CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BARNABAS WAS DANGEROUSLY CLOSE to losing control. And after he’d promised her he would stop if she asked. But now?
She was on the edge of orgasm and he—well, he’d be right behind her.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a second. She was an innocent. If he’d had any doubts before now, they were gone. The repeated flares of surprise in her face and the fierce blushes told him that much. Her tentativeness with her touches was endearing, but she was growing bolder. No doubt, she was frightened, loath as she would be to admit it.
She tugged her shift up to cover her breasts and her brow was horseshoed in a worried way. But then she turned on her side away from him.
Barnabas sank back down on the mattress and lay down beside her reaching an arm over her. He tugged the bedding out from under her and pulled it over them.
He leaned up and kissed her cheek near her ear, and then whispered, “I understand. It’s all right.”
Perhaps he should have told her of his feelings for her, but it didn’t seem the right time—not before in the station house when their conversation was probably being listened to via a trap concealed by the poster on the wall. If the poster had been meant to be seen they would have been seated facing it. Nor had it seemed right when they were walking to the hotel—she’d been giving him the silent treatment and would have been likely to think it a ploy to get her to share a room with him. And now, she would likely discount it given her history. Or think he was manipulating her into continuing.
He stroked her hair. It was messy now, but still braided and coiled in an intricate confection. He should have taken it down. “Let me touch you awhile yet.”
She stiffened.
Shit, he was trying to manipulate her into more. His blood was on fire and his cock had been hard long enough his stones ached.
“I thought you said we could sleep.”
He rolled to his back and used ever horrid memory he had to bank the flames of desire. He caught her hand and brought it to his mouth. “You’re right. Go to sleep.”
He stared at the stamped tin ceiling. Counted squares until finally he thought he had himself under control. He could be patient. Once this case was over, he’d take her to meet his parents. Or maybe meeting one of his sisters first would be easier on her. Then he’d propose. The next time they were alone overnight, he’d have a ring on her finger. Maybe just an engagement ring, but he didn’t take this time lightly. He’d meant it when he said his intentions were honorable.
But Henry wasn’t certain yet. He could see it in her expressions. Then with what her father had done to her mother, trust wouldn’t be easy for her. Perhaps he should seek out the man and ask if he was willing to acknowledge his daughter.
She probably wouldn’t want a hurried affair if there were consequences. Until he solved Jane Redding’s murder, his time would be limited. And it would be better if they didn’t see each other because he didn’t want to argue with her about Coleraine’s innocence or guilt.
She scooted away from him.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I...uh...left the ink uncapped. I should cap it before it dries out.”
“Leave it. It’ll be fine.”
“The lamp is burning.” She leaned up on an elbow.
It wasn’t casting that much light into his room. Enough to see by, but no more than a fire would provide. She wanted to escape from him. His throat went dry. She’d probably hoped he’d fallen asleep. “You don’t need to run away.”
She turned toward him. “I most certainly do. I’ve already let things go too far.”
“Or not quite far enough,” he said softly. “I won’t stop you, but I’ll sleep better if you’re beside me.”
*~*~*
Against her better judgement, Henry lay in bed with Barnabas. Her body was alive with new aches and desires, and it took everything she had to not turn to him and kiss him or worse rub up against him like a cat in heat. Her private parts were wet and swollen, yet empty. Barnabas would know what to do if she told him, but it was so wrong. Wrong to trick him when he didn’t know that she would be his enemy.
Because no matter what, she had to keep writing articles putting the blame on Coleraine. The man needed to be punished, and if Barnabas wouldn’t see it through, she’d at least make the earl a pariah. More of a pariah.
She took a slow breath and concentrated on not moving as Barnabas curled around her. His warmth was nice. Without her nightgown she would have been chilly. Still, once he was asleep, she would slip out and make certain he didn’t see the article she was writing and maybe she’d steal a look at his notes in his greatcoat pocket.
His body relaxed and his breathing slowed. She would give him time to get into a deep sleep, then get out of bed.
