All Through the Night (10 page)

For it had only taken a few seconds to recognize the lure Seward held for Anne: Jack cared more about Anne’s words than his own.

Jack was supposed to have passed through that rare stratum of society as a transient interloper in pursuit of a thief. That was no longer true. Because she was here, occupying that rare atmosphere, making it rarer still, and so he wanted to be, too.

He shook himself from his reverie and looked down at her, perched on the bench. He was uncertain what to say next. The sensation unsettled him. He’d always known exactly what was expected of him, exactly how to give satisfaction. With her, he was lost.

He should have been pursuing Lady Dibbs or even the unlikely Jeanette Frost, not spending time playing uncle to Sophia to win a few minutes in her chaperone’s good graces. He certainly could no longer tell himself he stayed close to Sophia out of suspicion. The girl was clearly not his thief.

His thief.

It angered and confused him. In a life singular for its lack of attachments, to become obsessed with two women at once was lunacy.

“And you, Colonel,” she said, breaking the too-long silence, shifting her gaze away from his. “Do you enjoy the museum?”

“I’ve had little opportunity to learn about art or music.” He crossed his hands behind his back and looked beyond her. There’d been no music in the workhouse but the songs of unremitting hunger. There’d been no art in Jamison’s house unless you counted the human spirits he twisted to his own designs. He could hardly tell her that. “But I confess I do like a landscape and I’ve a fondness for sweet sounds.”

“ ‘The man that hath no music in himself, /Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, /Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils,’ ” she recited softly, her expression gentle.

“You’ll find yourself labeled a bluestocking, Mrs. Wilder. Beware of bedazzling poor regimental officers by quoting Shakespeare at them.”

She laughed again. She was beautiful. “Colonel, my days of fretting over whether I reveal too much or too little are long gone. And you simply cannot be offering yourself as an example of this ‘poor regimental officer’ I am to have bedazzled.” Her lovely mouth softened on a wistful note. “We both come here by way of the back door, don’t we, Colonel?”

“Yes, Mrs. Wilder,” he heard himself say. His heart beat heavily in his chest. With so few words she bound him to her.

“Like yourself, my father had scant opportunity in his youth to pursue learning for pleasure. Music was one of his primary indulgences and my mother’s, too.”

“You were . . . much involved with your parents,” he said.

Memory lent her severe beauty a gentleness he’d not witnessed in her before. “We
loved
one another.”

The tentative bond he’d felt snapped. Her innocent words created an unbreachable gap between them. Try as he did, no matter how relentlessly he scoured his memory, he could recall no mother’s voice, no tender hand, nothing that provided incontrovertible proof that he had not one day simply appeared, hunger and rage and a tenacious, unreasonable desire to survive having pooled together in the workhouse corner to form him.

She’d known love. It had shaped her from her earliest years. Thus, she would always be unfathomable to him. How could it be otherwise, given his history?

“You are fortunate, Mrs. Wilder.” He bowed his head and left her.

“You’ll dance again, won’t you, Miss Sophia?” The red-coated officer was as smitten with her as a hummingbird with nectar. It really would be impossible to refuse him.

“All right, sir. Only give me five minutes’ rest before I join you.” Having sent him on his way, she looked about for Colonel Seward, preparing to amuse and captivate . . . and tease him a bit.

She’d no intention of letting go of her fascination for Colonel Seward. Fantasizing about him was enough to make her flush with discomfort. Her body ached with the yearnings roused by hot-handed young men in dark corners and despicable viscounts in other, more private places. Roused but never quite satisfied. She needed satisfaction.

She spied him sitting alone, one long leg casually tossed over the other, his arm outstretched along the back of the couch he occupied, the picture of desultory interest. Even his crippled hand had its perverse fascination, and his thighs stretching the tight fabric of his breeches looked hard and muscular. She started toward him when something in his expression arrested her.

Though his posture bespoke nonchalance, his eyes were riveted on some unseen target. His regard was so fixed he did not blink, so painful she could feel the tightness in his throat as if it were her own. With a sense of inevitability, Sophia edged through the crowd to see what held him rapt. She stopped.

