Chapter 10

Ten

OUTSIDE HUDSON'S BAKERY, LONDON - JUNE 12, 1816

CELINE

Xander refused to sustain our ruse, citing a humiliation so severe he would never recover. It was a fair assessment. Fortunately, his abandonment of our shared cause allowed me to continue the investigation on my own.

Even I had to admit that my first attempt resulted in a poor showing. But I was nothing if not adaptable.

I adopted a disguise, borrowing my maid's uniform. It was a bit too long, but otherwise did the job credibly after she pinned the hem. It also hid my dagger easily. I'd taken to strapping the bejeweled knife to my thigh each morning. Gabriel had gifted it to me on our honeymoon. What a poetic sort of justice if I ended up sheathing it in the back of his killer.

With no other ideas, I'd taken to studying the man, following him. Day in, day out, I watched—his own personal phantom. Unfortunately, I had found little in the way of incriminating evidence, but I had learned a great number of interesting facts about William Hart.

That very morning, for example, he abandoned Lord Leighton to open the office alone and made his way down the street to Hudson's Bakery. I watched from across the cobblestone path as Mrs. Ainsley handed him something delectable and shoved him to a corner table. She returned with a stack of ledgers that she plopped down before him.

Mr. Hart reviewed each of them in a precise fashion, checking numbers against one another with a finger on each. Presumably, he was reviewing the various contracts required to supply a bakery.

Occasionally he would take a distracted bite of a… tart? Cake? Something equally delightful? I had not eaten that morning and Mrs. Ainsley's creations were always mouthwatering.

Though I had found little to incriminate him, I had gleaned information of interest. He wore spectacles while working. When something in the ledgers did not match his expectations, he would remove the spectacles and rub them against a sleeve. Then he would return them to his face and sigh when the information remained unchanged.

His left shoulder plagued him when he sat too long in one attitude. He would tense and massage it with the other hand.

When the ledgers contained something particularly offensive, he would drag a hand through his hair, ruining his half-hearted effort to tame it as it returned to the wild mess of curls from the masquerade.

Lastly, I learned that he was adorably uncomfortable with infants. No, not adorable, just uncomfortable. A few moments ago, Mrs. Ainsley pressed baby Emma into his arms with a laugh. At first, he held the tiny redhead an arm's length away from him with both hands. After a moment, he pulled her closer to his chest, freeing one of his hands to catch her tiny fist. She shook it with all her might and he smiled.

" He is likely innocent. " Xander's directive ran through my mind once again. I had expected that rule to be more difficult to follow than it was proving to be. William Hart did not act like a murderer. Not that I knew many—or any, for that matter. But he did not fit any of my expectations.

Eventually, he handed Emma back to her mother with some reluctance and packed up his copies of the documents, then returned the bakery copies to Mrs. Ainsley and accepted a basket of treats. He slipped Mrs. Ainsley the funds to cover the baked goods in spite of her protestations and stepped out of the shop onto the cobblestones.

I followed at a distance, just near enough to hear him hum something indistinct. His voice was smooth and he was sure of his pitch.

He arrived at his office, and I took the place that had become mine over the past several days—the bench across the street.

Through the glass door, I saw him set the treats on a desk and all of the clerks rose to select a pastry before going back to their desks. Lord Leighton came out of his office to retrieve one as well.

Did killers give their staff baked goods?

WILLIAM

The thing about knowing I was being followed was that it threw into sharp clarity the tediousness of my everyday life. If she was to spend her days staring at me, the least I could do was make them interesting. The only problem was that my attendance at the masquerade was, quite literally, the most interesting evening I'd had in years, perhaps ever.

After Rosehill chose not to drag me down the aisle or call me out, I found myself at a loss. The chit clearly did not intend to force me into matrimony, in spite of her abysmal taste in husbands. I could admit that it would not have taken much effort to convince me. I'd loved one woman who lived and breathed for Gabriel Hasket, what was a second?

But that fact left the question of what she wanted with me. She followed me for hours each day. A woman of her station with seemingly no demands on her time was unlikely. Which meant she was abandoning those obligations in favor of watching me.

She was perched on what had become her bench across the street wearing her usual ill-fitting maid's uniform. Who she thought she was fooling with that was anyone's guess. An ugly dress and a dowdy cap were hardly enough to detract from the bewitching beauty she radiated.

The line of sight from my office to her bench was direct, presumably her purpose in selecting it. I found her position was more than a little distracting. My nights were filled with little beyond memories of her sweet lips, soft hair, and delicate curves. And my days were filled with the sight of said lips and hair and curves.

She was everywhere. Every minute of every day she surrounded me. I could not escape her and worse still, I couldn't decide if I wished to be free of her. The last minutes before midnight that night were a revelation. If time hadn't interfered, I would still be worshiping her. I gladly would have kissed her until the sun ceased to rise.