Only the next thing she knew bright morning sun was in her face.
“Sweetheart.” Barnabas shook her shoulder.
She rolled to her back and looked up at him. He was fully dressed and sitting on the bed beside her.
She jerked upright. Had he seen her article?
He smiled. “I was about to say you could sleep awhile longer.” His gaze drifted down to where her shift’s neckline drooped.
Oh my goodness, last night he’d kissed her there. Her face caught fire. She snatched up the bedcovers and held them in front of her.
He stood and wiped his hand across the stubble on his chin, his gaze fixed on her face. “I’m off to find a barber for a shave. I’ll be back to take you to breakfast before we catch the train. I’ll check the schedules while I’m out. Do you need me to have the staff send up anything for you?”
She shook her head.
He bent and pressed a kiss on the top of her head. “I shan’t be too long.”
“All right,” she said.
He strode to the door and paused as he opened it. “Oh and I put your things back in your room and blew out the lamp, and capped the ink.”
And saw her article? Her heart froze in her chest.
“Thank you,” she said, not knowing what else to say. The second he was gone, she threw off the covers and flew into her room.
The spread was back over her bed, her corset lying on top of it. The papers were in a neat stack on the desk, but her article was gone. Had he taken it? Her stomach flipped and she thought she would be sick.
*~*~*
Barnabas whistled as he walked into the police station. He was over the moon. Other than her annoying conviction that Coleraine was guilty, Henry was perfect for him. She was smart, vivacious, and passionate. Better than that, she made him feel more alive than he had in years. When he stopped working to eat he’d order flowers to be delivered to her boarding house.
“I hope that means you’re getting close to an arrest,” said the commissioner as they passed in the hallway.
Well, that was one way to create a deluge to dampen his good mood. “No.”
“The newspapers are demanding the earl’s arrest.”
“They’re wrong. He didn’t do it.”
“Then find who did, Harlow. Soon.”
“Yes, sir.” Barnabas continued toward his office.
“It would help if you didn’t play to the press,” called the commissioner over his shoulder.
Barnabas jerked to a halt. “What?”
But the commissioner was gone.
Shaking his head, Barnabas continued to his office. He didn’t play to the press. He didn’t even talk to them. He wanted nothing to do with reporters. They made his life hell with their clamoring for the earl to be arrested.
He crossed to his desk piled with several stacks of papers. He sighed. He had reports to write, one of his least favorite tasks.
Sergeant Murdock came in the room and drew up short. “Why do you have that gruesome thing in here?”
Barnabas blinked and then followed Murdock’s gaze to the fence boards leaning against the wall. He’d had the blood spattered section brought out of the storeroom after Henry’s comments about the height of the scalloped stain. “I was studying the pattern of the blood.”
“It is grotesque.”
“Murder is grotesque,” Barnabas returned. Thus far he agreed with Henry’s conclusion that Jane was not standing upright when her throat was slit. That little piece didn’t solve the crime, but it could help if he ever questioned the murderer. “Do you have what I asked for?”
“Yes, sir. There was a missing person’s complaint taken on a Kathleen Carter.” Murdock handed over a brown file. There were more files tucked under his arm.
Barnabas flipped open the folder. He’d read the reports, but Murdock would already have gone over the contents. Murdock loved to dig into musty paperwork, which made them a good team. “Was there an investigation?”
“Not really. Not until the second report and then the complainant, a Miss Brown, was found to be only an acquaintance.”
“Any others reported missing?”
“Violet Fenton was reported missing by her husband after he was released from prison. Questioning resulted in a notation in the file that Mr. Fenton could pose a danger to his wife and therefore the inquiry should not be pursued. Nothing on the other name, Lucy Inglis. At least not that I found.”
“Do you have the list of women who’ve stayed at that house?”
“Right here, sir.” Murdock placed a list on the desk.
Barnabas would compare Henry’s list to his sergeant’s.
There was still a file tucked under Murdock’s arm.
