More than a Masquerade by Adele Clee
Chapter 8
Take me to bed.
The words replayed in Eli’s mind as he escorted Miss Gambit along the dimly lit tunnels. This time she didn’t walk behind, gripping his shoulder, maintaining some distance. He might have coped with that. No. The woman wound her arms around his waist and snuggled into him as he helped her navigate the subterranean passageways.
“You smell divine, Mr Hunter.” Miss Gambit spoke in the arousing voice of a woman in her cups. She pressed her nose to his neck and inhaled deeply. “It strokes the senses like a lover’s sweet caress.”
Dear God!
Eli cleared his throat. “It’s just cologne. Let’s concentrate on getting you upstairs without Truscott pointing the finger and calling you a drunkard.”
“Hmm. You smell good enough to eat.”
Lord almighty!
“The drink is taking effect, Miss Gambit. Might I suggest you concentrate on placing one foot in front of the other and resist the temptation to spout nonsense?” He should have insisted Crocker pour her half measures, but it would have drawn attention to her weaknesses.
“It’s not nonsense.” The lady brought them to an abrupt halt. “Even after downing three goblets of wine, I speak the truth.” She swayed as she glanced up at the low ceiling, remembered they were in a confined space and panicked. “Oh, I need air!”
She gathered her skirts and took to her heels before Eli had time to react. He chased after her, watched her trip up the stone steps and scramble on her hands and knees into the rear courtyard.
Clasping her elbow firmly, he hauled her to her feet.
Her fear turned to frustration. “Oh, if there’s justice in the world, Jacob Hanaway would spend the rest of his days on a prison hulk. Perhaps I could drug him with laudanum and bundle him into a crate bound for India.”
“Vengeance is a fool’s game. It won’t bring peace.” They were Daventry’s words, not Eli’s. Every night, in those quiet moments before sleep, he prayed fate served his brother a hearty dish of comeuppance.
“What would bring you peace, sir?” Possessed by a sudden playful manner, the lady gripped him by the upper arms, her dainty hands wrapping around his biceps. “Tell me, and I shall do everything in my power to fulfil your desires.”
God’s teeth!
“Let’s have this conversation when you’re sober, madam. In the meantime, I shall rest easy once you’re safe in your room.”
“Yes, you’re supposed to be taking me to bed.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the house as if she might ravish him once she had him alone upstairs.
Blood raced to Eli’s loins. Still, he managed to bundle her up the servants’ stairs and usher her into the bedchamber. Relieved they’d avoided an altercation with Truscott, he scanned the corridor, promptly closed the door and turned the key in the lock.
He faced the only woman who unnerved him, expecting to find her comatose, sprawled on the red counterpane like a sumptuous feast, tempting him to gorge on every morsel. Her discarded satchel lay on the bed, but Miss Gambit had taken to dancing about the room, humming a waltz.
“This chamber is fit for a queen.” Her wide eyes took in the vast tapestries hanging on the red papered walls. “Do you dance, Mr Hunter?”
“No.” He’d not danced in years and had no intention of doing so now. Still, that didn’t stop him devouring the scene before him. “Serious men solve problems. They drink to numb emotions. They do not prance about like popinjays because it’s the only way they’ll ever hold a woman.”
Eli had not taken a woman in his arms since that fateful night three years ago. Had not even considered it until now.
“People say dancing is a prelude to seduction.”
Like the temptress Delilah, Miss Gambit was determined to steal his strength. She pulled pins from her hair, scattering them on the floor as she twirled about the room. The sight stirred something deep inside. A longing to escape the ropes of restraint. A craving to break free. But the need to protect his heart, to ensure he never again felt the bitter taste of betrayal, was the reason he retreated to his inner sanctum.
“You’re an agent of the Order, Miss Gambit. I suggest you start acting like one.” The words sounded sharper than he’d intended.
