Chapter Nine

The ice house was colder than a witch’s tit. Kincaid’s teeth chattered lightly together as he waited at the mouth of the well for the iceman to return. Somewhere down in that deep, dark chasm there was over four long tons of ice, cut into rough blocks and stacked as high as seven men. Kincaid only needed a pound of it to wrap around the hand he’d plowed into the Duke of Telford’s ugly arse face.

An impulsive bit of violence, that.

The likes of which he hadn’t employed since his days as a peeler.

He had more self-restraint now. More control. Or at least, that’s what he liked to believe. But when he’d stepped into that statue garden and witnessed Telford grabbing Joanna, the last thing he’d felt was in control.

The duke was lucky he wasn’t dead, or worse.

“Those are some ugly knuckles you’ve got there,” the iceman, a skinny fellow with a head as bald as an ivory cue ball, remarked as he climbed out of the well and handed Kincaid a slab of ice wrapped in a dirty, brown cloth.

“You should see the other bastard.” Fishing a shilling out of his pocket, Kincaid paid for the ice and immediately applied it to his throbbing hand before he headed towards home.

He’d been so enraged, he had forgotten to untuck his thumb when he punched, and was paying a fine price for such an amateur mistake. His entire arm throbbed like the dickens, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if one, if not more, fingers were broken.

Still, the pain was a small price to pay for the satisfaction of watching Telford crumple to the ground…and the knowledge that he’d put him there.

The sheer rage that had flowed over him…it was like nothing he’d experienced. And nothing he hoped to experience again. For the duke wasn’t the only recipient of his anger. He had told Joanna to stay put, hadn’t he? Remain on the bench, he’d said. Wait for him to return, he’d said.

Yet what had she done at the first opportunity?

Run off to a garden filled with naked statues of men.

Naked, well-endowed statues of men.

And a foxed duke who should have known better than to go chasing after his woman.

Everything inside of Kincaid stilled.

Including his heart.

Bloody hell.

Hiswoman?

Joanna Thorncroft wasn’t his.

She was…she was a menace to society, that’s what she was. And he just happened to have gotten himself sucked into the storm of chaos that seemed to follow her wherever she went. That didn’t mean he thought of her as his. That would be…that would be ludicrous.

Almost as ludicrous as taking a gorgeous American he hardly knew to a damned pleasure garden to search for her sister who he didn’t know at all.

“I need a drink,” he snapped at James and Jane as he let himself to his house and went straight to the liquor cabinet in his office. The two cats trailed after him, their petulant meows a reminder that they hadn’t yet received their dinner. Dumping what remained of the rapidly melting ice in a bucket, he glared at the felines. “Go catch a mouse. That’s what you’re here for, and there’s plenty of them scurrying about in the attic.”

Jane, the shyer of the two, darted away.

James merely sat on his haunches at his master’s feet, opened his mouth, and yowled.

“All right, all right.” Cringing at the horrendous sound, Kincaid rummaged around in a cabinet with his good hand and managed to procure half a loaf of bread and hunk of hard cheese. There was no telling how long they’d been in there, but James didn’t seem to mind. Tearing off a piece of bread for himself, Kincaid poured a glass of whiskey and nursed it by the window.

Clouds obscured the sky, blocking out the stars and the moon and turning London as black as pitch save for the intermittent glow of cast iron lamp posts. Somewhere out in all that inky darkness were the peelers, combing the streets and the alleys and the docks. Four years ago, he would have been out there with them. Risking life and limb to protect a city that didn’t give a damn about him. Now, he was in his house with his cats, trying not to let his mind be led astray by a titian-haired beauty with eyes as blue as the ocean and the most temptingly kissable mouth he’d ever seen.

It was a miracle, really.

That he hadn’t kissed her yet.

God, did he want to.

Truthfully, he didn’t know if he’d ever wanted anything more.

And that terrified him more than when he’d found himself on the wrong end of a pistol after he was sent to break up a brawl at a riverside pub.

Grimacing, Kincaid sipped his whiskey, then took a bite of the bread before promptly spitting it back out. Hell, but it was stale. Like chewing on an old rubber shoe. Chasing the taste out of his mouth with more whiskey, he happened to glance down and saw James looking up, his yellow eyes slanted in annoyance.

“It’s not my fault,” Kincaid said defensively. “When I bought the bread it was fine. Try the cheese.”

Lowering his head, James gave the cheese a dainty sniff, then abruptly recoiled and batted at it with his paw.