Barnabas raised an eyebrow.
“The coroner’s verdict and post mortem on Rachel Brown. Self murder.”
So it was a suicide. Yet, Henry thought Coleraine responsible for her sister’s death. Barnabas stretched out his hand. “Any chance it could have been murder?”
“Doesn’t appear so, sir. There were several smaller cuts that are consistent with working up the courage to do the deed. First cuts were to the wrists, then the neck. She was not alone for long, and had made comments about being hopeless.” Murdock shifted. “Swollen uterus.”
Barnabas frowned, staring at the folder. Henry’s sister had been pregnant. Too often a cause of a young woman feeling desperate. Did Henry know?
Murdock cleared his throat.
“Any luck in tracking down Mr. Redding?”
“I found his brother in the census. Since you were out of town, I took the liberty of calling on him. Mr. Redding reports his brother, Jane’s husband, is working at a manufactory in Manchester.”
Another trip to question him. An overnight trip. With any luck the man killed his wife in a jealous rage and he could wrap up this case before the newspapers started calling for a lynch mob to do what the police failed to do. Then he could get on with things with Henry.
The thought of newspapers drew him back to the commissioner’s odd comment. “Do you know why the commissioner accused me of playing to the press?”
“You have been mentioned in several articles.”
Great. Just what he needed—to be the object of theoretical incompetence for failing to arrest Coleraine, regardless of the proof he had.
“The Southwark Chronicle reports your midnight visit of the crime scene in great detail.”
A chill went down Barnabas’s spine. Henry had promised not to talk to the press. Surely she hadn’t talked to a reporter. Had they been followed? Oh God, she’d been with him. Had the article mentioned her?
“Would you like to see the newspaper?” asked Murdock.
“You have it?”
“I saved it.” Murdock turned to the door. “I’ll be back in one moment.”
Murdock returned and set the newspaper down on his desk.
Barnabas skimmed through the article, surprised at the amount of detail the reporter had gotten right. He reached the jump to an inside page and realized Henry hadn’t been mentioned at all. He let out half a breath of relief before it dawned on him that the failure to mention her was strange. His gaze jerked back to the beginning and the byline.
Henry Brown.
His stomach rolled over and tore a deep hole in his gut. The author of the article was Henry Brown.
No.
He read it again, swallowing hard against the sour taste in his mouth.
Henry was a reporter?
He closed his eyes and opened them, but the sickening truth didn’t go away. All the pieces he knew, her being at the recovery scene, her bold approach in the pub, her evasiveness about the office where she worked.
Murdock made a clucking sound of sympathy or censure. “The same Henry Brown?”
“Bloody hell. I had no idea she was a reporter.” He felt knocked silly, as if someone had bashed him with a cudgel.
“A woman reporter.” Murdock’s hangdog face was mournful. “What is the world coming to?”
Damn, she had been manipulating him to get information from him. More the fool he because he’d shared far more than he should have.
Worse. He’d believed they had become a couple, thought that her kisses meant something, been on the verge of proposing. How could he have been so stupid? She had been playing him. Like the prostitutes she kept talking to, she probably traded her favors to stay in his room. He thought his notebook had been in the wrong pocket when he pulled it out after he was back. She’d probably only wanted to get her hands on his notes when he was sleeping.
“Are you all right?” asked Murdock.
No. He wasn’t all right. He was cut to the bone. He should be bleeding all over the papers on his desk, but it only felt like he was. He tried to suck in a breath, but he couldn’t. “I’m fine,” Barnabas finally managed. “May I keep this?”
Murdock rocked back and forth on his feet and gave him a pitying look. “By all means.”
Barnabas had sworn he’d never allow anyone to betray him ever again, but he’d fallen hard for Henry and every trick she’d used on him.
*~*~*
The afternoon had faded into a dusky evening. Barnabas squinted at the metal plate above the door. The one that announced the building contained the offices of the Southwark Chronicle.