Had she been in full command of her faculties, she would have offered a witty retort, the sort of set down that made her so appealing. But the lady swept towards him and captured his hands.
“Come dance with me, Mr Hunter. You owe me a waltz after the terrible way you treated me at Vauxhall.”
“Madam, I rescued you from the clutches of scoundrels, near broke my back carrying you the length of the Hermits Walk.” He tugged his hands free, though the devil on his shoulder begged him to pull her closer. “I would hardly call that unfair treatment.”
Dizzy and drunk, Miss Gambit stumbled.
Eli caught her, his arm snaking around her back before his mind engaged.
The lady laughed as she shook her golden locks free, transforming into an enticing vision that would leave any man wanting.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed her luscious body to his and moved as if an arousing melody breezed through the room.
“So you do dance, sir. Very well, I might add.”
He rocked against her like a man intoxicated. Intoxicated by the seductive sway of her hips. Intoxicated by the playful glint in her eyes.
He pictured Lucius Daventry watching from the shadows. Perhaps he’d stolen the damn seal just to prove there was a woman in the world who could tempt Eli. And by God, Miss Gambit would tempt the Lord to sin.
“I’m not dancing, madam. I’m preventing you from falling.”
“Always the gentleman, Mr Hunter.” She reached up and brushed an errant lock of hair from his brow. “Will you assist me while I cast up my accounts? Will you carry me to bed and tuck me in, sir?”
“My only focus is catching the traitor,” he lied. At the present moment, he could think about nothing but how glorious it felt to hold her in his arms. “I need you sober. I’ll do whatever it takes to accomplish the task.”
“You were supposed to teach me to take my drink.” She fixed him with a brilliant blue stare as if it were the only way to stop the room spinning.
“I hadn’t planned on bringing you here so soon.”
“What changed?”
“You seemed competent enough to start immediately.” He couldn’t tell her that an inner force had taken command of his senses. That for some illogical reason, he’d wanted to keep her locked in his bedchamber, keep her close. “This is a minor setback, but you should recover in a few hours.”
A playful laugh escaped her. “Dancing will get the blood flowing and speed up the process. Let me teach you to waltz.”
It was drunken bravado. She could barely move her feet without falling.
“I can dance, Miss Gambit. I simply choose to refrain.”
“You’re dancing now.” She looked down at their feet, lost her balance, and collapsed into him.
It was time to bring an end to this nonsense—his restraint was hanging by the thinnest thread—and so he scooped her into his arms. “Time to rest your muddled head. You’ll sleep off the effects for an hour or two.”
She didn’t object when he carried her to the mahogany four-poster. Yet she kept her arms linked around his neck as he lowered her down onto the mattress. Eli waited for her to release him, but she pulled him closer.
Golden locks spilled over the pillow. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes glazed, her lips the purest pink. The lady looked like a Renaissance painting, a breathtaking symbol of hope and rebirth.
“You’re very kind to me, Mr Hunter,” she drawled. “You behave just like a man should. Noble. Dignified.”
There was nothing noble about the tightening in his abdomen.
There was nothing dignified about his lascivious thoughts.
“I swore to keep you safe. Gave Daventry my word.” He reached for her hands, but they were locked tightly around his neck.
“I like you, Mr Hunter.” Her warm breath caressed his cheek. “Shush. Don’t tell anyone, but I made an oath, too.”
“To protect me, I know.”
She chuckled. “No, to free you from your prison.”
“I don’t need rescuing. I’m happy behind bars.” He was happiest when keeping everyone out. “I don’t want you to like me. I don’t need anyone to like me.”
“Then what a terrible inconvenience. I like you immensely.”
“Rest now.” Their gazes locked. Lust shot through him like a bolt from the heavens. He had to get out of the room, slow his heart, catch his breath.
“Wake me in an hour.”
Without warning, she reached up and pressed her lips to his. He should have pulled away—he was not the sort to take advantage of any woman, let alone one in her cups—but every traitorous muscle in his body held him rigid.
