Devil in Spring

There had been times when he’d kept her like this for hours, tormenting her with just enough stimulation to sustain the excitement, and delaying release until she begged for mercy. But now, to her vast relief, he didn’t make her wait. She quivered in ecstasy while his hands gripped her bottom and lifted it more firmly against his mouth.

She lay relaxed in the afterglow, purring as his body covered hers. He nudged in slowly, the invasion satisfyingly hard and thick. Braced above her on his elbows, he held inside her without moving, his passion-drowsed eyes staring down into hers. She felt how taut and heavy his body was, how ready he was for completion. But he remained still, catching his breath whenever her inner muscles clamped on him.

“Tell me again,” he eventually whispered, his eyes brilliant in the heightened color of his face.

“I love you,” she said, and pulled his head down to hers. She felt his deep shudder as the release was pulled from him, the tide drawing back and rushing forward in abandoned waves.

Although the subject of Pandora’s board game business was not brought up again that night, she knew that Gabriel wouldn’t stand in the way when she finally decided to resume her work. He wouldn’t like her outside interests, would no doubt air his opinions about them, but he would gradually come to understand that the more he accepted her freedom, the easier it was for her to be close to him.

They were both aware that she meant too much for him to risk losing her affection. But she would never use his love as a whip hand over his head. Their marriage would be a partnership, just like their waltzing . . . not perfect, not always graceful, but they would find their way together.

Gabriel slept in her bed that night, and awakened the next morning looking much more like his usual self. He was all along her back, his long legs drawn up beneath hers, an arm slung loosely across her waist. She wriggled slightly in enjoyment. Reaching up, she searched for the beard-roughened texture of his jaw, and felt his lips press against her fingers.

“How do you feel?” he asked, his voice muffled.

“Quite well.” Her adventurous hand crept downward, insinuating between their bodies until she had gripped the hard length of him, smooth hot velvet against her palm. “But just to be sure . . . you should take my temperature.”

He chuckled and pried her hand away, rolling to the side of the bed. “Don’t start that again, vixen. We have things to do today.”

“Oh, that’s right.” She watched as he went to don a jacquard robe. “I’ll be exceedingly busy. First I’ll eat toast and then I’m planning to look at the wall for a while. After that, just for some variety, I’ll probably lie back on pillows and stare at the ceiling—”

“What would you say to receiving a visitor?”

“Who?”

“Mr. Ransom, the detective. He’s wanted to question you ever since you returned from the clinic, but I told him to wait until you were well enough.”

“Oh.” Pandora had mixed feelings, knowing the detective would ask her about her visit to the printer’s works, as well as the night she was stabbed, and she wasn’t exactly eager to relive either of those memories. On the other hand, if she could help in seeing that justice was served—and secure her own safety in the bargain—it would be worthwhile. Besides, it would be something to do. “Tell him to visit at his convenience,” she said. “My schedule is quite flexible, other than my midmorning blancmange, which cannot be interrupted for any reason.”

Chapter 24

Pandora immediately liked Ethan Ransom, a good-looking young man with an air of quiet reserve and a sense of humor that was rarely permitted to surface. But there was an appealing hint of boyishness about him. It had something to do with the way he spoke, his middle-class accent carefully beveled and measured, like a serious schoolboy. Or perhaps it was the way his straight dark hair kept falling over his forehead.

“I’m from the secret service bureau,” Ransom explained, as he sat in the parlor with Pandora and Gabriel. “We’re part of the detective department, but we gather intelligence related to political matters and answer directly to the Home Office instead of the division superintendent.” He hesitated, considering his words. “I’m not here in an official capacity. In fact, I would prefer to keep this visit confidential. My superiors would be displeased, to put it mildly, if they knew I was here. However, the lack of interest in Lady St. Vincent’s attack, as well as Mrs. O’Cairre’s death, has been . . . remarkable. I can’t stand by and do nothing.”

“Mrs. O’Cairre’s death?” Pandora repeated, a sting of shock racing through her. “When did that happen? How?”

“A week ago.” Ransom glanced from her to Gabriel. “You weren’t told?”

Gabriel shook his head.

“Suicide, they claimed,” Ransom said, with a twist of his mouth. “The coroner sent for a physician to perform an autopsy, but somehow the body was interred before it could be done. Now the coroner refuses to order it to be disinterred. That means no inquest. The department wants the entire matter swept under the rug.” He surveyed them both cautiously before continuing. “At first I thought it was indifference or sheer incompetence, but now I believe it’s more sinister than that. Secret Service has deliberately overlooked and destroyed evidence, and their interrogation of Mrs. O’Cairre was a useless mummery. I went to the detectives who’d been assigned to the interrogation and told them about Lady St. Vincent’s visit to the printer’s works. I also made certain they knew about the man she saw in the warehouse. They never asked Mrs. O’Cairre even one question about him.”