Читать книгу Into The Hall Of Vice - Anabelle Bryant - Страница 12

Chapter Four

Cole closed the ledger on his desk and claimed his cap from the hook by the door. He’d stared at numbers for over an hour with little progress. his mind distracted and body restless, though for the life of him he couldn’t determine why. Earlier in the day, when he’d gone to visit Maggie, he’d hoped their conversation would settle his unrest. Concentrating on their combined effort to aid the forgotten children of the streets often realigned his priorities whenever he seemed adrift. But with her out of house he’d chased a thief and met a breathtakingly beautiful lady instead. A woman whose presence reminded him of his origin, the darkness of his soul best kept smothered. She reminded how much remained impossibly unattainable.

The lady remained clear in his mind. Long blonde hair, jade-green eyes and the kind of smile that must cause every gentleman to fall in love. Yet he wasn’t so foolish to be taken in by Lady Amberson’s charms. She remained a curiosity, nothing more. Women of her ilk were above him. Mayhap he should have mentioned the surname to Max Sinclair earlier. Sin would know where in the order of things this lady belonged and banish all convoluted attention. Cole’s life and history contained strict parameters. Refined ladies were not interested in a by-blow whose past contained a long list of shameful activity, the grime of the street forever ingrained in his pores. In that, an immeasurable chasm separated his kind from the jewels of the ton.

Not that it mattered, he reminded himself. Not that it made one iota of difference. He’d never yearned for what lurked beyond his grasp and he wouldn’t start now because a pair of glittering green eyes had caught his attention. Love, that elusive and fickle emotion, was better left alone.

Jamming his cap down a little too hard, he left the Underworld by way of the side door, determined to walk a length and shake loose agitation, but as he rounded the side of the building he glimpsed a young boy peering in the first-floor window, or at least attempting to do so, his lean body poised on tiptoe as he struggled to balance on a rock required to reach the pane. It wasn’t one of the reformed urchins he’d trained and employed to put in an honest day’s effort, and none of the lads who worked for the hell would commit the offence.

‘You there.’ Cole paused two strides away, confident his startling bark of reprimand would spark the boy into a fast run and the situation would resolve itself, but the opposite proved true. The lad froze, as motionless as a star in the sky, and due to his lack of focus and precarious perch, nearly tumbled to the ground from the stone where he’d balanced. With something akin to delayed panic, the peeper took a leap any rabbit would envy and broke into a run.

Sparked into action, Cole followed to nab the lad’s elbow with a swift swipe and thrust him to rights against the side of the hell with the intent to teach him a stern lesson. Their eyes locked and, with unexpected force, a frisson of anticipation thrummed through him. The culprit may have experienced it too, as his eyes grew wide, the glitter of reflected light a-dance there. Taking advantage of the timeless moment, the lad attempted to jerk himself free and the harsh movement caused his cap to snag on the wooden slats and topple from his head. A rush of long yellow tresses as shimmery as moonbeams at midnight followed.

‘What the devil?’ The words faded on a note of recognition. A girl? A woman. He narrowed his eyes in assessment, his mind one beat slower than his body, which seemed immediately aware and peculiarly so. He knew those eyes. Lady Amberson? But why? Nothing seemed to make sense, most of all the hitch in his pulse. He was already a right bit cagey. He’d left the lady in Charing Cross, dressed to the nines in her fine day gown, tucked into a hackney towards Mayfair. He was a shrewd and clever businessman with acumen for complex problem solving, yet something here posed an unsolved riddle.

‘What are you doing…’ His eyes skimmed her length in the blue-black shadows. ‘Dressed this way?’ He still held her arm, some unexplainable force, protectiveness or untamed interest, or neither perhaps, provoking him to keep hold. What if she bolted? Took off running as quickly as she’d materialised? Safety, he reminded himself, it was an issue of personal safety. ‘Why were you attempting to look in this window?’

She uttered not a word. Her eyes lowered, breathing stilted and, if it wasn’t a trick of the moonlight, her skin paled considerably. Still, she didn’t attempt to free herself. He leaned a bit closer. ‘Will you answer the question?’

Her brows pleated slightly before at last she matched his gaze and puffed out an answer. ‘Which one?’

