my health.” He no longer held hope that he could annoy her with his rude behavior but couldn’t resist trying. Never mind that he was starting to enjoy the challenge she presented.

  “I already told you I was glad to see you’re healing well and all that.” She waved her hand as she scooted forward on the edge of her seat. “But you see, I could think of no one else who could aid me.”

  The last thing he wanted to do was get involved with this woman in any way. Especially since after their brief meeting, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Imagine what might happen if he had more time with her. No. The best course of action—the only course of action—was to get her to leave his home. Now.

  “I’m terribly sorry, but as I said, I must be going.” He rose, careful not to jar his shoulder. “Your best course of action would be to contact the police. Perhaps if you speak with someone in charge, they’ll be more sympathetic to your plight.”

  But she didn’t budge. She kept her seat, those big blue eyes peering up at him from beneath her hat. “He broke in. Though we’ve replaced the locks, he could do so again. Please, my lord. I am begging you for help. I have no one else to ask.”

  “Surely you have some male relative you could prevail upon.”

  “There’s only me, my stepmother, and my younger twin sisters. Uncle Reginald remains in the country. He does not care for the city or for us for that matter. There’s no one else.”

  Abigail studied the lord, trying to determine the best way to convince him to help her. He looked much as she remembered although seeing him in broad daylight in clean clothes certainly enhanced his attractiveness.

  His green eyes, framed by dark brows, were all the more arresting set against his tanned skin. His straight brown hair swept to the side. While his expression was less than friendly, she couldn’t stop the flutter in her stomach at the solid strength of him.

  His clothing was modest but impeccable. She was certain his broad shoulders had more to do with his true form than his well-cut morning coat. A waistcoat of the same cloth was just visible in the coat’s opening and a white shirt with a down-turned collar set off his dark skin. A knotted black silk neck scarf completed the suit.

  His attractiveness and confident manner were appealing in a way she’d never before encountered. He appeared capable of handling anything, including forcing Vincent Simmons to leave her family alone.

  He was exactly the sort of man she needed.

  Or rather, what the situation required.

  How could she get him to agree to do as she asked? Pleading with him seemed to have no effect. Perhaps cold, clear logic was the key.

  “Since you interfered with my questioning of the man, it’s only right you fix the problem.” She eased back in her chair, prepared to make her argument. She ruthlessly shoved aside her guilt at shooting him. In some respects, that had been as much his fault as hers. Or so she kept telling herself.

  “The only thing I interfered with was you putting a bullet through him.”

  “I was trying to get the truth out of him when you...got in the way.” Everything had happened so fast. Would she really have pulled the trigger if Lord Ashbury hadn’t come along?

  “I’m sure.” He nodded as though pacifying her.

  She held back her ire. Whether or not he believed her didn’t matter. She rose to face him, desperate to convince him. “You are my only hope.”

  “You need the police, not me.”

  “Their lack of response has forced me to take action into my own hands.”

  He hesitated for the barest moment then shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. I bid you good day.” He gestured toward the door as though he couldn’t wait to be rid of her.

  She promptly sat again, deciding he’d have to physically remove her if he didn’t agree to assist her. She had no other options. “No.”

  “No? I don’t believe you’re in a position to refuse.” He moved around the desk to stand before her chair, staring at her in disbelief.

  “Aren’t I?” With a smile, she looked up at him, waiting for him to realize she had no intention of leaving until he agreed to help her.

  His eyes narrowed. “You are a very determined woman.”

  “I know what I need.”

  He leaned down, bracing his good hand on the back of her chair.

  She jerked back as her world tilted. He was so close she could see small flecks of gold in his green eyes. Her gaze drifted down to his lips. Even as she watched, he drew nearer and her heart stopped. She instinctively tipped her mouth to meet his.

  Perhaps she needed him even more than she’d realized.

  In different ways than she’d first thought.

  “Go to the police.” He spoke slowly, enunciating each word. “Keep talking to them until you get someone who will listen.”

  A moment passed before the meaning of his words sank in. Surely her disappointment wasn’t because he hadn’t kissed her. No. It was because he refused to help, she reminded herself. Anger quickly replaced the disappointment.

  “I’ve already told you. I did that,” she snapped, annoyed with herself and her ridiculous response to this man. Her throat burned with the effort to control how she felt, how desperate she was to put Simmons and everything he represented behind her. “I need you.” She swallowed and tried to make herself clearer. “I need your help.”

  She stared at him, trying to gauge his reaction. He was her answer. She was convinced of it. If only she could convince him. “Please.”

  His gaze held hers for the length of a breath then slowly lowered to her lips. Her breath caught in her lungs as heat curled through her, wrapping its tendrils around her.

  He drew back and straightened with a grimace, breaking the spell. “I cannot help you.”

  Distraught, her thoughts ran wild as she tried to think of any means, fair or foul, to force him to help her. “In exchange for your assistance, I offer my silence about your nefarious activities.”

  “What?”

  “Your association with The Barbican. That’s hardly an appropriate activity for a lord.”

  He scoffed and turned away to pace the room. “Now you intend to blackmail me? Very unladylike of you.” His light tone mocked the gravity of her threat.

  “I will do anything it takes to protect my family. Anything.” She tried to make her tone menacing, but wasn’t sure what that should sound like.

  He turned to look at her, his gaze resting just above her head. She resisted the urge to check her hat to see if it sat askew.

  “While you are obviously adept at many things, blackmail is not your forte.”

  “How do you know what I’m capable of?”

  “Let’s just say I’m a good judge of character,” he said with another glance at her head.

  “It would be quite simple,” she continued as though he
hadn’t already refused her multiple times. “I have the address of his lodgings and his favorite pub. It would only take a few moments of your time.”

  He hesitated and she hoped he was seriously considering helping her. Had she finally captured his sympathy?

  “You want someone to warn him?” he asked. “That’s all?”

  She bit her lip, for in her heart she feared more than that would be necessary to make Simmons go away. But it was a start. “Yes. Precisely.” She waited, her breath caught in her throat, hoping he would agree at last.

  A long moment of silence followed. “Very well then. I’ll see what I can do.”

  She jumped to her feet, so grateful that it was all she could do to maintain her composure. “Thank you so very much, my lord.”

  “But know this.” His narrowed gaze met hers, her heart skipping a beat at the anger she saw there. “You will not visit my home again. Do I make myself clear?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Farley looked up from his desk as Stephen strode into his office at The Barbican. “There you are. I thought perhaps you’d decided to abandon me in favor of returning to polite society.”

  Stephen scoffed. “Hardly.”

  “I’m pleased to see that you’re recovering so well.”

  In response, Stephen raised his arm, far from pleased with his progress. “It’s coming along, I suppose.”

  “These things take time.” Farley folded his hands on the desk as he watched Stephen pace the room.

  How like Farley to refrain from asking where he’d been. “I have been wasting time chasing phantoms.”

  “Pardon me?”

  With a heavy sigh, Stephen raked his good hand through his hair. “I’m sure you remember Miss Bradford.”

  Farley frowned for a long moment before his eyes widened. “The woman who shot you?” The look of shock on his face was almost comical.