A Heart Worth Stealing, page 18
Then appear he did, stepping into the open doorway as he raked a hand through his hair. My eyes fixed onto him, the unrelenting pull of a magnet. Was it possible he’d grown more handsome, even with his loosened cravat and messy hair? Or perhaps it was because of his loosened cravat and messy hair. My legs grew shaky, my lungs suddenly grasping for air. It had been nearly a week since I’d last seen him, but still my reaction seemed unreasonable.
I knew the second he saw me. His hands froze in midair and he stared, those blue eyes tracing over me in one quick movement.
“Miss Wilde,” he said, his voice rough.
I stood abruptly. “Good evening, Mr. Travers.” I managed to sound unaffected, as if I’d come for a dinner party.
He stepped forward, his eyes never leaving mine. “What are you . . .” He stopped, blinking and looking around as if he’d just remembered we were surrounded by his family. I swallowed, and any words I’d clung to now fled into the night.
“Miss Wilde came looking for you,” his mother offered, since it appeared neither of us would speak. Her eyes danced. “Some business, I gather.”
“Yes, business.” I collected my wits. “I need to speak to you immediately, if I can.”
“What’s happened?” He looked me over again as if he might have missed an injury during his first perusal. “Are you well?”
The urgency in his voice made me swallow. “I’m well,” I said softly.
“Of course she is,” Mrs. Travers said. “Now stop lurking by the door and come sit down, Jack.”
Jack did not move any further into the room, still staring at me as if he hadn’t heard a word his mother had said. Oh, why had I come? I felt the mad desire to dash behind the window curtains and hide until they all went away. I tore my gaze from his, looking at Verity instead. She must have sensed my embarrassment, my uncertainty, because she quickly stood.
“Let us go, Mama,” she said, tugging on her mother’s arm. “We’ll leave them to talk.”
Mrs. Travers shook her head. “I’m sure Miss Wilde won’t mind—”
“I’ll speak with Miss Wilde alone.” Jack’s words shivered in the air between us. “Thank you, Mother.”
Mrs. Travers gave a dramatic huff. “Oh, all right.”
The elderly grandmother protested as Verity helped her to her feet—“Wretched child, taking an old woman from her fire”—but soon enough, the door closed behind the three of them and I was left alone with Jack.
He moved forward to brace his arms on the back of the sofa, watching me where I stood beside the fire. I was more unsure of myself now than I’d been at my first ball at sixteen. Everything had moved so quickly today. Was I truly standing before him now?
“Your family is very welcoming,” I blurted to fill the silence.
“Welcoming.” His lips twitched. “Is that another word for overwhelming and intrusive?”
The tightness in my lungs eased. He did not seem irritated that I’d ambushed him in his home.
“How did you find me?” he asked, curious.
“It was no easy feat,” I said. “Your friend the butcher is to be commended.”
He exhaled a laugh. “Ah, Tommy. He is frightening, isn’t he? I pay him handsomely to keep undesirables away from my family.”
“He did his job well,” I admitted. “I nearly gave up. But I had a spot of intuition that turned out to be right.”
“Which was?”
“Verity,” I said. “I followed her from the shop when she collected your mail.”
He gave a rueful smile. “You have found the chink in my armor, Miss Wilde, though I should hardly be surprised.”
I missed him calling me Ginny. Miss Wilde sounded far too stilted.
“Now that you’ve found me,” he said, coming around the sofa, “perhaps we ought to discuss why. Because charming as I am, I doubt you came all this way because you missed me.” He cleared his throat. “Especially as I was less than charming during our last interaction.”
He gestured for me to sit again, which gave me a few moments to gather my thoughts. I’d rehearsed it all in the coach, of course, but now, with him not three paces away and the fire warm on my back, it was difficult to remember my lines.
“I have much to tell you,” I said, first folding my hands in my lap, then brushing my skirts. His eyes followed my jerky movements, concern touching his brow. I hoped he assigned my nervousness to my news, not to the fact that he made my blood race beneath my skin.
“What’s happened?” he asked.
I took a steadying breath and reached into my reticule. “I received a letter,” I said, “with the mail this morning.”
I handed him the letter and watched as he read. He stilled, staring at the paper. Then he looked up at me, jaw so clenched it sent a bold ridge of muscle across his cheek.
“Tell me everything,” he commanded.
I explained about Marchant bringing me the mail, about the footman and the little boy.
“Was there anything else suspicious?” he asked, all business. “Any clues as to the boy’s identity?”
“None.”
“What did Mr. Northcott think of all this?” Jack’s voice was strained, and he stared steadfastly at the fire. For the first time since entering the house, my pulse calmed and resolve wound up my spine.
“I haven’t told Mr. Northcott,” I said. “I departed for London the same hour I received the letter.”
His eyes snapped to mine, sending a bolt of energy through me. “Why?” he asked, and that one word held so many questions.
Instead of answering, I stood and went to the window. “Catherine Davenport visited me two days ago,” I said, letting my hands drift over the curtains. “She had ever so much to tell me.”
A chair scuffed, and I saw in the window’s reflection that he’d also stood.