He hadn’t wanted to believe. Henry Brown had to be a common name. It was possible a reporter had the same name as the woman he had fallen for. He just needed the proof before he admitted the sick feeling in his stomach was because he’d been duped. He’d been made a fool. He’d fallen for a woman who wanted nothing more than to interject herself into his investigation, and he’d been idiot enough to let her.
The door of the building across the street opened. A man wearing a bowler exited.
Barnabas let go of the breath he was holding. He shouldn’t be here waiting. He had reports to write, people to interview, a killer to identify. He’d know within two seconds of slapping the newspaper down in front of Henry if she’d written the article. Which he already knew, she had. He was just in a mood to put the final stamp on it.
He should go. The door opened again.
This time Henry stepped out. The back of his throat went dry. Even though he was a fair distance away, there was no mistaking her short stature and her hourglass shape. He’d thought he had exclusive rights to explore those curves. His stupid hope that it wasn’t her tore through him, leaving jagged shreds of his insides.
She looked around. He ducked back into a shadow. Her mouth flattened and she turned toward her home. He banged his head back against the brick wall behind him. Bloody hell, she had him acting like a fool. Red hot fury rose in his veins and pounded in him. He ran after her.
He’d seen enough to erase any doubt he had of her profession, but he needed to confront her. Hear her explanation. He never let his emotions control his actions, but it was as if he watched from a distance as his body wove through the pedestrians and darted across the road at the first opportunity.
His tread heavy, he fell in step directly behind her. What the hell was there to say? He didn’t want to say anything. He just wanted to shake her. But of course he couldn’t do that.
She quickened her step and he matched it.
She spun and her hand was inside the side seam of her skirt. Her face was tense, but her eyes were narrowed as if she were prepared to do battle. Of course she was. Her hand was on her gun.
“Oh!” The squint disappeared and a horseshoe pattern appeared in her forehead. Worry. “How long have you been following me?”
“Since you left your office.” The words came out much calmer than he expected them. Perhaps the years of questioning people had served him well. Inside he was a mass of raw nerve endings and rage. His jaw had developed a peculiar ache. She couldn’t possibly explain in a way that made sense, but he wanted to demand she try. “Take your hand out of your pocket, Henry. I won’t hurt you.”
She took a step back and her expression turned strained. She folded her hands together in front of her skirt.
He’d scared her. Good. At the same time, a vague guilt intruded. Shaking off any weakness toward her, he stepped closer and put his face right in front of hers. “Just how far were you willing to take this?”
Guilt and shame played across her face. Her chin dipped. “It wasn’t like that.”
If it wasn’t like that, why did she look so damn guilty? He took another step forward until her skirts were brushing his legs. How far would she take it now? Just how badly did she want information from him? He hated that he was even considering that, but he wanted to touch her and he found the urge despicable. But at the very least he deserved an apology. “Wasn’t it?”
She shook her head and looked over her shoulder as if measuring her chances for escape. “I have to go. I’ll be late for supper.”
“It won’t hurt you to miss a meal,” he growled while blocking her path. She’d started this mess, she could damn well stay long enough to straighten it out.
Her lower lip quivered.
His stomach flipped. He wasn’t a bully. He didn’t make women cry—unless they were guilty of a crime and he needed to break them. Besides Henry didn’t care about him. Or did she? “Damn it, don’t do that. Don’t pretend you’re hurt.”
“I wanted to tell you what I do yesterday, but you went on and on about how reporters got it wrong.” She thrust her jaw forward. Before he had a chance to believe that she didn’t want to lose whatever it was they had, she’d moved from sadness to anger. “I don’t get it wrong. I report facts.”
“So are you saying it is my fault you lied to me?” His voice came out rough. His throat felt scraped by a wire brush. He jammed his hands into his pockets because he didn’t want to fist them in front of her. He wasn’t the kind of man who used his superior size and anger to cow a woman, no matter how strong the urge was.
She glared and folded her arms. “I didn’t lie to you. I just didn’t tell you everything. Just like you haven’t told me everything.”
