Excerpt
Frowning, Mr. Torrington prowled about the edges of the room, peering behind paintings. Colleen's heart stopped and she forgot to breathe as he lifted the blurry haystacks, setting the painting aside to contemplate the numbers etched into the dial upon the safe. She couldn't allow anything to leave the lockbox tonight lest she stand accused. Frozen, she watched as he pressed his ear to the door and spun the dial with deft and capable fingers. Left four spins, right for three, left for two, then a twist to the right. Pop. The door fell open. She cursed silently as he inspected each box. Gold and silver. Emeralds, rubies and diamonds. But he took nothing. With a soft huff, he closed the door and rehung the painting.
Once again, she breathed.
She ought to stay silent, wait for him to leave, then slide down the drainpipe and disappear. After all, curiosity always killed the cat. But something about him still tugged at her heart, and soon she would quit London, never to see him again. With the necklace—and all of the contents of the safe—secure, she could afford to indulge a whim. "Can't find what you're looking for?" Mr. Torrington whipped about, lifting his decilamp as he reached for his weapon. The light seared her eyes, and she averted her gaze. "Do you mind?"
"Lady Stewart?" Incredulity laced his voice. "What are you doing here?" The beam of light lowered, and he dropped his hand from his hip, away from the TTX pistol hidden beneath his coat.
Adrenaline buzzed through her veins as the inevitable attraction flared. Impossible to leave now without playing their old game of cat and mouse. This time, however, if he let himself be caught, she had no intention of allowing him to slip away with a mere kiss.
Curving her lips into a smile, she sauntered back to the desk to lift her glass. "Enjoying a glass of whisky, neat. I'd offer you one, but you appear frustrated." Smoothing a gloved hand over the curve of her hip, over her close-fitting trousers, she invited his interest. "As if satisfaction is just beyond your reach…" She let the suggestion hang between them.
"Are you offering to help bring my evening to an exciting finish?" His broad shoulders relaxed, and his eyes—a narrow rim of brilliant blue surrounding dark pupils—flashed. To his credit, only then did his gaze drop. "Or merely offering a professional consultation?"
* * *
Her answering laugh was low and throaty. Despite the gravity of his mission, Nick found it impossible not to respond to her teasing. Like him, Lady Stewart was garbed entirely in black. A hooded cape about her shoulders. A shirt beneath a buckled corset. Pouches hung from a low-slung belt. Leather gloves stretched to her elbows. Trousers hugged her hips and thighs. But the boots… As always, those held his gaze with the tenacity of a pteryform trap. Leather and laced, they rose from her trim ankles, sheathing her long and shapely legs before releasing their grasp a few inches above her knees. Those brain cells that had not entirely abandoned work noted the stitching at her calf. Since they'd last crossed paths, she'd added a long—and likely sharp—blade to her attire.
His heart gave a great thud, then took off racing while the room grew warmer by several degrees.
Aether, he'd missed her. Missed the bustled and skirted woman who wore tinted spectacles and hugged the walls at society events. Missed the leather-clad seductress whose amber eyes flashed as they glinted back at him across the dark room, daring him to—
What, exactly?
His eyes lifted to her full lips, and he found himself stepping closer, not at all certain that she wouldn't bite. After disappearing from her life—from London—these past three months, she'd likely draw blood. But, like cream rising to the top, finding out the answer had become an immediate priority.
So much for a formal call that landed them both upon a settee in a parlor while her aunt supervised awkward courtship conversation. Better, perhaps, that they'd met here, where he could speak freely about the possibility of merging their realities.
As soon as he'd claimed a kiss.
He chanced another step closer.
"That would depend, Mr. Torrington, upon your goal." She set down her glass and propped a hip against the desk. "I certainly can't assist you if we're working at cross purposes."
Ah, she did indeed hold a grudge. He couldn't blame her.
He pushed aside all grim thoughts. There would be plenty of time for them later.
At the moment, the woman he wished to make his bride required his full attention. New leads concerning the shadow committee operating in London had emerged in his absence and, should those prove valid, Nick would at last have means to infiltrate the group—which would once again mean abandoning Lady Stewart. This time, however, he vowed he would not leave her wondering at his intentions.
His mouth twitched, fighting a smile. "You want me to divulge secrets to an employee of a private agency?" He kept his voice light and teasing.
Nick could, however, do exactly that. Tonight, he wasn't acting as a Queen's agent. Instead he was chasing a rumor, one that promised hope for his ailing sister. For years, he'd worked to develop a treatment, but none of the cardiac medications he'd worked upon improved her condition. If anything, they worsened it. Then, recently, he'd heard a whisper about a medical device used to stimulate a paralyzed heart to beat once more. Quietly, he'd begun asking questions.
Tipping his head, he considered the woman before him. Lady Stewart would make a most excellent silent, stealthy partner.
They'd passed each other in the dark for years, prowling about London in the small hours of the night. So many untapped skills paced before him.
"Any chance you—and your cat—would consider working with a new partner?" He glanced behind her, searching the shadows. "Where is your familiar?" Lady Stewart rarely prowled London at night without the overlarge, black cat who shadowed her every step.
"Sorcha often wanders off on her own. Cat business." She shrugged. "She's always returned. No need to worry."
