“I very much doubt those are the inhibitions you are hoping to be loosened. You are beautiful and cunning, and flirt without thought. You were made to seduce and be seduced. But I’m not here for games, Esme. How did you come to be associated with my father? Why him?”
Lord help her, but she was so tempted to prove they were both made for seduction, seduction of each other. Everything about him called to the woman in her. The way his fingers held his glass. The way his lips secured the cigar. The slow way he sipped his scotch. He would savor a woman’s mouth in the same manner, leisurely, provocatively. He would graze his hands over her, pressing where she needed pressure, soothing with long, tender strokes what required gentleness. How tempted she’d been to take his mouth rather than deliver the cigar to it. He made her want. Desperately. He made her glad to be feminine to his masculinity. But she also knew that taking him to her bed would be a mistake for them both. She’d had a few lovers, men she’d enjoyed being with for a short time, but they hadn’t been associated with her work. It was best to set boundaries and to hold to them, respect them, honor them. Crossing a line could result in a tangled mess. “I met him at one of Podmore’s affairs.”
If the deep furrowing in his brow was any indication, she’d flummoxed him. “Based on yourquestions at the Mermaid, I didn’t think you knew Podmore.”
She arched a brow. “If I’d admitted to knowing him, you’d have been suspicious of my questions, and I was striving to determine what you knew.”
He sighed, when she imagined he really wanted to growl. “You’re still striving to manipulate me.”
“I will do so as long as you’re striving to manipulate me. But I’ll also answer honestly. You wanted to know how I came to know your father. It was at one of Podmore’s affairs.”
He studied her for a full minute before asking, “Like the one last night?”
“Yes.”
“My mother wasn’t in attendance, surely.”
“No. If it’s any consolation, I’m not sure your father was there for the sex that was being offered. Rather, O suspected more was afoot. It’s quite complicated.”
He released an impatient sigh.
“I know. You can comprehend complicated. Allow me to start at the beginning.”
“By all means.” His frustration with her was evident as he crushed the end of his cigar onto the glass dish that rested on the table for precisely that purpose. She rather regretted no longer being able to watch his fingers play over the tightly wound tobacco leaves. Then he picked up his glass, and she enjoyed the elegant movement of his hand. She shouldn’t find every aspect of him so intriguing. Years ago, after experiencinga great deal of hurt, she’d developed the habit of keeping her emotions, her feelings, on a tight leash, seldom allowed to wander. When she entertained in this room, she was seeking information. Certainly, she never divulged it. He made her want to confess all. Or perhaps she’d merely imbibed more scotch than she’d realized.
Moving slowly, provocatively, she refilled her glass, then his, liking the way his eyes heated with her movements, his gaze never wandering from her. By the time she returned to her chair, she felt as though her blood had become molten lava coursing through her veins. She shouldn’t continue to drink, but then she’d never been content to do only what she should. She took a sip, licked her lips, knowing she was unwise to taunt and tease him, but it had been so very long since she’d had the attentions of a man, especially one as sensual and virile as this one. “How is your shoulder?”
“The scotch is doing its job. The story, Princess.”
It did not escape her notice that he’d eliminated theIcemention from his moniker for her. Still, his address was not a warm term of endearment but she rather suspected was used to keep her at a distance. An awareness hovered between them that they’d be fools to acknowledge, that might serve to distract them from their goal. She could tell from his steady and penetrating gaze that he had refocused on the task at hand. He had a right to know how her involvement with his father hadcome about. Without it, perhaps things might have been different for him. “In the fall of 1872, rumors began to surface that a plot to assassinate the Queen was taking shape. Before that, there had been seven attempts on Victoria’s life carried out by lone gunmen. The first was declared insane. The last—only two years ago—did it for political reasons in a bid to see Irish prisoners released. The others were simply unhappy with life. So any hint of an assassination scheme is taken seriously by Scotland Yard and the Home Office. However, these whisperings were more alarming because they insinuated at an organized effort by more than a solitary man. More concerning was that these reports indicated thetonwas involved and the name Lucifer was often referenced.”
He’d been lounging and now sat bolt upright. “So you lied about that as well.”
She was offended. “I did not lie. You asked if your father mentioned him. He did not.”
He narrowed his eyes as though still feeling that she’d tricked him. “Who is he then? This Lucifer.”
She lifted a shoulder. “Haven’t the foggiest. Or if it is even a person. It could be a designated name for the plot. O had been placed in charge of discovering what was afoot but was having very little success in ferreting out the details or determining who was involved. Therefore, the following spring the Home Office dispatched me to join him in his efforts. O had come to believe that Podmore’s residence was serving as a meeting placefor those up to no good, the viscount’s frequent unconventional soirees providing an excuse for the traitors to gather without raising suspicions since those in attendance paid no attention to anything other than their own pleasures. And the guests are always masked. I was rather skeptical, but he suggested I infiltrate one of the parties to see what I could learn. He thought I’d have better hunting than he. Hence my visit to Podmore’s that led to my eventual encounter with your father in April of 1873.” She smiled. “He does not hold his liquor as well as you.”
“Nor as well as you, it would seem.”
“Have you been hoping to get me foxed?”
He settled back into the plush chair. “What about my father convinced you he was worth latching onto?”
Even with his ignoring her question, she knew that he had indeed hoped she’d get sozzled. He trusted her no more than she did him. What strange bedfellows they would make—but she also suspected it would be quite glorious. He was not a man to do things in half measures. His current quest revealed that much about him. “I was walking through the garden, far into it, where there was no light, only shadows, and I heard a man say, ‘If we’re to kill the Queen, we’d best not get caught.’ It was your father’s voice.”
Chapter 8
Marcus shot up out of the chair, crossed over to the fireplace, and slammed his fist against the mantel. Then he grabbed it with both hands and pressed his forehead to it until it was digging into him and became painful. He hadn’t realized until that moment he’d been striving to prove that his father had been innocent, had not been involved, had been mistakenly found guilty and hanged.Damn you, Father. Damn you to hell.
Swinging around, he glared at the woman sitting there so serenely, like the cold marble Griff had accused her of being. “I don’t believe you.”
She never averted her gaze, never blinked. “Yes, you do.”
“Where’s your Bible? I’ll have you swear on it.”
“I haven’t one. My mother beat Satan out of me and in so doing managed to beat God out as well. So you’ll have to take me at my word.”