The gentle brush of their lips became one slow, open-mouthed kiss. A tantalising melding that only intensified the inner ache. Then she released him, flopped back onto the pillow, and drifted into a peaceful slumber.
Eli stood fighting the violent rage of emotions, beating them back behind the barricade. Damn Lucius Daventry. He’d sent the devil’s disciple, not an enquiry agent. Sent a woman who made him want and desire, left him ravaged with need.
He backed away from the sleeping beauty in the bed. Took to pacing the room to quell the tumult within. But she was everywhere. In his thoughts, on his lips, his skin.
It occurred to him there was a way to calm the tempest.
He’d take his frustrations out on the bloody Council.
* * *
Eli left the room and locked the door. He made his way back to the tunnels, found Crocker clearing away the goblets and straightening the chairs.
“Miss Gambit is resting but wishes me to ask a few questions.”
“I told you everything when you came three weeks ago.”
“I’m merely following the master’s orders,” Eli said by way of an excuse, for he wished to check for cracks in Crocker’s story. “Is it possible to duplicate a key?”
Crocker withdrew his handkerchief and mopped sweat from his brow. “Every key can be copied. But a master locksmith would have trouble duplicating those keys.”
“Because of the indents along the shank?”
“It takes expert precision to align the markings, but it’s not impossible. That’s why Mr Daventry insists the lock is changed yearly. It was last replaced in December.”
Eli knew the answer to his next question but sought confirmation. “And there’s no possible way the doors were left open?”
A muscle in Crocker’s cheek twitched. “All doors were locked. Mrs Gale noticed the entrance to the tunnel was open. The cloaked intruder hid in the Sanctum. When I entered, he made a dash for the tunnels and slammed the Sanctum door shut.”
“Effectively locking you inside the chamber.”
“By the time I’d activated the switch to override the lock, the scoundrel had fled. I roused every member of staff, scoured the gardens and surrounding land. There was no sign of him, but he’d dropped the coded letter on the gravel path.”
“You’re certain the thief was a man?”
Crocker shrugged. “It was dark. He hid behind the hood of a cloak. But it had to be a council member in possession of two keys.”
“And if you had to pick a traitor out of all those on the Council, who would you choose?” Eli suspected Swanson or Truscott. Did the latter make a fuss merely to disguise his guilt?
“I’m paid to guard the Sanctum, not play constable.”
“Miss Gambit will insist on a name.”
“Then Miss Gambit must ask me the question.” Crocker moved to the entrance and scanned the tunnel before adding, “When he left, Truscott said he suspects you’re involved. He said a man willing to take orders from a woman is no man at all.”
Eli’s blood boiled. He’d put up with Truscott’s pomposity for far too long. The man had served Themis for three decades, but Eli prayed the boasting buffoon was the traitor.
“Then I shall make sure Truscott is the next person I question.”
Eli left Crocker to his work and entered the house in search of the fool. He marched into the drawing room and found Truscott and Cantrell lounging on the sofa, drinking brandy.
“You should be ashamed of yourself.” Eli unleashed his anger at Truscott. “You’ve served Themis for thirty years, yet you behaved like a pathetic boy in the schoolroom today.”
Truscott stared down his nose. “As you rightly said, I serve Themis. Someone is out to destroy our organisation, and Daventry’s only defence is to send a damn woman.”
“Miss Gambit is a skilled enquiry agent with a memory better than a seasoned academic. She’s currently studying the coded letter dropped by the intruder.” The lie was necessary, for it allowed Eli to gauge Truscott’s reaction.
Cantrell sat forward. “The intruder left a clue to his identity?”
“More than a clue. I believe it’s a coded list of instructions written by a council member, detailing what items to steal from the Sanctum.”
Out of two hundred volumes lining the bookcases, the intruder knew to find the false frontage, knew the position of the latch, knew to take the portfolio containing details of their latest cases.
