Heart of Brass (11 page)

Grant turned to Arden. “Do you have need of me here, my lady?”

“None at all,” she replied, slipping on her spectacles. In fact she preferred to do this sort of thing as privately as possible. She never knew what she was going to see or how it was going to affect her.

Three minutes later she was on her hands and knees retching against the wall of the alley. What had happened to this woman had been awful—some of the most vile images she’d ever had scorched into her mind.

Arden slowly pushed herself up so that she knelt in the alley. Rain dripped from the edge of her hood onto her face, and she welcomed its chill. Her hands shook as she removed the apparatus from the prostitute’s head and returned it to her bag. Whoever had killed her was indeed a monster, but not the same monster who’d killed Baron Lynbourne’s daughter. This man hadn’t worn fancy clothes, and he was missing his front teeth.

And he’d raped her while he killed her—used her in so many awful ways before making the brutal cut. Then he’d delivered his final insult by spending himself on her leg after he was done, as her life flowed across the dirty stones.

A shadow moved across the alley as the lazy fingers of a wet dawn slowly crept in. Arden glanced up, expecting to see Inspector Grant.

Instead she saw a dirty man in need of a shave and a dentist. Her heart stopped at the sight of him. She knew him. She had seen him just a few moments ago through the prostitute’s eyes.

Frantically, she groped for the pistol she always carried in her bag. The killer came at her fast. For a second she was too terrified to scream, her mind flashing through the gruesome catalog the woman’s eyes had given her. Her normal calm, or facsimile of it, disintegrated like sugar into tea as his filthy hands reached for her. She opened her mouth…

There was a snap, and the killer crumpled to the ground beside his victim, his head turned at an impossible angle, sightless eyes bulging and wide.

She might have felt relief if she hadn’t looked up and met her husband’s bright gaze.

There were few people who could manage to look imposing and dangerous—and altogether too gorgeous—when dripping wet, but Lucas was one of them.

Inky hair fell over his forehead as water trickled down the lean planes of his face. Shadows deepened the lines around his eyes and mouth, made the grim smile on his lips all the more frightening.

Rain poured off the long leather coat that hung from the strong breadth of his shoulders—exaggerated by the leanness of the rest of his frame. He crouched before her, paying no attention to the body of the prostitute or the man he had just killed with the apparent ease of swatting a bug.

“What is it about you that makes people want you dead?” he asked, eyes glinting unnaturally bright in the gray morning.

Arden’s fingers closed around the pistol in her bag. Now that the first threat to her safety was gone, she wasn’t about to let this one get the better of her. “Part of my charm, I suppose.” He chuckled and she added, “Why didn’t you let him? He would have done the job for you.”

His gaze locked with hers, and what she saw there sent a shiver down her spine. “You’re mine,” he growled.

“Yours to kill, you mean.” It was tempting to let him do it. She didn’t want to die, but the thought of him being able to kill her…Well, what was the point of going on when so much of her life had been about him and he was lost forever?

She needed a drink, or perhaps a good slap.

His hand came up, and she fought a flinch. Instead of grabbing her already bruised throat, he cupped her cheek. She had the pistol out of the bag.

“Are you going to shoot me?” he asked with a smile, fingers rough against her skin. “Do you think a bullet can stop me?”

Arden placed the end of the barrel against the underside of his chin. “I doubt they thought to armor you here.”

He grinned, white teeth flashing in the fading gloom. “That’s my girl.”

She froze, gaze searching his face for some sign of recognition. “How do you know I’m your girl?”

His grin faded, the light in his eyes turned to ice. He dropped his hand to her neck, but instead of squeezing, he gently stroked the tender and battered skin. “I don’t know. But you are, aren’t you?”

God, it hurt to swallow; her throat was so tight—a condition that had nothing to do with the strength of his touch, but rather the gentleness of it. “Yes,” she whispered, but she did not move the pistol.

His dark brows dipped. “Why can’t I kill you? I remember…I know I’ve tried to do this before, but failed. I resolve to do it, but when I’m with you, killing you is the last thing I want to do.”

The suggestive timbre of his voice ignited a flame inside her. It had been so long, but intimately she remembered all the times he had spoken to her in that tone—and what generally followed.

