Chapter Fourteen

C hapter F ourteen

V isiting his twin sister in the light of day was usually a bad idea, and something he almost never did, but there really wasn't another course of action.

Hunter needed some better way to identify Lucy's father, given there hadn't been a shred of evidence the man even existed, according to his sources and assets, and his sister's artistic ability was the only way he could think to proceed.

He also desperately needed to talk to Hal, and the sooner he did so, the better.

Lucy wasn't speaking to him at the moment, but that was entirely Hunter's own fault. He had been intentionally provocative in his behavior that morning, knowing she would be perishing with curiosity and unable to pepper him with questions in the presence of Tilda's ladies. Was it gentlemanly? Not at all. Was it kind? Not in the least.

Was it enjoyable?

Abso-bleeding-lutely.

Her expression of fury was utterly irresistible as a temptation, and the rewards of seeing it so beautifully on display were full and rich indeed.

It had been a very long night on patrol, and he had needed the satisfaction of such a sight to give him some relief. Little additional information had come of his efforts, which was always disheartening, but little was better than nothing, he had reminded himself. Especially in his particular line of work and realms of investigation. Sometimes, it was the little information that proved the opening he needed for true answers.

Time would tell if the hints and whispers his team had collected among the clubs and gaming hells during the night would amount to anything. Under normal circumstances, the time would have been that day or that evening, but with Lucy in his protection, he didn't dare. He needed her safety to be secure before he could risk himself in any way. It was only fair.

It had nothing to do with feelings; his life couldn't be given up when someone relied on him. He couldn't trust anybody to take care of Lucy except him. Until she was deposited in her father's house, he had to proceed carefully. It was irritating, it was irksome, it was deuced inconvenient, but it was the truth.

It was also, he would admit, not the worst thing he'd ever had to deal with.

Which was why he needed to talk to Hal.

Nothing had ever distracted Hunter like Lucy. Nothing. And it was a pleasant distraction, to boot. One he smiled about and felt right engaging in, not to mention the sensation of warmth it elicited in his chest.

Indigestion, surely, but it was the best sort of indigestion he'd ever experienced.

Very strange.

And it had made attempting to eat his breakfast in her presence this morning a tad more difficult. Engaging with Tilda in conversation, especially conversation that would irk Lucy, had been a useful avenue of distracting him from her beauty and her presence—as well as the sensations she produced in him. It was all self-defense, but it was all harmless. Of course he planned on telling Lucy what he could and answering what questions he was able to. Of course he wouldn't be intentionally infuriating all day with her. Of course he would continue to do what he could to locate her father without personally knocking on doors and possibly risking his identity.

But he might play with Lucy a little more before he did so.

Walking away from Tilda's, well-fed and far cleaner than he'd been when he arrived, Hunter glanced over at the silent and clearly brooding Lucy. A small muscle below her ear twitched visibly in consistent intervals, and he wondered if her teeth ached from being clenched so tightly. If she huffed, she could not have displayed her ire more blatantly.

He took great pleasure in picturing her eyes, a rich, warm, deep chocolate shade of brown at all other times, but surely some cold and furious blackness with the ominous nature of a well in this mood. Would he feel the effects of seeing such a change in their depths directly? Would a chill race up his jaded and unflappable spine in spite of his exposure to more dangerous things? Did she hold that much power over him already?

Why did that idea make him want to laugh instead of scare him into some evasive action? He was actually forcing his face to remain fixed in serenity instead of bursting into laughter, and it had nothing to do with his success in bringing her to this point. It had everything to do with being with her.

Oh, all right, it had a little to do with his success. He was a competitive man, after all, and if she was going to plague him, he might as well plague her back.

They had been walking, and away from the ears of others, for some time now and yet Lucy had said nothing to him. He must truly have aggravated her to a new degree if she was fighting her own natural tendencies and curiosity so successfully. He was impressed, he would not deny it. His sister would have attempted to pummel him by now, and Lucy was keeping her hands to herself as well as remaining silent. She wasn't glaring or sniffing dismissively, wasn't trying to push him in front of a moving coach, hadn't muttered a single insult or obscenity…

Perhaps she was simply better behaved or more well-trained than his sister.