“When Miss Gambit breaks the code, we’ll have an idea who was behind the theft.” Using the lady as bait was a risk. But there was no other way to lure the devil out of the darkness. It was Eli’s job to play protector.
“It’s clear to see why you have no objection to her appointment,” came Truscott’s snide remark. “Either you find yourself captivated, or you’re the intruder trying to keep one step ahead.”
Eli remained calm. “They say those quick to point the finger elsewhere are merely disguising their own guilt.” He longed for the day Truscott proved unworthy. “You’re overseeing Mary Harcourt’s case. Stop behaving like a petulant child and do something useful. Surely you have new evidence to impart.”
Embarrassment stained Truscott’s cheeks. “Yes, there’s new evidence. The girl demanded a physician examine her to confirm she’s given birth to a child. Lord Meyer’s council brought evidence proving Mary and a footman had intimate relations. The footman stated that Mary stole the jewels because she was trying to persuade him to leave his position and flee London.”
“The footman still works for Lord Meyer, I assume.” Had the Lord forced the servant to make a confession? “I need his name.”
“James Tinsley. He’s worked for Lord Meyer for three years.”
“Then he has every reason to lie.”
“As the evidence mounts, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to believe Mary’s story,” Cantrell offered.
It was an odd remark. They never accepted a case without being assured of the condemned person’s innocence. Why doubt Mary now?
“And Lord Meyer knows nothing of our involvement?” Eli asked. The men of Themis kept to the shadows, helped behind the scenes, but someone had turned traitor. Had the devil approached Meyer and offered his services?
“I serve Themis, not a pompous aristocrat,” Cantrell countered. “Just in case you’re in any doubt.”
Eli gave a curt nod. “Has anyone investigated the servants who work for the Meyers?” If they were loyal enough to lie, they were loyal enough to hide a baby.
“The servants come from all corners of the country.” Truscott sounded defensive. “The housekeeper and the butler hail from London, but they’ve no family to speak of. Lady Meyer is with child, which negates Mary Harcourt’s claim that the woman is barren.”
Loathe to admit it, Cantrell was right. Mary would likely hang for theft unless someone could prove the Meyers were lying.
“Has Lady Meyer been examined by a physician?”
“Yes, in Brighton. Lady Meyer saw the family physician whilst visiting her mother. Considering the nature of the case, I’ve written to the doctor asking he provide written proof of her condition.”
Eli rubbed his jaw while contemplating the dilemma.
Despite the evidence, every instinct said Mary Harcourt had been manipulated and used diabolically. Or was it that Eli had such little faith in people, he expected all peers were lying leeches.
“Miss Gambit will want to investigate the Meyers herself.” Eli observed both men’s reactions. Cantrell gave nothing away. Truscott wore his usual contemptuous sneer. “Daventry ordered her to look at all recent cases.”
“Then we’ll assist her in any way we can,” Cantrell said. “Based on the unusual nature of events, might I suggest we reconvene here next week?”
With luck, they’d have caught the traitor by then. If not, it would provide another opportunity to investigate the Council.
“I shall put your proposal to Miss Gambit. Perhaps then you might have more information on the traitor in the Home Office.”
Cantrell shifted uncomfortably in the seat. The man prided himself on his competence. Hated having nothing new to report.
Eli scanned the drawing room. “Where might I find Young and Swanson?”
“In the dining room, busy making notes for Miss Gambit.” Cantrell checked over his shoulder before continuing. “Regardless of a witness coming forward, I cannot credit Swanson’s explanation about the stolen key. If I had to point the finger, I’d say Young and Swanson are in cahoots.”
Cantrell was quick to cast suspicion elsewhere.
“But Crocker encountered only one intruder in the Sanctum.”
“Perhaps the other escaped. Perhaps the men drew sticks, and the loser entered the Sanctum.”
