“Why did you pick up the card that was resting on the table?” she asked contemplatively.
It was presently residing within his coat pocket. “Because it tells us who killed him.”
“How so?”
“In Whitechapel, there’s a gang known as the Devil’s Hand.”
Her skirts rustled as she moved up to the edge of her seat. “As in Lucifer’s hand? Could their leader be the Lucifer whose name is bandied about in relation to this plot against the Queen?”
“I wondered the same thing when I first heard mention of Lucifer, but their leader’s name is Willie.”
Her sweet laughter circled around him, drew him toward her, and he imagined her as a young girl, carefree and innocent frolicking through a park. He had an urge to see her without cares, racing over the moors at the ducal estate, her laughter sending birds into flight. Without even trying, she filled his head with such fanciful thoughts. When the hilarity had her falling back against the squabs, it took everything within him not to cross over and take possession of that tempting mouth, not to lay her down and ravish her, alter the sound into something more erotic, more sensual, more... simply more.
“Willie,” she repeated, catching her breath. “That’s hardly the name of someone prone to inducing fear. Why do you suspect he’s behind tonight’s happening?”
“Most of his crew can neither read nor write.And he strives to protect their names from being associated with the gang so when someone is recruited, he is given a card.” He withdrew the one from his pocket, held it up so the glow from the passing streetlamps reflected off it. “When they’ve done a job, they leave the card behind as proof of their action.”
“Why would someone confess?”
“It’s not necessarily a confession. Its greater purpose is to serve as a warning as well as a signature of sorts to ensure Willie learns the deed was done by their hand. Only Willie knows who carries which card.”
“Do you think they were expecting us?”
“Possibly. I am certain it was either a warning or a message to someone.”
“How can you be so certain of all this?”
“Because I once was a member of the gang.”
Chapter 11
A silence followed his pronouncement. Marcus was grateful that before she could fill it with questions that he wasn’t ready to answer, the carriage came to a stop. He shoved open the door, leapt out, and reached back to hand her down—a small courtesy that a week ago, he couldn’t have imagined himself doing for her. A week ago, he’d despised her. Now all he wanted was to bed her. To become so lost in her that he forgot the harsh realities of his past, the dark path he’d trod in search of answers, not only about his father but about himself.
Once inside the residence, he headed into the parlor and straight for the scotch. He refused to acknowledge the disappointment because she didn’t follow, because the fading patter of her footsteps suggested her destination was elsewhere. He detected her ascending the stairs, nodoubt heading toward her bedchamber. He wondered if she needed some time alone to deal with the gruesome sight that had greeted them earlier. Just because she didn’t swoon, it didn’t mean that her feminine sensibilities hadn’t been battered. Any other woman he would have immediately comforted. Her, he judged to be so strong as to be insulted if he offered any sort of solace.
He tossed back a scotch, refilled the glass, and dropped into the chair that he’d begun to consider his. Strange how he felt more at home here than he had in any grand residence in which he’d lived. She was not the homely sort and yet she did have a way about her of making a man feel welcome. Perhaps his father had associated with her because she comforted, and he didn’t feel judged for actions that most would never forgive.
Marcus was nearly finished with the amber contents of his glass when he heard her footfalls nearing. The gratitude he felt at her returning was cumbersome. Since his father’s betrayal he’d lived a life of needing no one. And yet he had the absurd thought that perhaps he needed Esme.
She glided in, having changed into some loose garment that flowed around her. In her arms was a black-and-white ball of fur.
“You have a dog?”
“Aren’t you a clever spy? This is Laddie.” She abruptly dropped the dog in his lap and took his glass. “He’s certain to brighten your mood.”
“My mood doesn’t need brightening.” Yet, he couldn’t hold back his smile as the spanielstretched up on his hind legs, rested his front paws on Marcus’s shoulder, and licked the underside of his jaw.
Returning, she set a full glass on the table beside his chair and swept the dog back into her arms, retreating to her chair. Her chair. His chair. The next thing he knew he’d be thinking of them as a couple.
“This time of night, Laddie is usually asleep, but I needed a cuddle and he’s ever so good at providing them.” She went quiet briefly, before saying, “Podmore didn’t deserve the ending he received. I think it’s possible that because of the chaos that happened at his residence, perhaps it was merely a meeting place, unbeknownst to him. I can’t see him being serious enough to be involved in a plot. The document found in his desk baffled me. I truly had not expected to find anything.”
“He might have known something without knowing what he knew. Or perhaps someone else was using his desk without his knowledge.”
“That makes more sense. Perhaps they came to retrieve the document, and he was unexpectedly at home, someone who could identify them. Although he’d obviously welcomed them because there was no blood anywhere else. What a ghastly way to go. I shall add seeing him avenged to my list of duties.”
“You have a list of people to be avenged?”
“I can’t stand injustice of any kind. Bullies are not to be tolerated. And we seem to be dealing with quite the bully here.” She buried her fingersin Laddie’s silken strands. He watched her hand circling, longed for her to stroke his chest. “Tell me about your involvement with this gang.”