Then again, why would Lucy attack him the way Hal might have? Siblings had the familiarity that enabled frequent assassination attempts without losing the innate fondness lying in their foundations. He'd known Lucy for less than two days.

Even he had to admit it was too short an acquaintance to act upon injurious inclinations.

Well, most of the time. He was a covert operative, after all.

What would it take on his part to get her to talk? If talking was too much to ask, what would it take to get her expression to twitch or flinch or shift in the slightest? What would provoke her enough to shove him into the street?

He didn't want to make her even angrier, did he?

It was a tempting idea, but it occurred to him that going to his sister's house with an angry woman might be a dreadful thing. Hal was going to side with Lucy, there was no question, which meant Hunter would take a great deal of abuse from his twin, possibly in Lucy's presence, and arguing with his sister in front of Lucy would make him look worse in her eyes. But worse and more unforgiveable than that, it could make Hal look like a right harridan or shrew to Lucy if they fought in front of her the way they usually did.

No one would see Hal like that while Hunter could help it. Those were grounds for a duel, and he could not exactly duel with Lucy. Nor would he ever want to. Particularly when the fault would lay squarely with him for Hal's appearing in such a way.

Hell and the devil. He needed to mend this relationship between them with great expediency, and probably take the long way to Hal's home to ensure things were healed and happy before they arrived.

For a covert operative of the Crown with a record as impressive and impeccable as his, he could be remarkably short-sighted in his personal life.

Which sounded like something his sister would tell him, but that was beside the point.

He cleared his throat in what was probably the most awkward manner possible. "I suspect you would like to know where I am taking you."

Lucy said nothing, her steps even and sedate beside him.

"As you may have suspected," he went on, doing his best to be undeterred while actually feeling quite deterred, "I learned nothing about your father or his whereabouts last night. I did my best to inquire about him while engaging in my other tasks, but to no avail. I did check with my sources this morning before returning to Tilda's, and there is still nothing to report. I can only presume that he lives in farther areas than my contacts go, or that his name is not well known in his neighborhood as yet."

If Lucy heard a single word he had said, she gave no indication. They reached the intersection of two streets, and she stopped, clearly waiting for instruction or direction from him, with her gloved fingers folding neatly within each other and gracefully draped across her midsection. The posture alone would belie her station, let alone the pose, but he wasn't about to correct that detail now.

He had other issues at present.

"Given all of that," he went on, doing nothing to direct her, "and how quickly I can usually procure requisite information around here, I thought we would pursue another avenue of inquiry."

Now he waited for her to react or respond in some way. Some indication that her ears were functioning, at least.

He watched as she blinked, then felt an absurd jolt of delight when her chin dipped in the briefest nod known to man. He set his hand at her elbow and directed her across the street.

"Which is why I am taking you to an artist." He bit back a grin, thinking it best that he hide his personal relationship with the particular person for the time being. "This artist works with all sorts of investigators and people from high to low. If you can describe the person, they can draw them. It is the most accurate likeness I have ever seen in most instances and has solved many more complicated cases from the drawings alone."

Other than a faint exhale, Lucy did not react or respond.

So much for the earlier delight, fleeting as it had been.

Losing much of his energy, Hunter looked away. "Once the drawing is done, the artist can make a few copies for us to have shown about the area, and that should give us some sort of information for you. It shouldn't take all that long, if you've made other plans for the day. I don't intend to drag you along from this place to that. Lord knows, we both have better ways of spending our time."

He might have imagined it—though his well-trained ears were usually particularly skilled at such things—but he thought he heard Lucy scoff with some derision.

He glanced back at her and found traces of the same emotion on her face.

Signs of life had never been so encouraging.

"We're not headed into Mayfair or anything so exciting," Hunter told her, keeping his voice controlled and aiming for nonchalance. "But perhaps the neighborhood will be familiar to you anyway. If you see anything you recognize, let me know. Which brings to mind the question: Did you recognize anything in the vicinity of Covent Garden when you were there?"