“I’m sure Miss Gambit is pondering the possibilities as we speak.” In between fidgeting in bed, nibbling her bottom lip and preparing to tempt a confirmed bachelor to sin.
Eli left the men to drink their brandy and whisper behind his back. He found Young and Swanson seated at the long table in the dining room. The fire burning in the stone hearth proved a welcome sight, and so Eli crossed the room and warmed his hands.
“I came seeking respite from Truscott’s complaining,” Eli grumbled. He would work to create suspicion amongst the men until they caught the person laying siege on Themis. “I find his opinions intolerable.”
Ink pen in hand, Young looked up from the sheaf of papers spread over the oak surface. “We swore to follow the constitution,” he said in his usual relaxed tone. “But I am surprised at Daventry’s decision. Truscott will never tolerate a woman at the helm.”
“He has no choice.” Eli studied Swanson. Head bowed, the man continued dipping his nib and scrawling on the paper. “Miss Gambit is a skilled investigator and will find those involved in the theft of the sacred seal.”
“For the sake of Themis and the innocent people we protect, I pray she does,” Young said. “Can we be of any assistance?” He gestured to the mass of notes. “We’re recording everything we can remember about the case at Belton’s Emporium, but I cannot see how it’s related.”
At present, Eli was just as clueless.
Perhaps he should return to London and investigate the cases himself, with Miss Gambit’s help, of course. His mind flicked to the woman asleep in bed. A warning voice in his head said he should race upstairs and make sure Truscott wasn’t hammering on the chamber door, demanding her presence downstairs. Or worse, the snake in the grass wasn’t looking to steal back the coded letter.
“Tell me what evidence there is against the boy who’s suspected of killing his stepfather.” Eli recalled the youth’s name. “David Scrivens. Why would a lanky, fourteen-year-old take on a hulk of a man in his forties?”
Swanson sprinkled pounce over the wet ink, then looked up. “His mother says her husband used to beat the boy. The constable who took him into custody states he had twenty-three bruises on his body. The mother argues her son acted in self-defence.”
“And yet Scrivens argues the shopkeeper locked him in the pantry.”
“The boy is innocent,” Swanson snapped. He’d first brought the boy’s plight to the Council’s attention last month. Had already taken witness statements and made a catalogue of notes. “The shopkeeper, Mr Belton, claims Scrivens had a manic episode after his stepfather’s angry outburst. He says he wrestled the boy into the pantry for fear he would murder someone else.”
“And they were the only customers in the shop,” Eli stated.
Swanson nodded. “Belton ran into the street and shouted for a constable. He grabbed a passerby and made him watch over the body while he raced to find help.”
“Time is running out,” Young said, looking dejected. “The shopkeeper has gained some notoriety. Every person in London considers him a hero. It will take a miracle to save Scrivens. We were hoping to examine the copies of the witness statements again, but they were amongst the case files stolen from the Sanctum.”
It made no sense. The person who entered the Sanctum had to be a member of Themis. But why would a once honourable man want to see a boy hanged?
“What’s the name of the witness who watched over the body?” Perhaps he killed Scrivens’ stepfather, and the shopkeeper helped frame the boy. No. It seemed improbable.
“He’s the brother of a baron. The magistrate accepted his account without question.” Young rummaged through the papers. “I have his direction here if Miss Gambit wishes to question him. If she can find any cracks in the witness statements, we may get a reprieve.”
“Where is the Emporium?”
“Surrey Street. South of the river. Across Blackfriars Bridge.” Young handed Eli a sheet of paper. “The witness has a house in Salisbury Square but often retires to his brother’s estate in Shoreham.”
Shoreham?
Did Miss Gambit not take the stage from Shoreham?
Eli read the name scrawled at the top of the page and jerked his head back in shock. He masked his odd reaction by saying, “Good God, I can barely read your scribble.”
Young grinned. “The man’s name is Hanaway. Jacob Hanaway.”