She seemed to relax, her arm all of a sudden softened beneath his touch. He should stop touching her now and let her go. Beyond reason, he tightened his hold. He doubted she would recognise him as the gent from Charing Cross with his disguise removed, but he remained unsure how keenly she studied his face and wasn’t apt to take the chance.

‘Any of them would suffice as a beginning.’ With a quick surveillance of the surrounding area, he released her and stepped away, hoping with his short withdrawal she’d find the words she needed. Indeed, she had no idea he was Mr Goodworth and that proved bloody convenient.

‘I’m dressed this way so I can enter the Underworld without notice. I wished to see inside.’

Similarly to their encounter earlier, the lady experienced no remorse at stating her intentions. One would think she was royalty, or very close to it, for all the attitude contained in her slight form.

His bark of laughter must have startled. Did she think her answer sufficed? Her eyes grew larger, if possible, her arresting green gaze fixed. ‘Of course you did, but the fast set inside would recognise you as an easy mark in less than a roll of the dice. One look at your graceful features, the curve of your…’ He lost his train of thought and jerked his attention to her face. ‘Your chin, with not a whisker in sight.’ Thank God. ‘Your delicate neck and slim legs. You believe a cap and some trousers can hide the truth? Why, they’re no disguise at all.’ He gestured up and down to echo the observations. She stared at him as if he were daft. Another laugh surfaced but he got the better of it. ‘Now explain this foolishness? What prompted this ridiculous charade and futile attempt to enter my hell?’ A lock of hair fell over his brow and with annoyance he pushed in back under the brim of his cap. He’d left in a rush, without his coat, his shirt sleeves rolled to avoid ink blots in the ledgers.

‘Your hell?’ Slim arched brows furrowed over intelligent eyes. ‘I was told Mr Sinclair owned this property. Are you the same?’

Oh, she was a dandy. Her tone rang with authority, absent of disdain but confident and seemingly accustomed to acquiring any and all things desired. He counted to five before he answered. ‘True enough he does. As do I and another of our associates. And you are?’ He watched with a keen eye, but no recognition to his identity showed. The dusky clouds overhead parted and filtered additional moonlight to cast her in a golden glow. Deuces, she was a beauty. If he didn’t know it already, the enchantment of starlight confirmed the conclusion.

‘Gemma.’ She gave a thoughtful pause and he waited. ‘I’m not sure my surname proves relevant.’

Aah, but he possessed that missing piece of the puzzle from their unexpected rendezvous this morning. ‘Well, Gemma.’ He tried her name on his tongue and oh, how he liked it, among other things. He was fast collecting a catalogue of observations, every one of them more enticing. Not that it mattered, he reminded. ‘I am Mr Hewitt and you are trespassing.’

‘I didn’t mean to get caught.’ She didn’t sound apologetic. If anything, she sounded annoyed he’d interrupted her plans.

‘Yes, I’ve no doubt.’ He wasn’t certain but he thought he smelled honeysuckle. None of the bushes near the hell were floral. It could only be the lady. ‘Well then, now that we’ve established your need for a costume, let’s have the why of it.’

She wrinkled her nose quite adorably and he rubbed his fingers together for want to touch her again. It wouldn’t be proper, but then their entire interaction had proved nothing of the sort. Gentlemen and Cits followed a code of ethics that did not apply to former beggars and homeless bastards. Lady Amberson was strictly forbidden. Regardless, his heart raced like a mad thing in his chest and he had no way to explain the reaction.

‘I’d rather not say.’

She eased back until she skimmed the brick building. Something had her on edge almost as much as he. It was due time she experienced a bit of discomfort. With a sardonic grin he inched closer. ‘Come now, you were caught looking through my window.’

‘It wasn’t exactly your window.’ Her answer was anything but rueful.

He slued his eyes above her head for effect. ‘Wrong again.’ The screech of an alley cat or otherwise disgruntled night creature caused her to startle, or mayhaps it was the way her brain processed his words. Truly the lady thought herself above. He really shouldn’t torture her so. ‘Now, sweet Gemma.’ He lowered his chin so his face aligned, their noses all but touching. ‘How can I help you?’ He spoke in a low rasp, vying for menacing but not quite pulling it off. He knew the perfect way to send her scampering and teach her a well-deserved lesson. And likewise, satisfy the vexatious curiosity racing in his blood.

