Unraveling Secrets (The Secret Trilogy) Page 9

  Stephen crossed the street. “Thomas,” he ground out. “I thought we agreed you’d try harder to control her.”

  “You’ve a fine sense of humor, my lord. Glad to see those men didn’t beat that out of you,” the footman said as he opened the carriage door.

  “You could’ve come and helped,” Stephen suggested, rather annoyed that he hadn’t.

  “Didn’t look like you needed assistance.” Thomas grinned.

  Stephen stepped into the carriage, latching the door behind him. Abigail’s fragrance filled the small space, a welcome reprieve from the scents of smoke, ale and sweat that surely clung to him from the tavern.

  Why did she insist on letting the filth of this area touch her? No good could come of it.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, her honeyed tone pulling at him along with her scent.

  “Fine,” he gritted out, determined to resist her allure. He’d dreamed of her again last night and those images teased him now.

  “What was that all about?”

  “A minor disagreement.” He eased back in the corner of the seat opposite her, wincing as his shoulder throbbed with pain. “What are you doing here?”

  “I think that would be obvious.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps you could enlighten me anyway.”

  “You’ve advised me that I am not to visit you at your home or your...business establishment. What other recourse is left to me but to follow you to someplace where I can speak with you?”

  “I’m certain I told you not to come to the East End again either.”

  “I remained in my carriage. It’s not as if I am wandering the streets.”

  “That hardly keeps you out of harm’s way.” He had to make it clear that she wasn’t safe in this part of the city. Logic had no affect on this woman. If anything happened to her—he didn’t want to finish the thought.

  “So you’re not going to tell me why you were brawling when we came upon you?” she asked.

  “Nothing that involves you.” He knew he spoke bluntly but couldn’t help himself. It annoyed him that she’d seen him in what amounted to a street brawl.

  “Do you often get in fights?” She sounded cross at the idea of it.

  He heaved a sigh. “At times, they are unavoidable in my line of work.”

  “Then I suggest you seek a different occupation.”

  As if it were that easy, he thought. “What was so bloody important that you found me here?”

  The dim glow cast by the carriage lamp created an intimacy he would’ve preferred to avoid. After the events of the evening, a part deep inside him strained to be closer to her, to absorb her golden light and soothe his darkness. The temptation of her surrounded him until he could hardly breathe. Her face was hidden in shadows but he didn’t have to see her expression to feel her displeasure. Perhaps that would help him keep his distance.

  “My apologies for interrupting your evening of drinking and brawling, but two days have passed since I’ve heard anything from you.”

  “When I have something to tell you, I’ll contact you. Following me serves no purpose.”

  She huffed in response. “Are you telling me you still don’t know of Simmons’ whereabouts?”

  Stephen’s frustration pushed him to the edge of his seat. “I’m sure you remember me mentioning other problems that have arisen which occupy my time. Perhaps you could consider for a moment that the world does not revolve around you.”

  She sat forward as well until her face was mere inches from his, not backing down. He tried his best to ignore the fact that her reaction was exactly what he’d hoped for. That she’d push him beyond the bounds of gentlemanly behavior, and he’d be left with no choice but to touch her.

  “My family’s safety is at stake. I have difficulty believing anything you’re doing in some disreputable pub could be more pressing.”

  Her gaze dropped to his lips, and the fragile restraint he had on his desire for her snapped. Before he could think twice, he took her mouth with his.

  She tasted so sweet, as though she’d just drunk a golden elixir blended specifically to entice him. Her lips curved to fit his. They were soft and supple, and he lifted his hand to caress her cheek. Her skin was just as smooth and silky as he’d remembered.

  She responded to his kiss tentatively at first, as though uncertain what she should do. He’d caught her by surprise, of that he had no doubt.

  He waited, expecting her to shove him back and put him in his place. Instead she tilted her head and deepened the kiss. Desire speared through him, almost painful in its intensity. It had been so long since he’d felt like this, since he’d been with a woman who stirred him so.