“I thought if I explained everything to her, she would understand,” he said from behind me. “I do not think I succeeded, and I am sorry if I made things worse.”
I winced, hearing the same words I’d cast at him the night of the ball. I turned to him, leaning back on the windowsill.
“No,” I said simply. “You did not make things worse. In fact, Catherine—well, she and I have called something of a truce between us. She won’t tell anyone about our charade.”
Jack stared at me, and I decided that I quite liked surprising him. He always seemed to be one step ahead of me—ahead of everyone, really—so it was satisfying to know something he did not.
He let out a long exhale. “I am glad for it. I never intended to make such a muddle of your life. I . . . well, let us simply say this is not the first time I have acted foolishly.”
“What do you mean?”
He sent me a long, searching look. “I never told you why I left Bow Street,” he said finally.
My heart skipped. I’d wanted to know when we first met, concerned as I’d been with his qualifications. Then I’d grown to know him better, and it hadn’t seemed so important. Now I wasn’t sure what I wanted. Would what he said change my opinion of him?
“No, you didn’t,” I said cautiously. If he wished to tell me, I would listen.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned to the fire, sending a wave of golden light across his skin. “A year and a half ago, I was given a case by the chief magistrate,” he said. “The murder of a young lady. She was from a prominent family, and the Home Office wanted the case resolved as quickly as possible.”
I nodded but did not speak, not wanting to stop him.
He ran a hand through his hair, throwing those already chaotic curls into more disarray and sending twirling flutters throughout my stomach. “I was eager to prove I was up to the task. Too eager. I attacked the case—interviewed all suspects, collected evidence, found what I assumed was proof.”
He pulled his brass-tipped stave from his jacket, weighing it in his hands. “I was convinced I knew who the murderer was: the man engaged to this young lady. Everything pointed to him, and he made no secret of the fact that he disliked me intruding in his business. I accused him of the murder publicly and caused quite the scene.”
“But it wasn’t him,” I said softly, already guessing the outcome.
Jack shook his head. “No. New evidence turned up shortly afterward, proving the guilty man was a stable boy in the girl’s household, madly in love with her and unable to watch her marry another.”
“That is awful.” I grimaced. “But why should this have caused you to leave Bow Street?”
He angled toward me, his face all regret, the baton still grasped in one hand. “The innocent man I’d accused was furious, as he had every right to be. I’d dragged his name through the mud in an attempt to find him guilty. He had all the right connections, and in the end, the chief magistrate had no choice but to dismiss me.”
My hands tightened around the window ledge behind me. I knew very well the difficult choices a magistrate faced, having watched my father make them again and again. If Jack had truly done what he said, then I could not help but think his punishment just. Still, I ached for him. He had only done his best.
“I know what you are thinking,” he said, “and I do not disagree. I deserved to be dismissed. It was painful, leaving my brother officers and a life I loved. But I decided to take what skills I had and make my living another way. I became a thief-taker.” He held up the stave, which glimmered in the candlelight. “This was supposed to serve as a reminder of all I’d lost. I would be methodical, careful, not jump to conclusions. I thought I had learned my lesson.” He gave a short laugh. “Until I fell into the same trap the night of the ball. I was so sure Catherine Davenport was involved. The risks did not matter, because once I had the evidence, there would be nothing she could do.”
His eyes fixed on mine. “I was a fool of the highest degree. It was only after I left Wimborne that I realized how much more your opinion meant to me than any reward. And for that I am sorry.” He stepped forward, set the stave on the small table beside the sofa. “Miss Wilde, I should gladly return to Wimborne with you, for no other reason than to finish what I began. But I’d like to know if that was your intention in coming here.”
His eyes, bold and direct, drew me forward, and my limbs moved without permission. I pushed myself away from the windowsill, coming to stand an arm’s length from him.
“When I saw that letter this morning,” I said softly, “I admit that it frightened me. But I did not go to Mr. Northcott. I had only one thought.” I paused. “I needed you.”
My words hung between us. The air snapped with awareness, the space that separated us as slight as a summer breeze. I drank in every inch of him—the shadow along his jaw, his dark brows, the taut muscles in his neck as he swallowed. His hand rose, gently brushing one of my red curls that had escaped my coiffure. He bent his head, parting his lips, looking very much as if he might kiss me.
I wanted him to. Heavens, how I wanted him to. The rushing in my chest, the thrill in every limb—I was so powerfully present. Had it only been a fortnight since I’d first met him? How had tolerance turned so quickly to attraction, and then to . . . whatever this was? I hardly knew if I could call it love, so subtly had it come. Wasn’t I supposed to know if I was in love?
If he kissed me, I had a feeling I might find out.
But something shifted in Jack’s eyes. He exhaled and stepped back, clasping his hands firmly behind him. Disappointment flooded me, disappointment that I should not feel, here in a thief-taker’s sitting room in a small London townhome so far from home.
But I could not help it. I craved his touch. I’d been denying it for as long as I’d known him, but I ached to learn how it might feel to have his lips brush against mine. He looked so maddeningly attractive at that moment that my mind was quite lost at the thought of what would happen if I simply crossed the chasm between us and pressed a kiss to that crooked corner of his mouth.