A direct question that was intricately related to the search for her father. She couldn't ignore or deflect it without being blatant, and if she was as eager to get away from him as he suspected she presently was, she would have no excuse to prolong his investigation.

He had her sufficiently trapped.

Lucy wet her lips, then said, "No."

And that was it.

It was Hunter's turn to blink and stare, and he almost missed the turn of the square they needed to make to head towards his sister's house. Taking Lucy's elbow very gently, so she would not feel abused by the action, he steered her the right way, trying not to feel stupid for his momentary smugness.

He should have known she would best him somehow. A woman in her ire was the most dangerous of creatures.

He would need to tread very carefully.

"Right," Hunter said slowly, scrambling for a new avenue of approach on the topic. "I suppose we were in a sort of underside, and you were not likely to have seen it before. And I don't suppose Tilda or her ladies took you on any sort of tour out of doors, did they?"

"No," came her clear response, her lips barely moving to form the word.

He nodded as though she had replied in any normal way. "Of course not. I should have considered. If we have time, and you wish to do so, we could venture back that way later and see if you do recognize anything from the public side. But I don't think we should have you stay there again tonight, if a place is needed. Lovely as she is, Tilda's hospitality has its limits, and I would much prefer her to be a safe resource for you if you need her in future. That may not happen if we continue as a charity case, in her eyes."

"She likes me," Lucy said simply, her voice so matter-of-fact that he was inclined to think she forgot that she was not speaking to him.

"Of course she does," he immediately answered, wincing at the potential for patronization in his words. "You're exactly the type of opinionated, independent woman she adores, and when she also has the opportunity to dress you? It's better than a birthday. She did a brilliant job, by the way. You look perfectly ordinary in the loveliest way, and the color and style suit you well."

Lucy folded her arms, the carpet bag she held in one hand clapping against her side with the motion. "Do you always compliment with an insult in tow? Or just with me?"

"Do I what?" He stared at her in shock, though she never looked his way. "Say that again. Or explain. Something. I'm feeling affronted, and I am not sure that's appropriate for the situation."

"You're affronted?" Lucy barked a laugh, tossing her head.

Hunter fought the impulse to swallow with dread. "I did say I wasn't sure it was appropriate."

"Believe me, it is not." Lucy cleared her throat, her eyes widening. "You just said I looked perfectly ordinary."

Hunter frowned. "But you're supposed to look ordinary," he protested, something hot and sharp uncoiling in his stomach. "And I did say lovely."

"Compliment and insult," she said firmly, as though he had just proved her point. "No one wants to be told they look ordinary. Ever. Looking ordinary in a lovely way is rather like being told you are clever for a woman, as though being a woman limits your wits. Or that you dance well for a man, because men cannot have grace. Or that this pastry is good for a beginner, implying it is not good for any other sort."

"Then what should I have said? I didn't mean to imply that you look ordinary. The new clothing is ordinary in appearance, as it was supposed to be, and you wear it well. That's all I meant."

"And yesterday," Lucy went on, ignoring him, "you said I was pretty, objectively speaking, and that it would make me a target."

Oh dear, he had, hadn't he?

She shook her head. "That has to be the most insulting way to be called pretty I have ever heard, Hunter. As though it is somehow my fault that I look the way I do, pretty or not, and that it is a problem for you. Objectively speaking? What are you, a scholar studying a fascinating specimen of insect? The distance you put between yourself and whatever nice thing you think you are saying is so gaping, it would need a full naval ship and crew to get from one side to the other. And even then, it would take months to get there! Just say it straight out, whatever you really mean!"

"Isn't it considered bad form to call a woman pretty if you have no designs on her?" Hunter dared to venture. "Or, more specifically, isn't it considered rather familiar to call a woman pretty? And might make a situation awkward?"

"We are not in a ballroom here," she all but spat. "What sort of scandal is it going to cause?"