She opened her mouth. It was simple. All she had to say was “I’m your wife,” but the words refused to come. What if she said it and he couldn’t remember?

“Lady Huntley?” came a voice from the mouth of the alley. It was Inspector Grant.

Her husband sprang to his feet, leaving her mourning the warmth of his touch. “I’ll come for you again,” he promised her.

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” she retorted coolly. Inside she trembled like a child.

She watched in awe as he scaled the side of one of the buildings using only the structure’s windows and ledges for purchase. He climbed like a spider.

Inspector Grant rushed to her side. “Good Lord, what happened?”

Of course he would notice the new body in the alley—and the strange man fleeing the scene.

Arden’s shoulders slumped. “The dead man is our murderer. He attacked me.”

“The other bloke killed him?”

She nodded, numb.

“Broke the bastard’s neck. Can’t say that I’m sorry—though I’m going to have the head of one of my good-for-nothing constables for not being here to protect you. I should like to shake your rescuer’s hand.”

Something snapped inside her and laughter rushed forth like water over a broken dam. She felt like death warmed over; she’d just seen a vicious crime through the eyes of the victim, been attacked by the murderer and then saved by the man she loved who also wanted to kill her. And dear Inspector Grant wanted to shake Luke’s hand.

What else could possibly happen next?

Alastair was waiting for her in the parlor, enjoying a cup of coffee, when she arrived home. It was the perfect continuation of the day, and exactly in keeping with Arden’s opinion that fate was out to give her a royally good spanking.

He looked perfect, as he generally did. His steely gray frock coat matched his eyes, and his ivory shirt warmed his complexion. He might have at least had the courtesy to look a little worse for wear, but then again he hadn’t been the one trying to drown himself in a bottle of whiskey.

His eyes widened at the sight of her. “You look awful.”

The insult lessened the guilt she felt over his earlier declaration of love. “How terribly convenient, seeing as that’s exactly how I feel.”

Others might have flushed at her words, but Alastair merely raised one cinnamon brow as he set his cup on the table in front of him. “Imbibed a bit too much last night, did you?”

“A tad,” she replied with forced lightness.

He knew why—it was plain as the knot in his cravat. The bounder didn’t even have the decency to apologize for admitting his feelings and ruining what, for Arden, had been a perfectly lovely friendship.

Of course she’d gotten cross-eyed drunk after he left. Her dearest friend loved her, and she was in no way deserving of that love. Lord, she was a proper mess. She loved a man who wanted to kill her. She worked for the government because her husband and father had, not because she particularly enjoyed the work. She hadn’t even been a decent enough wife to pop out an heir within the first year of marriage.

And then there was the fact that there was a very good chance she might lose her mind one day, as her mother had done and was still doing.

“Would you care to join me for breakfast, Alastair?” she asked. Self-pity and a good brush with death did wonders for the appetite.

He nodded and rose to his feet. “Mrs. Bird said you were out with Grant. Was there another murder?”

Arden took his arm as he offered it, and shamefully leaned on him a little as they left the room. She stifled a yawn. “Yes, but not by our factory killer.”

“You don’t have to go every time he whistles, you know. I know Dhanya assigned you to Scotland Yard, but let the fellow solve his own bloody crimes once in a while.”

“He wouldn’t have sent for me if he hadn’t believed the murders might be connected.”

“Are you all right?”

Telling him about Luke sat on the tip of her tongue. She wanted very badly to tell him everything about that morning, but if she did he might see Luke as a threat and not be so keen to help her capture him. He would try to protect her, and that was the last thing she wanted right now. He couldn’t be her hero anymore—that was her husband’s job.

If he didn’t kill her first.

“No,” she replied honestly. “I’m not all right. But I will be after some coffee and eggs.” That was true as well, to an extent. Physically she would feel better, and that would have to do for now.

“Did you bring the device?” she inquired as they ate. Mrs. Bird had set an extra place at the table upon Alastair’s arrival, and the two of them sat across from each other at the breakfast nook in the Egyptian drawing room. They had done this before: taken breakfast together. It had never bothered her before, but now she was aware of the intimacy of the act and it shamed her.