  Her hand touched the back of his neck, curving around the sensitive skin at his nape, her gloved fingers running through his hair. Her touch was pure magic, at once soothing him and making him yearn for more.

  He opted for more, plundering, parting his lips to taste her more fully. She stilled at his sudden invasion then opened her lips to return the favor. Her ardor added to his own until his head swam with her sweetness.

  His hands sought her body of their own accord, finding their way beneath her cloak. The feel of her slim waist only made him wish for the barriers between them to be gone. He lingered there, then raised his hands until his fingers grazed the swell of her breasts.

  At last he pulled away before he couldn’t any longer, before he went further than he could bear. He rested his forehead against hers as he attempted to slow his hammering heart and rein in his passion before he took her on the seat of the carriage.

  He drew back to look at her. Sure enough, her aura held a rosy glow, making her all the more beautiful. But under that rose color was the golden light that had captured his notice the moment he’d met her.

  A reminder of why she was not for him.

  She deserved a man who could honor that golden glow with a marriage proposal and a normal family life, something he could not offer. Not with the darkness buried inside him.

  Clenching his jaw, he lowered his hands, unable to resist trailing a finger along the curve of her cheek and the slight indentation of her chin as he let her go. “You must stay away, Abigail. You are not safe here.”

  Her blue eyes assessed him for a long moment. Her expression held only candor, no deceitful fluttering of her lashes, no coy smile. “I’m not supposed to visit your home or The Barbican. I’m not supposed to follow you here.” She gestured with her hand as she spoke. “What exactly do you expect of me?”

  “I expect you to stay home where you’ll be protected. Have patience and we’ll see this resolved.”

  From the thin line of her lips, he knew she didn’t care for his answer.

  “No leads arose at the tavern I was just in, but I will find him. Simmons is known by a few, but none seem to know him well. He isn’t moving with the same people he was before his time in prison and he’s using other names besides Edward Smith.”

  “How can I protect Mother and the girls while you search? Locked doors aren’t enough to stop him.” Her anxious tone spoke volumes.

  Stephen understood her worry, but if the man hadn’t harmed her or her family yet, it was doubtful he would. On the other hand, the missing children he’d been searching for might already be dead. The threat to them was unknown. It wasn’t fair that he had to choose between the two, but life wasn’t fair. He’d learned that long ago. He had to pick the bigger evil to pursue.

  “Post additional footmen at the doors night and day. Take more of them with you when you go out.”

  “Do you have any idea how impractical that is? How many footmen do you think we have?”

  “It’s only temporary. Until we locate Simmons.”

  “What am I to tell my family?”

  “Tell them you’ve heard vandals are in the area and you want extra protection.”

  She looked appalled at his suggestion. “I don’t want to lie to them.”

  “Haven’t you already?” He sat b
ack. “If they aren’t aware of Simmons and the threat he poses, you’ve obviously been withholding information. Omission is a lie.”

  “I only did that to protect them. To make certain they don’t worry. I’m not certain what else to do.” She chewed her lower lip, and he could tell that some idea was forming in her mind.

  He braced himself, for he was certain he wouldn’t like it.

  “We should work together.” She offered the suggestion in a rush as though it were brilliant.

  “What?”

  “Together. Follow the leads as a team. It would be much more efficient.”

  He stared at her, shaking his head. Where did her outlandish ideas come from? Perhaps she’d read one too many novels. “No.”

  “Why? I think it’s truly a sound notion. We’ll find him in no time.” Her enthusiastic tone held such hope.

  “No.”

  “Yes.” There was that hope again.

  “No.”

  “I have the time which you don’t, and you have the leads, which I lack. It makes perfect sense.”

  He placed a finger along her lips to stop any more ridiculous notions she might come up with. “Listen well. We’re working on your problem each and every day. I’ll let you know as soon as we have something of interest to report. I expect you to go home and stay out of harm’s way. Do you understand?”