But he was right to step back. It wasn’t proper. And I’d never hated propriety more.
“I am glad you came,” he said quietly, staring at the fire. “I hated thinking I’d ruined so much for you. You can’t imagine how many times I’ve relived our conversation after the ball.”
I shook my head. “I am sorry now for the things I said to you.”
“They were true,” he said. “Much as I disliked hearing them.”
“I regret them all the same. You’ve done so much for Wimborne, for me.” I looked down at my hands, twisted before me. “I—well, I haven’t felt safe since you left.”
Even if I read to him from all my journals, all my girlish secrets and dreams, I did not think I could feel more raw and revealed than I did in that moment. Because my words held so much more than they seemed. More than I had even known I felt until this very moment.
“I need your help, Jack.” I looked up at him. It was the first time I’d ever addressed him by his given name aloud, and the significance was not lost on him. His features softened. “And I am glad you are willing to give it, because I’ve a crook to catch and I know no one better for the job than you.”
A grin caught at the corner of his mouth, the spot I’d contemplated kissing a few moments before. “That poor fellow is in for a world of trouble. Between the two of us, he hasn’t got a chance.”
Chapter 18
I accepted Verity’s invitation to join them for dinner, and Mrs. Travers insisted that Holloway and I stay the night there instead of at some drafty inn. I hesitated a moment before accepting. It was perfectly proper, of course, what with Mrs. Travers’s presence, but it still seemed strange. Did they know that Jack had stayed at Wimborne unchaperoned for so long?
Besides that, this was Jack’s home, Jack’s family. I felt every inch the interloper.
Jack’s grandmother elected to eat in her room—for which I was guiltily grateful—and so the rest of us changed and went into dinner. As soon as we were seated, Mrs. Travers focused her attention on me. “Miss Wilde, do you enjoy the theater?”
Jack groaned. “Mother, please.”
She held a hand to her chest. “It is an innocent question.”
“Far from it,” Verity said with amused exasperation. “Mama is an actress.”
“A tragedienne, my dear,” Mrs. Travers corrected.
Verity cast her eyes to the ceiling. “This is simply her way of bringing the conversation round to her.”
“Such impolite children I have.” Mrs. Travers was unaffected as she sipped her wine. “I only wish to discover what Miss Wilde and I have in common.”
“And to see if she has heard of the incomparable Trinity Travers,” Jack said, though his eyes twinkled.
But the name clicked inside my head and I sat up. “But I have heard of you. My dear friend Beatrice saw you in Henry VIII when she was in London last year. At Covent Garden?”
Mrs. Travers brightened. “I knew I liked you.” She pointed her fork at Verity and Jack in turn. “These two have no appreciation for the arts.”
“I am afraid I am far from a connoisseur,” I admitted. “But Beatrice was quite taken with your performance, and I trust her opinion beyond anything.”
Verity sighed. “Oh, she will be unbearable now.”
Mrs. Travers smiled, her rouged lips an arc of perfect red. “Of course I shall be, if only to remind you that I’ve been performing on stage since before you were born. Some respect would not go amiss.”
It was a fascinating revelation. Mrs. Travers, a famed actress. It was not difficult to see why she might have caught the eye of an earl. She was beautiful, graceful, enchanting. Even I found it difficult to look away from her.
As the meal was cleared away and pudding served, Mrs. Travers dove into a story about performing the trial scene in Henry VIII, and I peeked over at Jack. He grinned, holding my gaze until I blushed and looked away. I had the distinct impression that he liked what he saw. Not just me, but me being here in his home, with his mother and sister.
I liked it too.
He leaned my way, and I caught that scent of cedar I hadn’t realized I’d missed. “I have something I need to tell you,” he said in a low voice so as not to be overheard. “I’d forgotten until now.”
“What is it?”
His expression sobered. “You recall that peacher I told you about?”
“The one who said Father had a mole on his staff?” My fork stilled.
He nodded. “I told him to send me any additional information he found. I received a letter from him yesterday. He wrote that not only was he certain there was a mole, but that your father was aware and in fact investigating the matter himself before his death.”
My mouth parted. “Father knew?”
“So my man says,” he said. “Apparently, your father made subtle inquiries around town, collecting evidence in an attempt to discover this informant’s identity.”
I pressed my lips together. Father had been so different those last few weeks—absent-minded and jumpy. It had to be because of this. An investigation to reveal a traitor would make anyone agitated. But why hadn’t he told me?
“If he had evidence,” I said, “where is it? Why did he not use it?”
He shook his head. “Likely he didn’t have enough proof, and then . . .”
I swallowed. Then he died.
“I hate to ask again,” Jack said quietly, “but your father’s death. Are you certain there was nothing suspicious in it?”
For a wild moment, I allowed my imagination to take hold. Had Father’s investigation had anything to do with his death?
No, I told myself firmly. I knew the truth about this much, at least.
“Father died naturally,” I said weakly. “The doctor was certain. But beyond that, I was there. I know the signs of apoplexy well.” My voice broke.
Jack watched me, brow furrowed. Glancing at his sister and mother, who were arguing over which theater in London boasted the best stage, he took my hand beneath the table, squeezing it in his.
