Chapter 17

Seventeen

CADIEUX HOUSE, LONDON - JUNE 13, 1816

CELINE

This was not going at all the way I had intended. Not in the least.

He was supposed to be worshiping me in the boudoir, not digging through dusty old documents between bites of tart.

Though, if I was being honest, he looked… rather adorable. He hunched over my small, feminine desk with his hair mussed and the spectacles slipping down his nose as he paged through yellowed ledgers.

I admired him freely from my perch, resting against the edge of the desk beside him. He was too distracted to notice my indulgent smile.

"If you told me what you were looking for, I might be able to help."

"I'm not certain what I'm looking for. I'll know it when I see it. Do you have that note you mentioned?"

I pulled it from where it was bookmarking one of the more recent ledgers and handed it over.

He studied it with interest, holding it up to the firelight as if there were secrets to be gleaned. "I see what you mean, about the writer being left-handed. But the smudges go the wrong way. When I write, the ink smears to the right. This goes to the left, like they set something damp on it and pulled it out from underneath it."

The easy refute had me feeling more than a little silly. He wasn't irritated. He didn't lecture. He wasn't looking at me at all, but rather studying the page for clues. He treated it as though it was more than a random slip of parchment, tucked into a random ledger nearly a decade ago. The fact that there was no date and little more than an initial didn't lead to an outright dismissal.

I had followed this man around for a week. I had all but branded him a murderer. And he took my evidence seriously? He was helping me?

"There's no date. But you said it was tucked into the most recent ledger when you found it?"

"Yes, just under the cover."

"Do you know of any other Ws he might have known? The names in here appear to be false names your husband chose in jest. Unless there is a lord of ‘unfortunate toupee,' that I am unfamiliar with."

"That will be Lord Weatherby. I hadn't considered others, but yes, certainly."

"We'll need to consider given names and surnames, titles as well. Can you make a list of any that you can recall? I can try to match them against the official copies of the ledgers that we keep in the office."

He plucked the spectacles off and cleaned them absentmindedly with a cloth he magicked out of some pocket or other.

"You're really just helping me with this?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I?" He finally turned his magnetic gaze back on me. The question was clear in the tilt of his brow. He genuinely had never considered an alternative.

"I accused you of murder…"

His lip quirked up in a self-deprecating smile. "I am hardly a saint, Celine. It's not as though I never thought of calling Rycliffe out. The night I learned what he had done, the day I found her, the evening I lost her. A few thousand times in between. It was a good notion, in truth. It's lucky you never went to the authorities with your suspicion, or I'd surely have been hanged. Now, can you recall any names?"

"I… you're a strange man, William Hart. You know that, right?"

"I do." He tapped the parchment spread before him with an impatient finger.

"I think he had occasional dealings with the Earl of Westfield… There was Sir Wilhelm Jacobs."

This was more difficult than one would believe. To recall the faceless masses of the ton.

"Adriane's brother, Weston LaMorte. I suppose he might have been angry enough. Though I'm not certain he was overly invested." William added him to the list.

"His Grace the Duke of Sutton–his Christian name is Winston, Mr. Wesley Parker… Lord Wyatt…" He wrote each with a decisive hand while I racked my brain, searching for the names or faces of anyone who could have known Gabriel. "There was a woman who owns a brothel. Victoria. I don't know her real name or her surname. It's possible she was involved."

His gaze snapped to mine, ink spilling across his list. "Gabriel was visiting a brothel? While you were married?" His tone had turned sharp, snappish, and his eyes darkened.

"No, he stopped all that after we met."

"Right," he agreed, disbelief clear in his voice.

"He did!"

"I'm sure he did. I'll see what I can learn about a Victoria who owns a brothel."

"He truly did stop, William."

I could not explain why it was so essential to me that he believed me, that he understood. Perhaps I did not wish him to think me so naive. Perhaps it was the undertone of pity that had joined the note of irritation at my insistence. My marriage was not something to be pitied.