Her eyes grew large as she matched his. ‘Mr Hewitt.’

‘Yes.’

‘I should take my leave.’ She swallowed as her gaze flittered to his mouth, down, up, then down, up again. ‘I’ve troubled you enough for one evening.’

‘You’re no trouble at all.’ The little minx. He leaned in, his body full of heat, her lips but a hair’s breadth from his and all reality changed in that moment. He should send her on her way, release her from this moment fraught with dangerous consequence, but the words to do so refused to emerge.

The mood shifted, her stance softened, though the air was charged with an energy he could in no way describe. It was as if he could feel her heartbeat, experience the rush of her emotions, all by being closer. He wondered if she detected the same. Perhaps she did. Her eyes fell closed. Long lush lashes bowed down to rest on pale cheeks, as smooth and opalescent as the inside of a rare shell.

He itched to trace his fingers over her skin, thread through her hair and close the tiny distance needed to connect their mouths. Nothing more than a little puff of breath escaped her lips while his body throbbed with yearning and, down below, his smalls tightened significantly.

No matter everything about the encounter was wrong. If anyone should see him, mouth to mouth, pressing a lad against the bricks of the hell, they would fail to understand the truth of the situation.

‘You’re a clever thief if ever I’ve met one.’ He never meant to voice the words, desperately attempting to regain clear thinking, but this seemed new territory.

‘Oh.’ Her eyes popped open.

He didn’t wait for her to elaborate.

He brought their mouths together and her shudder of surprise reverberated in his soul. She did nothing more than stand still at first while his mouth fit over hers with perfection, the sensual heat of her lips extended to every part of him, every nerve ending and cell. She tasted as he imagined, sweet, fresh and wonderful, and when she recovered from her initial shock, she placed her hands tentatively on his shoulders, the wall at her back reliable support, their kiss taking on a rhythm of its own.

He’d kissed dozens of women. Maybe more. Bawds, ladybirds, cast-offs and runaways. Not one proper. No one like Gemma. Her innocence and shy inhibition evoked an urgent need to touch, caress, explore every inch of her. He laid his palms flat against the wall, caging her with his body, the little temptress, and deepened the kiss, his tongue grazing over her bottom lip in invitation.

She gasped. Her fingers curled into the collar of his jacket and held tight. Did she like it? He tested her pleasure by stroking over her plump lower lip again. This time she sighed, relaxing just enough for him to lick his way inside, the warm wet silk of her mouth pure divinity. If only she were to rub her tongue against his… a rush of erotic suggestions flashed through his mind with lightning speed, his cock painfully hard. He fought for good sense and reason. And in an act of self-preservation as much as deprivation, somehow he did the one thing he needed to and withdrew.

Gemma closed her eyes and blinked hard. What just happened? She’d been kissed by a stranger. No, not a stranger. Mr Hewitt. Cole. Still, he was a stranger. More importantly, she’d been kissed.

A dozen conflicting thoughts fought for attention in her brain while wisps of emotion and sensation swirled within her chest down to her stomach and back up again. She was dizzy and yet never more in the moment, here, now, sheltered by his embrace. She wondered at her steadiness, her legs weak and her heart racing. Uncurling her fingers from where she’d grasped his shirt for strength, she ran her tongue along her lower lip with a startling sense of awe. He’d licked her there, tasted her mouth with his tongue. It was wicked and unforgivable, but thinking about it caused a keening spike of sensation to skitter throughout her limbs, all at once unable to keep still.

‘Oh.’ The single syllable was the best she could manage until her wits returned. ‘Mr Hewitt.’ She should slap him. Wasn’t that what years of propriety and etiquette lessons had drilled into her female mind? She needed to object and respond with outrage. But oh, how heavenly the intimacy of his kiss. It was as though she belonged, in that exact space and time, for that reason only.

He stared at her with a slightly bemused expression and his hair caught a slant of moonlight, the soft waves of yellow glinting gold from the sides of his cap, the lock across his forehead, even the soft fleece of his hard forearms. She reached forward, tempted to touch, and then remembered herself, only to rush her hands to her sides with haste. That wouldn’t do. Without a skirt full of folds, she had nowhere to hide her nervousness. She clasped one hand within the other and held her fingers for safekeeping.