Anne was speaking to some older woman, her hand raised in illustration of some point. She was dark and small as a goblin, her dress priggish and severe; even her damn cap was ajar. And he stared as if she were a goddess. Jealousy and confusion fought for precedence in her hard little heart.

“Come, Miss Sophia,” Lord Strand drawled softly in her ear. “We are both
de trop.
But I promise to find you a place where you can be sure of a most ardent welcome.”

The next few days seemed interminable. Though Anne fought to keep her thoughts from Jack Seward, he possessed her days and haunted her nights. She stayed in her room pleading a sick headache, but each time a visitor called she found herself straining to hear Jack’s soft-hoarse voice. At night she woke to the memory of his mouth on hers, his body hard and tensile beneath her hands, his hunger feeding her own. Her obsession frightened her.

Nothing could come of her association with Jack Seward except perhaps her own death on the Tyburn Tree. She was the thief he’d been sent to capture. That knowledge alone should have killed her fascination for him, but it didn’t.

Each day her room seemed smaller and her nerves stretched tighter. She paced restlessly, measuring the corridor with her steps time and again. The walls seemed to be closing in on her; even the air seemed thick and hard to breathe. She wanted to escape to the rooftops but she knew that Jack had someone watching the house.

Finally she could tolerate her self-imposed incarceration no longer. One evening she snatched her wool capote and headed for the park where the dark evergreens glowed in the twilight. Her pace slowed as she entered through the gate. She closed her eyes and gulped the chill, moist air, lifting her face to the sky. Overhead, a few stars burned dimly. The air frosted with each breath she took. The sounds of traffic grew dim, muffled by hemlock and yew.

“There now, sweetling.”

She recognized that quiet intonation and faint burr.
Jack,
she thought without surprise. But yes, he would stand watch himself.

“You’re a pretty little tart, aren’t you? You must be fair desperate to be seeking my company.”

He seeks the company of the lowest class of women . . .

Dear Lord, he was with some doxy. Mortified, she cast about, looking for some other path to travel. There wasn’t one.

“Let me pet you a bit more. There. Not so bad, is it? Gently, darlin‘,” he crooned, his voice mesmerizingly tender and amused.

Did he caress her roughly or tenderly? Could she taste the flavor of his breath?

“I’ve half a mind to take you home with me—”

She froze where she stood.

“Mrs. Wilder?” he called.

She forced herself to turn around.

He was holding a cat. A little shivering gray cat. He scratched her chin and she sang a throaty song of contentment. Slowly Anne became conscious of the fact that she was smiling foolishly at him and that he returned her smile with a slightly bemused one of his own.

“Good evening, Colonel Seward.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Wilder.” He inclined his head and the cat crawled up his coat, pushing her small angular face beneath his chin. He gently unstuck her claws and resettled her in his arms.

She stared at him, her earlier near panic dissolving in wonder. “You like cats, Colonel?” she asked.

“Yes.” Her astonishment amused him. “And I like dogs, too.”

“Do you own one?”

“No,” he answered, “but someday I will. Two or three dogs, and a stableful of cats.”

“Someday? Why not now? It’s a simple enough venture,” she said, as surprised by the teasing quality in her own voice as by the subject of their conversation. “You pick one up, as you’ve just done.”

“And put it down where?” he rejoined in a likewise cajoling tone. “I don’t own a home, Mrs. Wilder. I rent apartments.”

“I’m sure your staff would set out a dish of cream.”

“I don’t have a staff. Just a cook and a daily housemaid.” Though his voice was mild, his eyes were careful.

She blushed, embarrassed that he should have had to remind her of his straitened circumstances.

“But there’ll be a day I retire to a house in the country. My kitchen door shall stand open all summer and hounds and cats will trespass at will.”

“And what will you be doing while the wildlife makes free with your cupboards?”