Kincaid glared at the picky feline. “Don’t bloody well start with me. You’re a cat. Not the King of England. Who cares if it’s a little off color? If I can eat it, so can you.” Scooping the cheese off the floor–he’d gotten his food from worse places–he tried it. Then promptly spat that out, too, as James watched smugly.

“Go catch a mouse,” Kincaid repeated. Picking up his whiskey, he returned to staring out the window. The clouds had shifted, allowing a shimmer of moonlight to peek through. Instantly, he was reminded of the streaks of silvery moonlight in Joanna’s hair as she’d walked into Cremorne Gardens. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn she was a goddess of old.

Aphrodite, perhaps.

Or Athena, the goddess of war and wisdom.

Athena, he decided as he sipped his drink.

Most definitely.

While the wisdom of Joanna’s decision to sail across the Atlantic in search of a ring and a father she’d never met was debatable, her courage was not. It was clear she’d go to great lengths to protect her sisters. She already had. And if that wasn’t the sign of a true warrior, what was?

If Kincaid wasn’t determined to dislike her, he’d having nothing but admiration for her.

And lust.

Quite a bit of lust.

Along with…other feelings.

Feelings he didn’t want to feel, which was where the dislike came in.

Never mind that there was absolutely nothing he’d disliked about Joanna tonight. The notable exception being her refusal to follow even the simplest of commands. But even that, in and of itself, was a source of grudging appreciation. She was as headstrong a woman as he’d ever encountered, and he couldn’t fault her for it. Not when it was what had first drawn him to her.

“Will you stop looking at me like that?” he snapped when he turned round to find James was staring at him with a smirk.

Or so it seemed.

Were cats capable of smirking?

Kincaid did not have any idea. But if there was ever a feline who could pull off such a human expression, it was James.

“I’ll get you fresh fish at the market tomorrow. Does that meet your fancy, m’lord,” he said with a mocking bow, “or should I pull it out of the river with my teeth?”

James’ smirk only grew.

“You’re a bastard, you know that, right?” Tipping his glass, Kincaid finished the rest of the whiskey, considered pouring himself another, then put the bottle back on the shelf with some regret. It was already late, and the morning was going to come early, and if he was going to continue to dislike Miss Joanna Thorncroft, he needed his wits about him.

Scooping James up in his arms–he could hardly leave the cat downstairs all alone now, could he?–Kincaid clomped off to bed.

* * * *

Joanna was bored.

No, that didn’t do it justice.

She was bored of being bored.

And it was all Kincaid’s fault.

Since she’d arrived in his office some three hours ago, he had hardly taken the time to acknowledge her aside from dumping a large bin of paper on her lap and asking her to organize it by date while he conducted interviews with potential clients.

She realized he was busy. By her estimation, more than seven people had walked through the door this morning. A man in search of his missing horse, a woman in search of her missing necklace, and (the most interesting case by far, in Joanna’s opinion) a baroness who wanted to open an investigation into the sudden and unexpected death of her husband.

Sir Edgar Chamberlain, it seemed, had recently engaged in an affair with an actress–or that harlot, as Lady Chamberlain had referred to her–and upon his demise, the actress’ theater group had inherited a considerable percentage of Sir Edgar’s fortune. If Lady Chamberlain could prove Sir Edgar had been killed by the actress, the bulk of his estate would revert back to his wife.

It was a fascinating mystery, and one Joanna would have very much liked to assist on…if she wasn’t being completely ignored.

The least Kincaid could do was spare a bit of attention. Especially since his parting words from the night before had kept her up tossing and turning until Evie had thrown a pillow at her head and demanded that she either fall asleep or go find another room.

If I were to ever kiss you, I would not need to ask permission.

How could he say that to her, and then pretend the next day as if she didn’t exist? How could he knock a duke flat on his backside for the crime of simply touching her, and then greet her the next morning as if they were perfect strangers?

“I am glad to see you are well, Miss Thorncroft. Here are twenty thousand pages of busywork I need you to do. Please proceed with all haste, and disregard the occasional glare in your direction as I am suffering from gastrointestinal upset.”

Or something to that effect.

Waiting for the last client to leave (a husband who wanted his mistress followed as he suspected she was guilty of taking up with another lover, never mind that he was guilty of doing exactly what he was accusing his mistress of), Joanna dumped the pile of meaningless receipts off her lap and stood up, stretching her arms high above her head to work the stiffness from her muscles.