"Your shadow is getting wet," Kit said, startling me from my efforts to look busy. There had been a lot of that the last few days—staring at paperwork without really seeing anything.

He was propped against the doorframe again, munching on a tart.

"What?"

"Lady Rycliffe. She's getting wet. It's raining, or didn't you notice? Or did you finally manage to pay attention to your work for the first time all week?"

I glanced outside, confirming his intelligence. It was raining, rather heavily, and Lady Rycliffe made no effort to abandon her vigil. Instead, she merely hunkered down slightly to present a smaller target for the offending rain.

Without pausing to consider the ramifications, I rose, snatched my umbrella, and trotted out to meet her. Her gaze was downturned, avoiding the drops splashing across her face, sacrificing her coiffure instead.

She missed my arrival and startled when I sat beside her. I opened the umbrella and held it over us both without a word.

Her eyes shot to mine with precision. I offered a half grin and a shrug. "Didn't want you to catch a chill. If you took ill, who would supervise my daily activities?"

"You…"

"Me. You can come inside if you like. It's not much, but it's warm and dry. Or you can stay here. But please, take the umbrella if you want to stay out here."

"You're inviting me in?"

"Well, yes. But decide quickly, please. I don't fancy spending the afternoon in a damp coat."

"All right." She stood, graceful even in a too-long dress that was quite soaked through. She brushed past me on her way through the office door, smelling of vanilla, rain, and something richer I couldn't name.

"Lady Rycliffe, good to see you," Kit said. He'd moved from my office door to his own and grabbed another tart in the process. He spoke with the bemused tone he usually reserved for me.

I shot him a look as I shook off the umbrella and set it beside the door to drip dry.

"Lord Leighton," she nodded. His eye gave the requisite twitch at the mention of his title, but he didn't protest. It was a depressing kind of progress. It signified yet another step away from this office and toward his new duties.

"Kit, would you grab one of the blankets?" We used them on particularly cold days in winter when no amount of firewood could keep out the chill. He wandered off in search of one. Hopefully they were not too terribly musty.

The clerks made a valiant effort to ignore the magnificently beautiful, incredibly damp woman in the room, but I doubted they could feign disinterest much longer. If Bates was making any effort to hide his interest, it wasn't a very impressive one. I could hardly blame the man though. I was no better, noting the enticing way her damp skirts clung to her legs.

Kit returned and started to hand her a bundled blanket, but I grabbed it from him. I unfurled it and shook it for any dust or debris—or worse—that might have made its home there in the last few months. Satisfied it was passably clean, I wrapped it around her shoulders, only realizing the intimacy of the gesture when my hands met over her heart. We found ourselves so close, our breaths mingling in the space between us.

A pointed cough from Kit's direction had her jumping away as my hands released the edges of the rough, dark wool.

"Will's office is the warmest. You should settle in there. You can discuss any issues you might need a solicitor for while you're in there," Kit said, nodding toward my doorway, as though everyone in the room was not perfectly aware of which was mine. As if we all hadn't watched eagerly as she stared at it for days.

She chose to follow his suggestion and led the way. Kit waggled his brows in a ridiculous manner behind her back. Mentally devising tortures for him, I followed her into the room and shut the door behind us. She made herself comfortable in one of the chairs reserved for guests.

I took a minute to appreciate the flush on her cheeks and the way her lashes clung together from the rain as I sat before her. Her coiffure was sad and half escaped, and she was all the lovelier for it.

When it became apparent that she would never break the silence, I finally spoke. "Do you wish to tell me why you've been following me?"

Her teeth caught her lower lip. Devil take me if that wasn't the most fetching sight I'd ever seen. "Not particularly."

"Shall I guess?"

"I wish you wouldn't." Her accent was different from the night of the ball, and our one prior conversation. Neither distinctly English nor French, it swirled like half-mixed paint.

I refused further musings on that point, for that way lay danger. Instead, I debated pressing her. She was more or less captive in my office.

"Very well. Would you like a tart?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"A tart, from Hudson's. Would you like one? We have raspberry, apple, and lemon, though Kit may have taken the last of the apple."

"Lemon please." I stepped around her and into the main room, grabbing the basket so she could select one herself. She probably did not wish for inky fingers all over her pastry.

"Do you work with Mrs. Ainsley?" she asked.

"I do, have since she opened the place, actually. She could pay me solely in those tarts and I would die a happy man."

At my prodding, she took a bite. Her eyes slid closed and a small smile crossed her lips. Considering Mrs. Ainsley's tarts tasted like a warm hug, the reaction wasn't unusual.