“I’ll be watching them, Mrs. Wilder.” The gray cat batted at his chin with a velvet paw. He covered his head with his big hand and stroked her. The cat purred. Envy pricked Anne, envy of a cat.

“Just watching them?” she said.

“Yes,” he answered simply, intentionally standing motionless, hoping to lure Anne closer.

And she had moved nearer during their conversation. His breath grew shallow as he waited.

She peeled off one glove and tentatively reached toward the cat. Her hand brushed against Jack’s crippled fingers. She did not look up; he could not look away. Sensual awareness shot through his ruined hand.

He watched, mesmerized by the slow motion of her slender, elegant fingers burrowing through the cat’s thick pelt, massaging it with sure, deft strokes. His body quickened with arousal at the sight as he imagined her hand on him. His body went tight with urgency.

The intensity of his reaction caught him off guard and he lifted his chin above her head, staring out at the twilight. She was so slight, so small. He could hold her without much more effort than he cradled the cat.

Standing this close their joint body heat created a bell jar of warmth in the cold air. He imagined he could smell the faint perfume of feminine skin, the same elusive, maddening fragrance he had scented at her charity house.

“I still think you should take her home, Colonel,” she said softly. He looked down into her dark eyes. The tabby lifted her delicate face as if in agreement. “Cats don’t require much care.”

He shook her head. “No. She’s a street cat, used to roaming at will. She would only howl for freedom if I locked her in my apartments.”

“But then again, she might curl up beside your fire and be content never to leave. Perhaps she’s had enough roaming, Colonel.” A small line appeared between her brows. She withdrew her hand and replaced her glove.

A wave of longing and emotion swept through him. Everything he wanted stood before him and if he did not soon find something that proved his presence here was profitable, he’d be sent elsewhere. Away from her. She would never know that she meant something to him, something significant because it was so bloody, bloody rare. It seemed important, vitally important that that didn’t happen.

Carefully Jack set the cat down. It stared up at them with an impoverished air until the distant bark of a dog sent it darting into the thick yew hedge. He offered his arm. “May I escort you back, Mrs. Wilder?”

“I thank you.” She settled her hand on his forearm, allowing him to lead her down the path and out of the park gate. Darkness had settled rapidly. The lamplighter had already lit the streetlamps, and the road was empty.

Silently Jack escorted her across the street and down the abandoned walk to Malcolm North’s town house. At the bottom of the steps, he paused, looking about with a disconcerted air. Finally he drew her to the side of the stairs, into the warm shadows and away from the cold night breeze that had picked up.

“Mrs. Wilder, I will not be here for the season,” he finally said, looking straight ahead.

“Not here?” Anne asked, unable to keep the distress from her tone.

He spoke too carefully, too seriously, Anne thought. Her earlier pleasure receded before an encroaching sense of apprehension. “Why?”

“You are an intelligent woman, Mrs. Wilder, and an acquaintance of Lord Strand’s. Have you not wondered why Strand has promoted my presence in society?” His face flushed. “I presume too much. You would hardly concern yourself with my presence or absence.”

All the time,
she thought numbly.
Every second you are gone I note the vacancy. When you are here, I am far too involved with you. Disastrously so.

She gazed into his beautiful, troubled gray eyes. She should agree with his assessment, confirm that she spared him little thought. But she couldn’t.

“No,” she said aloud, “I have noted you.”

An enigmatic smile flashed across his stern features. “Yet you have never evinced any curiosity.”

She held her breath.
He knew she was his thief
.

All his attention, his courtesy, his regard, had been circling before the kill. She could not care. She’d suspected as much from the start. Her soul felt held in abeyance.

“You accepted me even though you must have suspected I’d covert purposes here, among such society.”

Dread filled the vacuum.

“I am looking for the person known as the Wrexhall Wraith.”

This was worse. So much worse than having him take her prisoner. He cared for her enough to trust her.

“I have thus far met with no success.”

“I’m sorry.” He would never know how much she meant those words.

She wanted to sob, bury her face in her hands, and cry. She didn’t know, hadn’t realized he cared. “I’m sorry,” she whispered again.