Hunter sputtered very softly. "Lucy, I cannot call you pretty, though you blatantly are, if I am trying to be respectful, which I am, and retain some semblance of decency, which I actually do have. I don't engage with women of your station anymore, and I am woefully out of practice, though I am trying. Clearly, I have been bungling up what I thought were… well, decent statements of praise that did not indicate anything untoward on my part. My sister taught me from a very early age that what men say and women hear do not always correlate, and are often at odds, and I have done my best to heed her warnings in my life. I apologize that I failed with you."

He all but held his breath as he waited for her response, his speech having gone on a little longer than he had intended, quite against his natural inclination.

Did she like speeches? Had he rambled? Or had he said what was necessary and right and just might save his hide?

Or had he just done an unnecessary explanation of himself that would only make him look more like a heel and sink him lower into this hole of his?

He heard her slow exhale and watched her expression carefully. That muscle by her ear ticked again, and somehow he smiled at that. And felt the impulse to laugh.

Damned nuisance, impulses.

"Fine," Lucy grumbled with a quick nod. "I will do better to give you the benefit of the doubt, but really, stop trying for so much respect or politeness or whatever you think I deserve. Just say it, will you? I do not care about decency, in that regard. Not with you. I realize you are not a villain or a rake, and that you might be the only person on this side of town that I am perfectly safe to be alone with."

"Not that safe," he muttered before he could stop himself.

If she heard him, she gave no indication. "Which means it's safe for you to speak absolutely freely in my presence. If you want to compliment me, do so. If you simply want to say something, do so without attempting whatever respectful flattery you believe I am accustomed to hearing. It is so tiresome."

"I do believe I have been called tiresome before," he allowed as he carefully released his breath, the relief hitting his chest in subsequent waves as the tension abated.

He felt as though he'd just been shot at by about seven pistols, all of which missed him by a hair.

That was too close.

"Of that, I have no doubt," Lucy quipped, her tone only mildly warmer. She looked down at herself, then unfolded her arms, finally. "I will admit, this clothing is far more comfortable than what I am expected to wear in my father's house or out and about in Society. Much more like what I wear at the school, and what I would rather wear all the time. Do you know how delicate and thin the dresses of ladies can be these days? It is utterly ridiculous!"

Hunter made a face. "Lucy, don't tell any man things like that. It's just not something any of us need to know, no matter how respectable we are."

"You don't have concerns over the quality and durability of women's fabric?" she asked, quirking her brow and giving him a very slight smile.

"I am certain I do," he told her with an exhale. "But, as I've tried to establish, you are a beautiful woman, and the idea of flimsy fabric and you makes me afraid."

Lucy reared back, all traces of humor gone. "Afraid? Why?"

Hunter clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Because if anyone else knew and tried to take advantage of that fact, I would probably tear them limb from limb, and it would be a trifle difficult to continue to do my job if I'm in prison."

Her dark eyes widened, and her lips parted in shock. Shades of pink began to dance in her cheeks, dawning across her face like the sunrise, and it was one of the most intoxicating, tempting sights he had ever seen. Thankfully, his frankness on the topic was rather refreshing and allowed him the clarity to remember he had done so on purpose, which further allowed him to shrug and look away without shame.

He did feel the need to clear his throat, however. He was only human, and her blush was stunning.

"Right, then," he said, taking in a breath that he hoped would serve to change the topic. "Just a few streets more. I think you'll like Hal. Actually, I'm rather afraid you'll like Hal too much. Most people like Hal more than me, and I cannot say I blame them. Hal has always been the more affable of the pair of us. Well, that's not true. Hal simply knows how to sway people, and always sways them away from me."

"Hal is the artist?" Lucy asked in a small, somewhat wavering voice.

He nodded, feeling a trifle smug that he had rattled her with his words. "Don't let the butler scare you. He's just as dangerous as he appears, but he is there to protect Hal, and so long as you are friend and not foe, he won't do a thing. In fact, if you are a true friend, Thad will probably defend you, should the need arise."

"Why does the world seem to be at war in your circle?" Lucy wondered aloud, her words still fairly quiet.

He smiled at that, but it wasn't particularly a smile of amusement. "The world is always at war, Lucy. Those in my circle simply try to keep the rest of you from realizing it."