  She drew a breath to argue.

  “Abigail,” he murmured softly.

  Her crestfallen expression was more than he could stand.

  What was he to do with her? He removed his finger and placed a lingering kiss on her sweet lips, being careful to keep his desire reined in.

  “Have patience. I will be in touch.” He was out the door before she could protest. He cast one more look at her, appreciating her beauty in the soft glow of the carriage light and did his best to ignore her disappointment.

  He escaped into the foggy night with the barest hold on his sanity, certain he’d be chasing her in his dreams that night.

  What crazed notion would she come up with next?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Abigail perused the growing crowd at Lord and Lady Mortenson’s ball. The annual May celebration was a favorite of her stepmother’s, and therefore not to be missed, at least not according to her Irene.

  Stunning in a shimmering gown of gray silk with a fitted rose-colored underskirt, Irene chatted nearby with Lady Mortenson as Abigail tried not to look at the clock again. She was certain it was malfunctioning as the hands hadn’t moved.

  In truth, this wasn’t the first time she’d experienced that phenomena since she’d seen Lord Ashbury three days past. She’d had trouble focusing on anything, and time seemed to crawl at a snail’s pace. All she could think of was the way he’d held her as though he’d needed her. That lovely swirl of sensation in the pit of her stomach when she was near him. The heat of his lips on hers. Just the memory of that feeling made her mouth go dry and her body tingle in the oddest places.

  This revelation had forced her to rethink the image she held of herself. She drew a deep breath and couldn’t help but smile at this new knowledge.

  Abigail Bradford was capable of passion.

  For years, she’d thought herself flawed. She’d danced with men, had her hand held by men, even suffered a kiss or two.

  And felt nothing.

  Lord Ashbury had changed all that. She’d yet to determine what was different about him that caused her reaction. Perhaps some scientific explanation existed for the chemistry between them, but the sensation felt too good for her to be concerned about the mechanics of it. She couldn’t help the giggle that bubbled up in her throat, spilling onto her face, which caught the attention of her stepmother.

  Irene halted mid-sentence to stare. “Abigail, are you well?”

  The heat of a blush crept up Abigail’s cheeks. “I’m fine. It’s terribly warm in here, don’t you think?”

  Irene continued to watch her as she resumed her conversation with Lady Mortenson, so Abigail tried to think of something less distracting.

  She bit back a sigh as she caught sight of Lord Brighton approaching. The wealthy lord annoyed her to no end with his condescending attitude. He considered himself quite the catch and had made it clear that he thought men were far superior to women. Abigail had found it amusing at first that he’d sought her out when he believed education of any sort was wasted on women. She’d never bothered to hide her enjoyment of learning, especially of financial matters. But his snide comments at her interests grew more irritating each time she spoke with him.

  His ridiculous attire proved money didn’t buy good taste. Tonight he wore an orange-striped silk waistcoat with a matching cravat. Orange wasn’t becoming with his ruddy complexion, but she was convinced no man could wear the color well. She wondered if he wore a corset to encase his ample form as he often seemed short of breath.

  She pretended her attention was riveted on the opposite corner of the room with little hope it would dissuade him from speaking with her.

  “Miss Bradford! Such a delight to see you this evening.”

  “Lord Brighton.” His blond hair was parted with precision down the middle and his sideburns covered a good portion of his jaw. His nose was overly long and his thin lips did little to hide his yellowed teeth.

  He greeted her stepmother and Lady Mortenson then returned his attention to her.

  Abigail had done everything she could think of to discourage the lord but he seemed intent on attempting to court her. The man was unable to take ‘no’ for an answer. She cast a look at Irene, wondering if her stepmother had encouraged Lord Brighton to pursue her.

  How she wished Irene would understand that she didn’t want a traditional role of wife, even if it was to a rich husband. After working long and hard to learn how to manage their income and make wise investments, she had no desire to hand their money, or her freedom, to a husband.