Honestly, did Kincaid really need to know what he’d paid for a slab of beef twoyears ago? Half of the papers would make excellent kindling, and the other half would fare perfectly fine in the bottom of a bin somewhere.

The floorboards creaked as she crossed the room and poured herself a cup of coffee. She’d made the dark brew herself, and was pleased to note it was neither cold nor strong enough to knock a grown man off his feet. After grinding the beans she had added a spoonful of burned sugar for sweetness, a trick her grandmother had taught her. The result was a coffee that was actually palatable, unlike the black swamp water Kincaid had tried to serve her.

Stirring in some thick, white cream, she blew across the top of the ceramic mug, took a sip, and then proceeded to walk straight up to his desk.

“It was the wife,” she announced in no uncertain terms. Placing her coffee on a book so as not to stain the wood finish, she crossed her arms and stared directly at Kincaid’s bent head. He was jotting down notes in that journal of his, and made no indication that he heard her. “Lady Chamberlain killed her husband.”

Kincaid’s pen paused for a split second. “It was not the wife.”

Joanna pursed her lips. “I think it was.”

He resumed writing. Then on a loud, exasperated sigh, he dropped his pen. “Why do you think it’s the wife?”

“Because it’s always the wife.” She uncrossed her arms and reached for her coffee. “If Lady Chamberlain didn’t do it herself, she hired the person who did. You said he was poisoned?”

“That is the working theory, yes. Oleander, perhaps, as his last twelve hours on earth were reportedly not very…pleasant.” Kincaid removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. “The coroner should be able to confirm when the exam is complete.”

Joanna nodded. “Most definitely the wife. If I was going to murder my husband, that’s how I would do it.”

Kincaid’s brows snapped together. “Why the devil would you murder your husband?”

“The usual reasons, I suppose,” she said with a shrug.

“The usual–Miss Thorncroft,” he said in a strangled voice.

She blinked at him. “Yes?”

“You do realize you’ve just admitted to plotting murder.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I’m not even married yet.”

An odd flicker of emotion passed across Kincaid’s countenance. He leaned forward onto his desk and clasped his hands together. “Still, I would caution you to consider the potential impact of your words before you speak them. And to be careful about making accusations you’ve no evidence with which to confirm.”

There was a lock of rich mahogany dangling just above his right eye. Joanna’s fingers itched to comb it back from his face, but she had a feeling he wouldn’t appreciate the gesture.

Too bad.

There were some people who desperately needed affection, and Kincaid was one of them. He was all sharp lines and defensive angles, but with the right touch–her touch–some of those peaks could be softened.

If I were to ever kiss you, I would not need to ask permission.

“I shall take your advice under consideration.” She sipped her coffee. “As long as you take mine and investigate Lady Chamberlain. A woman scorned is a powerful entity.”

“Do you speak from experience, Miss Thorncroft?” Kincaid asked, his serious gaze intent on her face and every nuanced expression that inadvertently flitted across it.

It was an experience in and of itself, she found, to be gazed upon with such ferocity. As a tall woman with bright red hair, Joanna was accustomed to men staring at her. But they never stared into her.

Except for Thomas Kincaid.

He looked at her…well, he looked at her as if he wanted to know everything about her. As if he wanted to devour every thought inside of her mind. As if he wanted to peel away her layers until he reached her soul.

What would he find, if he went that far?

What would he discover in her secret heart of heats?

Did she want him to know?

Did she even know?

Three months ago, she would have said yes. Unequivocally. She knew exactly who she was. She knew just what she wanted. But now…now with old secrets exposed, and a future that was ripe with uncertainty, and a growing attraction to a British detective who didn’t seem to like her very much, let alone return her interest, she wasn’t so certain.

About anything.

It was a very uncomfortable position to be in.

Especially for someone accustomed to being in control.

Disguising her discomfort behind a wry smile, she used her thumb to wipe away a spot of dust on the edge of his desk. “I imagine one would have to be in love in order to be scorned, and I’m afraid I have never been blessed with that particular pleasure.”

“Good,” he said, rather abruptly.

Now her eyebrows rose. “Good?”

“I…that’s not what I meant to say.” With a grimace, Kincaid raked a hand through his hair and shoved his spectacles into place then promptly removed them, polished the lenses on his sleeve, and then put them back on.

Crookedly.

