Page 26

He laughed lightly, which made him wince and press his hand to his ribs. He swung his feet to the floor and pushed himself up. The cloak slipped from his shoulders. His shirt hung loose and open at the throat and cuffs. He smelled of warm linen and himself. He took a moment to steady himself, his hands gripping the edge of the sofa. He seemed to have all his teeth, and his nose looked as straight and perfect as it had the day before.

All Emily’s questions rushed in on her. How had he come by his imperfect mouth and his indifference to opinion? What disaster had left him under his aunt’s dominion while still a boy?

The footman returned with the tray Emily had requested, and she occupied herself setting it down on a table near the green sofa. “Tankard or saline draft?” she asked.

“Tankard.”

“Was Phil part of this melee?” she asked.

Lynley took a swallow of the ale. She watched his throat work, surprised at her interest in a part of him usually swathed in linen. “I owe him. He broke it up.”

“And where were you? There are parts of London where unaccompanied gentlemen should never go.”

“We went to a club.”

“What sort of a club?” The reputable clubs gentlemen frequented were in the most fashionable neighborhoods, hardly dangerous territory.

“Exclusive gaming establishment. I was set upon walking home.”

Emily thought he had bigger holes in his story than in his stockings. Going gaming with Phil, the least likely gentleman to go gaming on the sly or to spend the small hours of the night apart from his wife.

“Was Lady Ravenhurst there?” Her voice sounded small to her.

Lynley choked a little on the ale and recovered. “She was.” He set the tankard aside. “Do you disapprove?”

It was not the question Emily expected. Lynley sat unmoving, his gaze fixed on his feet in the ruined stockings, waiting for her judgment. “Like your aunt, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“No.” She meant it. What she liked about him were the outrageous, impulsive things he did without regard to opinion. Well, that, and his person. He was a very...presentable gentleman. And he seemed in need of...a sympathetic touch. She jumped up and strode to the window.

“But I want to know why you engaged yourself to me in the midst of doing whatever it is you really came to London to do. What’s my part in all this?”

“Ah,” he said.

“Need time to collect your thoughts?” she asked. She took hold of the drapery cord and wound it around her hand. The idea that he was some sort of spy had taken hold of her mind. He’d dismissed the suggestion before, but now she meant to press him. “You are pursuing something? What? Missing government papers? Isn’t that a job for”—she yanked the cord, sending a flood of bright light into the room—“a Runner or an agent or what, a spy?”

She stood blinking in the eye-watering sunlight, trying to disentangle the cord around her fingers, when she felt him come up behind her. He took hold of her shoulders and turned her to face him, pulling her back toward the sofa. She shook her arm to free it of the cord and stumbled, and his arms came around her, and they tumbled down onto the sofa. He winced, but he didn’t let go.

She lay sprawled on top of him in a most unladylike awkwardness, her ear pressed to his beating heart, her legs tangled with his. She should push away, but his hand cupped her head and held her still. Under the thin lawn of his shirt, muscle and bone swelled and dipped. She rested her palm against his ribs and spread her fingers. He flinched even from her light touch.

“I have no lover’s interest in Lady Ravenhurst,” he said. His voice cracked as he spoke.

Emily lifted her head to meet his gaze, and tried to read the expression in his dark eyes.

* * * *

For a moment Lynley thought she might kiss him. His head swam with the scent of her, a piercing sweetness like the walled gardens of Jerez at night. Then he recognized the energy pulsing in her.

“You’re thinking,” he accused.

“Of course, I am. If you are not mooning over Lady Ravenhurst, then truly you are doing something else.”

While his body absorbed with every nerve ending the sweet sensation of Emily Radstock lying upon him, apparently she was unaffected. “What if I can’t tell you what that something is?”

A little furrow appeared between her brows. “Then how am I to help you?”

“Are you going to help?”