He rolled his eyes. Thank God he hadn’t told her everything. Besides, she had lied. He wanted her to be as upset as he was, but that wasn’t what he saw on her face. He wanted to have mattered to her, not just information to be the only thing she was after. “You promised not to talk about the night at the murder scene.”
“I didn’t talk to anyone. I wrote an article. And not being able to talk to my editor made rewrites extremely difficult.”
His choler rose enough that he ground out, “Are you twelve?”
Her lower lip thrust forward. “I kept my word, if not the spirit of what you thought we’d agreed to.”
He opened his mouth to say obeying the exact wording of the agreement wasn’t exactly sporting. Then he closed his mouth because she already knew that. She’d known it from the minute she approached him. She hadn’t given a damn about his integrity or his position at work. She’d damaged him more in one article than she could ever know. She hadn’t cared—and apparently he’d needed to see it face-to-face to believe it. His nails bit into his palms. “You lied to me the first time you approached me. You weren’t in that pub to meet someone. You were there to get at me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” She moved to walk past him.
“How far would you have gone with this? You were willing to trade a night in my bed to see my notes on the case. What would the payment be for all the files? Your...virtue for everything I know?” He wasn’t certain any longer that she was an innocent. It could all have been an act, but even so he wanted to kiss her again and see if her responses were faked.
He tried to ignore the roil of contradictory wants under his skin and focus on her response. His muscles screamed with tension. She was so wrong—wrong on so many levels, he couldn’t count them all. In spite of her scheming, he still wanted her.
“Don’t tell me you planned on offering to show me all the files.” Her voice was sarcastic. “How could I refuse such a bargain?”
If she was offering him bodily comfort in exchange for anything, he wasn’t turning her away. He grabbed her elbow and started hauling her down the street. Bloody hell, he’d turned into a lunatic. He absently scanned the sky for a full moon. She’d made him crazy, and he still wanted her. Well, maybe not in the same way, not quite so honorably, but he’d sure as hell take her dishonorably.
“Now that you know I’m a reporter, will I still warrant an introduction to your family?” she demanded.
“Bloody hell.” They hadn’t done anything yet that necessitated a proposal. And he didn’t know how much she’d used him. If she’d been pretending innocence... “I—”
She dug her heels in and tugged away from him. Her eyes were like steel daggers. “I’m not going to be your mistress. And I wouldn’t accept an honorable offer from you if you were the last man on earth.”
He shook his head, feeling as if it had been stuffed with new cheese. His stomach cramped. Was that how she really felt? “Damn it, Henry.” Did their time together mean anything to her? “I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Then don’t.”
He was in danger of telling her he’d started to think of her as his sweetheart, but that would leave him naked to her ambitions. If all she wanted was information from him then yesterday meant nothing. Her kisses, as sincere as they felt, might have just been an act. “You owe me an apology.”
“I owe you?” Outrage colored her features. “For doing my job? Or for stopping you from completely ruining me?”
He opened his mouth to protest, but she wasn’t done.
“If anyone owed anyone an apology, it is you. Your behavior has been insulting and boorish from the beginning,” she sputtered. Her finger jabbed the air in front of his chest. “You’re so busy trying to clear a guilty man that your notes are worthless. When you aren’t doing that, you’re bloody well trying to have your way with me. You can go jump in the Thames for all I care.” She swiveled and stormed away.
This time he let her go.
His chest burned with the completeness of her rejection. She hadn’t needed to insult his work, too.
Her claim was unwarranted. She hadn’t exactly put up a fuss. Because she wanted information from him. Better to end things now, he told himself. Getting enamored of a woman whose job was so diametrically opposed to his was bad news.
Bad news. He shook his head. He wouldn’t think in terms from her line of work. What she had done was a crime. Or very nearly one. He’d arrest her if he could think of a statute she’d broken. But what she’d broken wasn’t the law, but something deep inside him. She’d betrayed him and that was far worse than breaking his heart.