“If I do not apprehend the thief soon, my employers will assign me to a new duty. One far from here. I ... I will miss you, Mrs. Wilder.”

Imprisonment was child’s play compared with the punishment of his trust, trust she would betray. She looked away, the movement small, her gaze frantic.

He hesitated and then set himself before her, his stance wide, his hands crossed in military fashion behind his back. “Mrs. Wilder?”

“Colonel?”

“May I make an incredibly bold request?”

Her gaze lifted to his. She felt emptied from within. “Ask, Colonel.”

“Would you,” he said, “do me the kindness of speaking my Christian name?”

He petitioned her for more than a few syllables. He requested an intimacy greater than a lover’s verbal caress. He asked her for acknowledgment, for recognition.

A gust of cold wind teased an errant strand of hair across her mouth. The hard line of Jack’s mouth abruptly softened, his eyes grew gentle. Carefully he reached up and brushed her hair away. He’d moved closer. A matter of inches separated them. She could feel his warmth and she longed to lean into it, become enveloped by it.

“It is John, is it not?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“No,” he replied with quiet intensity, “Jack.”

They regarded each other gravely. The chime from a distant church bell tolled the hour. A night bird fluttered across their path. He skimmed his thumb gently along her bottom lip before dropping his hand. His head bent down, her face tilted up.

She heard herself sigh, the faint soughing of her soul. His mouth touched hers, so delicately, so softly it might have been a butterfly’s wing. She couldn’t deny him.

“Jack,” she whispered into the promise of his kiss. “Jack.”

For a second his lips hovered above hers and then he stepped back. She heard him draw a shaky breath.

The front door opened and the footman appeared in the bright rectangle of light.

“Thank you, Mrs. Wilder,” he said gravely. “I will see you tomorrow evening.”

“Tomorrow,” she repeated tonelessly, and wished with all her heart for yesterday.

“Strand says you think this thief is a woman.” Jamison inched the leather-bound edition of Plato’s
Republic
into perfect alignment with its mates. “A woman could complicate matters no end. People are so cursedly sentimental about women. If it is a woman, she must be dealt with summarily. There must be no trial, no opportunity for her to reveal the contents of that letter.”

“Strand told you I believed the Wraith a woman?” Seward asked.

“Seward, do not dignify this creature with a sobriquet. And as for Strand, yes. Why shouldn’t he? Did you imagine he had some loyalty to you?” he asked, walking stiffly to his desk.

Strand had told Jamison nothing; one of his other toadies had given Jamison the clues that had led him to make such a supposition, but Seward would not know that. It was best to keep Seward isolated, away from attachments. It made him sharper and warier and, thus, more effective.

“No, sir,” Seward said blandly.

Jamison lowered himself into his chair, congratulating himself. He’d taken a boy with the rudest of skills and molded him into this splendid, remorseless, and analytical being. Looking at him now, so polite and ruthless, one could even give credence to the rumors that Seward was his natural son.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, choosing his way carefully. “I will be blunt. If you find this thief, man or woman, kill him. Do not ask questions. Do not attempt to divine the whereabouts of this letter.”

“May I ask why, sir?” Seward asked. His lean face masked whatever surprise he felt. “If this letter’s return is so important ...”

“Its return is not as important as its destruction and the destruction of any who may have read it. I have come to believe, as you, that the thief either doesn’t have the blasted thing or doesn’t realize the importance of it.

“It’s probably been burned as trash,” he went on.
“But,
should the thief someday remember what he read . . . Well, the effects could be disastrous. So he—or she—mustn’t live to remember.”

Seward did not evince a modicum of aversion. And why should he?

“Your presence among the ton has only sent the bastard to ground. There hasn’t been a robbery in six weeks, and the prince is once more happily gobbling marzipan kingdoms with his ridiculous friends. Perhaps the thief is dead. Perhaps one of his cronies killed him. We all know how some betrayals lead to death,” Jamison said meaningfully.