How could Alastair have possibly fallen in love with her? It was such a ridiculous notion. Her, of all people. Lord, imagine the freckled little ginger children they’d produce!

He nodded as he smeared peach jam on his toast. “Yes. I had the footmen take it up to your rooms when I learned you weren’t at home.”

“Why would you do that?” It came out a bit more suspicious than she intended, but he’d turned her upside down with his declaration, and things that would never have bothered her before suddenly seemed to take on much more meaning. Having something taken to her private rooms was so improper now that Luke was home. Now that Alastair had betrayed her by admitting his feelings aloud.

Nonplussed, Alastair took a bite of toast. He chewed and swallowed, forcing her to sit and wait for his answering, her embarrassment growing with every second. “Because I assume that’s where Huntley will come for you, where he believes you to be the most vulnerable.”

“Is that where you would choose to attack a woman, in her bed?”

He took a sip of coffee and slowly returned the cup to the table. Then he turned those damned stormy eyes of his to her, seeming to look right to the heart of her. “You’re angry with me because of last night. I understand that, but I’m not the man who tried to kill you, Arden. If you expect me to apologize for that you will be sorely disappointed.”

Arden massaged her forehead with her fingers, eyes closed in shame. “Forgive me, Alastair. I am a proper wretch this morning.”

A slim smile curved his lips. “You are most mornings.”

Despite herself and the day she’d already had, though it wasn’t yet nine o’clock, a snort of laughter burst out of her. She reached across and wrapped her fingers around his with a gentle squeeze. “You’re my dearest friend, Alastair.”

Something flickered in the depth of his eyes. Pain—she’d seen enough of the emotion to recognize it. It disappeared as quickly as it had come. He turned his hand palm up so that he could squeeze her fingers in turn. “You’ve been mine as well. I will miss our friendship.”

Arden straightened, heart sputtering. “Are you going somewhere?” Surely he wasn’t going to run away just because she couldn’t love him in the way he wanted?

“No,” he replied with a hint of sadness. “But we won’t be able to carry on like this once Huntley returns.”

“Why won’t we?” she demanded, pulling her hand away. Why did he have to continue bringing up these oh-so-vexing truths?

He fixed her with a stalwart gaze. “Because I have my pride. And because I will not play a part in making one of my oldest friends seem a cuckold.” At her outraged scoff he added, “You must know there’s been gossip about us, Arden. Even you, with your head filled with books and machines.”

She did know, but she had ignored it because she hadn’t wanted to lose him. He was her rock, the thing she’d clung to ever since Luke’s disappearance. He had given her focus. Given her hope. As Luke’s friend it had been as if she still had a piece of her husband with her.

To her great shame, tears sprang to her eyes. They would not have dared appear if she’d been at her best. “I’ve used you most terribly, Alastair.”

He rose from his chair and came down on one knee beside hers. “You haven’t done anything I haven’t allowed you to do. No need for tears, love. Not for me.”

That only made the hot wet pour all the harder down her cheeks. She threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder.

“All right,” Alastair murmured, planting a kiss on her forehead as he rubbed her back. “Go ahead and cry it all out then…. Jesus Christ!”

Arden jumped out of his arms. “What?” she asked. He was already on his feet, face white as he moved to the window.

“Alastair? What was it?”

He turned his head toward her, steely eyes bright with shock. “Huntley,” he rasped. “I swear to God it was Huntley.”

Who the hell was he? Five raged as he tore through the streets of Mayfair on his velocycle. Who was the bastard who had the nerve to put his hands on
his
woman? And why had the sight of the two of them embracing—the man consoling her—felt like a blade in his heart?

It had felt like a betrayal, and that stunned him into stupidity. He never should have allowed himself to be seen. Now the man knew he was watching Lady Huntley, and that made him inconvenient. He’d rather not kill any more people than he had to, and instinct told him the man would not be easy to take down—not like the miscreant in the alley that morning.

Five should have let the greasy bastard do his job for him, but the thought of those dirty hands around Arden Grey’s throat filled him with a deep, inexplicable rage. He told himself she was destined to die by his hand, but he hadn’t allowed that to happen either. The perfect opportunity to snuff out the light in her eyes, and he hadn’t been able to do it.