Joanna lifted her mug to disguise her growing smile. This was the first time she had ever seen the detective visibly flustered, and she found it very…appealing. Maybe–just maybe–he wasn’t as unaffected by her as he’d like her to believe. Maybe–just maybe–he really did like her.

“What did you mean to say, then?” she asked, placing her coffee down on the desk with a hard click that made him flinch. Her head canted. “Are you glad I’ve never been in love, Kincaid?”

“Yes. No. I…that is to say…bollocks.” Flipping his journal to a clean page, he picked up his pen and wrote with such speed the words seemed to blur. “Here,” he said, ripping the paper free. “There are supplies I need from a bookshop on the corner. Paper, envelopes, more ink. I’ve an account with the shopkeeper, you need only give him my name.”

“You want me to go now?” she asked.

“Do you’ve a more pressing matter to attend to, Miss Thorncroft?”

“No, it’s just that I thought we might discuss the Chamberlain case in more detail.” And find out why you seem relieved that I’ve never fallen in love, she added silently.

“Your position does not entail solving cases.” He stood up, walked around his desk, and held out the list.

She took it. Their fingers brushed. Heat flared between them, like the strike of a match against flint. With a startled gasp, she looked swiftly up at his face, searching for a sign that Kincaid had felt what she had. But to her overwhelming disappointment, his gaze was shuttered and his emotions were concealed.

A wall of stone would have been able to tell her more about what it was feeling, and she felt a surge of frustration at Kincaid’s refusal to reveal even the tiniest hint of desire.

“The bookstore is easy to find,” he said in a clipped tone. “Turn left, walk to the end of the street where the large oak tree is, then turn right. It will be on the corner. The white building with blue shutters. The proprietor, Mr. Bingley, is very helpful. He should have everything you need.”

As she folded the list and tucked it inside her reticule, it occurred to Joanna, somewhat belatedly, that if Kincaid hadn’t experienced a jolt of sensation when their hands had collided, then he’d have nothing to hide. Maybe the very fact that his entire countenance was as empty as his foyer was actually an indication that he had felt something.

He was just better at disguising it than she was.

Joanna frowned. Thomas Kincaid presented a problem she’d never faced before. In the past, her suitors had never needed any encouragement. As soon as she had refused one, another had lined up, eager to try for her hand. Truth be told, she had never quite understood her own appeal. But she had also never questioned it, and–eventually–she’d come to take the attention for granted. Which meant she had never developed a key ingredient to any successful courtship: the ability to flirt.

Now here she was, actually wanting a man’s attention for once in her life, and Kincaid could not have been more dismissive.

It was all very infuriating.

And confusing.

And very inconvenient.

But then…when had she ever let a little inconvenience stop her? She’d sailed across an ocean in search of a stolen ring, for goodness’ sake. Surely winning the affection of a bookishly handsome (albeit emotionally aloof) private investigator couldn’t be that difficult. After all, she was, if nothing else, a problem solver.

And this was just another problem.

“Miss Thorncroft,” Kincaid said warily. “What are you doing?”

“Testing a theory.” Never taking her eyes away from his, she slowly traced a path from his elbow to the blue and purple veins on the inside of his wrist. He wore only a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled partially up, exposing his forearms to her inquisitive fingertips. “I’ve a very scientific mind, Kincaid. And I have always enjoyed…experiments.”

He expelled a ragged breath when she lightly circled her thumb around the throb of his pulse. His pupils dilated, amber eyes darkening to aged cognac. The muscles in his arm tightened, and when he spoke it was not with the tone of a man unaffected by pleasure, but one trying not to drown in it.

“This–this is not proper, Miss Thorncroft,” he rasped.

A smile teased her lips. “You forget I am an American, Kincaid. We’ve never been overly fond of British propriety.” She lifted his hand and lowered her lashes to conceal the glint of sensual mischief in her gaze as she pressed her lips to the heel of his palm.

A growl tore itself loose from the depths of his throat, and her heart thrummed wildly in response.

She’d never made a man growl before.

It was all quite wolfish…and wicked. She was tempted to do more. To demand more. But having gotten an irrefutable answer to her question of whether Kincaid felt something for her or not (it was clear that he did), perhaps it was time for a tactful retreat.

“I should go see about that list,” she murmured, turning away.

His stare burned a hole in the small of her back as she sauntered out of the room, her uncharacteristically lascivious gait empowered by the passion running hot and heavy through her veins. She closed the door then sagged against it, wondering what she’d started...and how it would end.