His features softened when she’d said his name, some unfamiliar emotion visible in his eyes. Or perhaps it was a trick of shadow. This was no time for a flight of romantic fancy. They stood in near darkness without a candle or lantern to light their encounter. Still, she knew she was safe. Without fear to cloud her intuition, overwhelming and exalting emotions of pleasure and excitement overrode better judgement. A minute passed, maybe two, of breathless silence.

Good heavens, what was she doing? Telling mistruths and fabricating stories, sneaking out of house in disguise to gain entry into a scandalous establishment. A thrilling acknowledgement of daring chased the sudden conclusions and she broke into a smile. Her brother would be furious were he to discover what she’d done. A second bolt of awareness echoed the first to punctuate the realisation. She was all at once empowered and a tad naughty, to disobey the duke with no consequence.

And she’d kissed a stranger, a very handsome stranger, actually. His bold kiss stole her breath and caused her insides to dance.

The approaching pattern of carriage wheels on cobbles pulled her attention to the street. How could sixty minutes spend so quickly? If only she’d been discovered sooner, the ridiculous conclusion freed another smile. She matched eyes with Mr Hewitt whose penetrating gaze assessed her every motion with what could only be labelled an expression of forced patience.

‘I must go.’ She darted a quick peek towards the roadway.

‘Just like that, I’m to allow you to leave?’ Bemusement curled around each syllable and her heart began a new sprint. Would he kiss her again? How delightfully wicked. Sophie would die from envy when she returned with this story to tell.

‘Yes.’ Her answer, nothing more than a breathy feminine sigh, caused his brows to rise, and then he grinned and she forgot to breathe altogether.

‘Off with you then, minx. No more window peeping. Perhaps our paths will cross in the future.’ He gave a sharp nod towards the curb, and when at last she forced her eyes away, she slid from his shadow and never looked back.

‘What happened? Did you gain entry? You must tell me everything.’

Sophie’s insistent badgering threatened to obliterate the echo of Mr Hewitt’s voice, deep and rumbly in her ears, though Gemma struggled to retain the memory of his rich tenor. Too soon the slap of the steps and crack of the whip dashed away hope of accomplishing the feat. Sophie continued her inquisition and all was lost.

Gemma settled on the seat, easily accomplished without layers of ruffles and skirts, while Sophie turned the key in the lamp and illuminated the interior further.

‘What happened to you?’ A bewildered tone tainted Sophie’s voice and Gemma brought a hand to her cheek with the question before her friend leaned across the bench, face pinched as if examining an oddity at the Bartholomew Fair.

‘Why do you ask?’ Gemma strove for nonchalance though her pulse still hammered a frantic beat.

‘You’ve lost your cap and your skin is flushed pink. Did you run a long distance? I daresay even your breathing sounds odd.’ She hesitated for one last look before reclining against the bolster. ‘No one would ever mistake you for a boy.’

Gemma touched a fingertip to her lips, relieved her friend hadn’t noticed anything different there and secretly yearning to forestall the fast evaporation of the tingling deliciousness evoked by Mr Hewitt’s kiss. He was a wickedly handsome man, destined to turn female heads without an iota of effort. She grinned. ‘I never got in and found a bit of trouble.’ Indeed. ‘I exerted all my energies to escape.’

‘You look horribly mussed. The ordeal sounds wretched.’ Sophie frowned with empathy. ‘I’ve tried every way imaginable to enter that hell. Now you too, dressed as a lad, failed just as I. Good heavens, you’d think Prinny lived there the way they protect entry into the Underworld.’

The friends matched eyes and burst into a bout of giggles before Sophie continued with a sobering enquiry.

‘What do we do now? Neither of us is further along with our objective and each passing day brings stronger feelings of desperation for my brother’s welfare. He is quite alone, separated from everyone and everything he’s know his entire life. I daresay, whenever I think of his situation, my heart breaks further. It’s no matter he chose to leave. Something horrible must have driven him to the result.’

Gemma thought of Rosalind and her decision to stop speaking almost two years prior. How broken must one be inside to find comfort in absolute silence? Crispin and Rosalind were not so different in that way. The two had pulled away from the people who loved them most.

‘Yes.’ Gemma reached across and threaded her fingers with Sophie’s. ‘But we have each other now and we won’t stop until we discover the truth.’