Distracted as she was by delectable treats, I pressed my advantage. Perhaps if I side-stepped the issue I could determine her purpose. "Is there anything you wish to ask me?"

"You'll answer? Just like that?"

"I have nothing to hide." Her eyes widened inexplicably at that. What did she think I was hiding?

"You grew up with Gabriel?"

"Unfortunately." She made a go-on gesture between bites. "My father was His Grace's steward. We played occasionally, when he was in Yorkshire."

"His father funded your schooling?"

"This might be easier if you tell me what you already know."

"I'm searching for discrepancies in your story."

Perfect, now I was expected to match my story to the great bull calf's.

"I don't remember when we met, probably too young. Unlike Rycliffe, I was studious. And polite. And decent. His father took notice, decided to fund my education. Less out of fondness for me than a desire to shame his son into becoming a contributing member of society, I expect. Anyone who had met Rycliffe could have told His Grace that it would have the opposite effect. They would have been right."

"Tell me about Adriane."

Adriane . I hadn't heard that name outside of my mind in years. I braced myself for the instinctive pang in my chest, but it never appeared.

"Adriane was… everything. It was more than love, it was… obsession at first sight. Just—I could feel her whenever she was near. I was so aware of her. Always. And I was not subtle in my interest. I wrote too many bloody poems before she had the heart to inform me that it was not a strength of mine. I bought her flowers. I did all of it.

"She was just so—not even beautiful, exactly—but magnetic. Bewitchingly beautiful too, of course, but she just drew you in and once she had you, there was no escape. I didn't want to escape either."

"I know it, that feeling." Her voice was tentative, small, hollow. Gabriel.

"She wasn't interested in me. Only had eyes for Rycliffe. But it amused her to toy with me. Particularly around him." She was still watching, listening attentively. I had never once concerned myself with disparaging Rycliffe to all and sundry, but to her?

"He told me the worst of it. If you'd like to skip over that part."

She could not possibly know the full truth of the matter. No one could know what he had done to Adriane and still have married the man.

"He discussed it with you?"

"Well, I did not request details, but yes."

"What did he tell you?" I leaned forward, the effort to control my burning fury leaving me uneasy. I glanced away, searching for something, anything to lessen the tension.

"He was different. When I met him. We— He rejected me because he refused to be with an innocent. He regretted it—what he did to her."

My stomach turned viciously. This was the woman I had worshiped with my hands and lips days ago. She sat before me now attempting to justify what that monster had done to my Adriane.

"Oh, well if he regretted it, then it's all fine. Her life wasn't destroyed. She didn't die sick and in pain."

"I didn't… That is not what I meant."

"People don't change. Not that much. And some things are unforgivable. To think, I had convinced myself… I felt sorry for you! I thought perhaps he had seduced you and someone had to drag him down the aisle at the end of a pistol. Or perhaps you didn't know. But to think, you knew what he was from the beginning, and you married him anyway. You are as bad as he was."

"I—"

"I think you should go." I rose, reaching my office door in two harsh steps, ripping it open with enough force to test the hinges. "You can have the umbrella. Whatever reason you have for following me, it ends now. You are clearly not intending to force me to wed you. And frankly, I would rather meet Rosehill at dawn than marry you."

She stood slowly and turned to me, then dropped the blanket on the chair before stepping toward me. "You thought… You thought I wanted to marry you? There is not a man on this earth I would rather marry less than you! I loathe you. You disgust me." Her venomed verbiage was delivered at a whisper, but it echoed as though she had screamed it.

"Wonderful. Now that is cleared up, glad you could stop by." With a wordless grunt of frustration she stomped through the office, wet slippers squelching with every step. She grabbed the umbrella and threw the door open with as much force as her tiny form could muster, the bell clanging its irritation at her abrupt manner.

The clerks, who had been staring with interest, immediately dropped their attention back to their paperwork, feigning ignorance. My return to my desk was less satisfying with nothing to slam or stamp. I collapsed in my chair, dragging fingers through my hair, breathing too heavily.

"So, I don't need to book the chapel?" Kit asked, once again leaning heavily against my door frame. His arms were banded about his chest, and he wore an infuriating smirk.

"Get out…." It was less of a demand than a weary sigh. The fight had well and truly abandoned me, and I was left shrunken and drained.

"Go home. Better yet, go get a drink. You'll be useless this afternoon anyway." The idea was tempting—not home, of course—but a visit I'd been pushing off since the masquerade.

"I think I will."

His jaw hinged open. "You? Leave work? Get a drink? Inconceivable."

"Kit…"

"Lucky for you, the rain has stopped. Especially since I don't believe you'll see that umbrella again."

"If I leave, will you stop talking?"

"No, but you won't be here to hear it."

"Goodbye."