  She needed to make Irene understand that Lord Brighton was not for her. The idea of being trapped into a marriage with someone she neither liked nor respected made her shudder.

  “That’s a lovely gown you’re wearing,” he said, his breath reeking of onions, as he gestured toward her deep burgundy gown.

  “I fear it clashes terribly with your waistcoat,” she said, covering her nose with her gloved hand.

  He frowned down at the orange atrocity straining at the buttons, then back to her. “I hardly think—”

  “No need to take affront. I’m merely stating a fact.” She turned her attention back to the crowd, hoping that if she ignored him, he’d go away.

  Dancers filled the floor and Abigail eyed them with longing. Gowns in a wide array of colors glided past her, glinting in the soft light. Though she loved to dance, she’d learned not to overindulge in it. Dancing encouraged things like courting. If the proper distance wasn’t maintained, or if one danced too many times with a particular partner, rumors circulated. While she was considered off-the-shelf by most of the ton, she couldn’t ignore the rules completely.

  “I say, Miss Bradford, would you care to dance?”

  If only Lord Brighton would view her as no longer eligible for marriage. She searched for an excuse to deny his request for he was not an accomplished dancer. Rather than allowing her to follow his lead, he used his strength to move her where he thought she should go—an unpleasant sensation for certain. “I fear I twisted my ankle earlier,” she lied with little remorse.

  “Abigail!”

  The familiar female voice proved a welcome distraction. “Catherine, delightful to see you again.” A delight because it would distract Lord Brighton. She wasn’t averse to throwing Catherine in his path.

  “Have you met Lord Brighton?” Abigail asked.

  “Not formally.” Catherine turned with a polite smile to the lord whose face lit with interest.

  Abigail made the introductions, relieved to let the burden of small talk fall to Catherine. Her ploy didn’t last long as Catherine moved to stand on the opposit
e side of her, distancing herself from the annoying lord.

  “Have you seen Lord Weston?” Catherine whispered as she scanned the throng.

  “No. I don’t believe so. Has he caught your interest?” She couldn’t contain her curiosity.

  “Oh, yes. I’m trying to make certain I’ve caught his.” Catherine gave her a sly smile.

  Abigail almost felt sorry for the lord. Did he realize what he was getting himself into?

  Catherine’s mannerisms suddenly changed to that of a fluttery debutante, complete with a giddy laugh. Abigail stared, wondering what had caused her drastic change in behavior.

  Then Abigail saw Lord Weston approaching and the reason for Catherine’s transformation was explained, but nonetheless distasteful. It seemed so deceptive to capture a suitor by pretending to be something you weren’t.

  An unexpected pang of longing filled her. What would it be like to have a man like Lord Weston seek her attention? But it wasn’t Lord Weston who filled her mind. She reined in her overactive imagination. There was no point in wishing for things that would never be.

  “Good evening, ladies,” Lord Weston said as he approached, his gaze dropping to Catherine’s bosom. Abigail couldn’t blame him the way Catherine thrust her abundant breasts forward.

  Lord Weston was handsome with intelligent, assessing blue eyes and dark hair. His black jacket was set off by a white shirt and deep blue waistcoat, so different than Brighton’s.

  Abigail could see why he held Catherine’s interest, but she wondered what in Catherine held his. She was attractive enough, Abigail supposed, but she just wasn’t very...nice. There was no other way to put it. In Abigail’s opinion, what lay on the inside of a person was as important as the outside.

  Lord Weston’s attention turned to Lord Brighton and he frowned, staring at the lord intently. He seemed less than pleased by what he saw. Perhaps it was the orange waistcoat that offended him. Then he seemed to catch himself and smooth out his expression.

  “You remember Miss Bradford?” Catherine asked.

  Lord Weston smiled. “Of course. Are you enjoying the ball?” His gaze caught on her hair rather than her face.