He caught my hand in his, thumb tracing my knuckles. "No, you're right. No man in his right mind would visit a brothel when you were waiting at home." His eyes and voice had softened.

I swallowed thickly, pushing down sentiments that were entirely inappropriate for the setting. Honestly, lusting after a man while digging through my deceased husband's ledgers, searching for his killer. What had gotten into me?

I settled for a simple, "Thank you."

"Of course. It's the truth. Are there any other names you can recall?"

My gaze cast to the side of the desk as if the answer was to be found there. In fairness, William's eyes were unbearably distracting. Naming the color was quickly becoming my favorite pastime.

That was when I caught sight of the invitation for last week's masquerade, not yet properly disposed of. The masquerade at Wayland's, named after its proprietor. A man Gabriel occasionally had dealings with.

And my former lover.

My stomach twisted into a knot in rebellion at the thought. I could feel my lips moving, attempting to say the name, to add him to the list. But no sound came out.

"Celine?"

Still unable to give voice to that name, I tugged my hand free, grabbed the invitation, and handed it to him silently.

"Oh, love, no. He's aboveboard."

"Now. He's aboveboard now. He began building after receiving funds in 1809. The same year Gabriel was killed."

"He's a friend. I know him. He would never."

"He was my lover for two years. Do you think I wish for it to be him? It's entirely likely that Gabriel's death was the result of some sort of gambling dispute. Michael is the king of gambling in this town."

"He was?" William asked, his voice soft.

"Was what?"

"Your lover."

My eyes found his, and I saw something unreadable in them. "That is the part you found to be of import?"

"Yes—no—right. No, that is not the important part. I apologize. I was just… I don't like to think him capable of it. But you're correct. He should be on the list."

"I think, perhaps, we should be finished for the day." Even I could hear the hollow, tinny quality to my voice. It was fitting when mixed with the metallic tang filling my mouth.

"Right, yes, of course. I… I am sorry. I was distracted by the excitement of a good mystery, and I forgot myself. I forgot that it was real and he was real and that this would all be so very painful for you. That was badly done." His hand caught mine once again. He peered up at me from beneath his brow, his eyes a soft cornflower blue and full of concern.

"It's not your fault. I just, with the masquerade and my ridiculous plan… And then last night… And today I saw Mama and Gabriel, and now this. I am just… I am just a bit overwrought."

He rose, his free hand finding my chin and tipping it up so my eyes met his, concern still etched in their downturned corners.

"You have nothing to apologize for, love."

"I was convinced you murdered my husband. I followed you for a week in an ill-fitting maid's uniform. I went so far as to spy on you during private moments."

He cocked his head to the side with a smile in acknowledgment. "You have a few things to apologize for. Not this though. I've mucked this up quite thoroughly to be honest. I intended for there to be a great deal more kissing and a great deal less paperwork. I… you— I get quite nervous in your presence. And I do and say the wrong thing. But I'm good at this." He gestured at the pages strewn about my desk. "Can't say the wrong thing to ledgers and contracts."

"You're quite good at the kissing as well. In case you were unaware."

"I'm glad to know you think so. Especially since I quite enjoy kissing you." I tilted my head, awaiting his lips. "Oh, I'm not going to kiss you tonight. As you said, you're overwrought and I would like to be certain that the next time you're feeling unstrung, there's no question that it's due to my kisses."

I blinked, slowly coming to terms with the realization that I was not about to be ravished.

"William! That was quite… charming."

"It's been known to happen on very rare occasions. I think the knowledge that you're so exhausted that you likely won't remember any of this is making me brave." He brought my hand to his lips and pressed a delicate kiss to the knuckles. "I would not become too accustomed to it if I were you."

"I like it. I like you shy too. But you should be brave more often."

His only answer was a chuckle as he bent to place one last kiss on the place where my neck and jaw met. The place that already bore his mark.

"Goodnight, Celine. Sleep well."

I was left standing alone in my study, once again finding my world shaken to its foundations by this man. And I had nothing but warring feelings of arousal, trepidation, and exhaustion for company.