Heart of Brass (13 page)

He didn’t like the thought of having been lied to and used. Undoubtedly he wasn’t alone in that sentiment, especially when it came to having his trust betrayed. That aside, there was no denying that he had remembered things since being back in England.

Since his first encounter with Arden Grey. She was the key to all of this—his key to the truth. He could not kill her until he discovered just what that truth was.

Seeing her earlier, in such a private moment with that man, had awoken feelings in him that could only be described as jealousy, anger and possessiveness—with a dose of sadness tossed in.

He had killed other women—and men—agents who tried to play both sides, seductresses sent to acquire sensitive secrets. Never had he experienced the sort of trouble Lady Huntley shoved down his throat. Never had it taken him so long to complete this sort of mission; so what was it about her that made him falter?

Was it the fact that she smelled like bergamot, just as this mysterious “wife” of his had? Or was his fractured mind simply substituting her scent for the one his mind had lost?

It was going to drive him mad, this wondering.

He used a chunk of soft bread to mop up the rest of the gravy on his plate and popped it into his mouth. Now that he had eaten, his head didn’t hurt quite so much—though the bloodstained handkerchief on the washstand, and the rusty water in the basin, were proof of just how bad it had been.

He was no stranger to his own blood, but knowing it had come from his ears was unsettling, even to him.

A firm rap came upon his door. Assuming it was Mrs. Brown come to collect his dishes, he went to answer without asking who it was. He realized his folly as soon as he pulled the door open and saw his visitor.

The Doctor.

“Hello, Five,” the wiry man intoned. “How lovely to find you at home.”

Five’s eyes narrowed. The Doctor had never visited him before—at least not that he could remember. Truth be told, there were sections of his life even in the years since the Company had brought him in that were about as clear as mud. He used to think it was just the way his mind worked, after forgetting the entirety of his life. Now, noticing the heavy leather satchel in the smaller man’s hand, he wasn’t so certain.

He knew they had made other people forget things. Maybe they had done that to him as well. This leaden feeling in the pit of his stomach had nothing to do with his dinner and everything to do with his visitor. Instinct warned him to stay out of striking distance of the little man. In his years with the Company he’d seen bigger men than himself brought down by men and women even smaller than the one standing before him.

“Doctor.” He kept his tone casual—with just a touch of surprise. “What are you doing here?”

Narrow shoulders shrugged as shrewd, bright blue eyes peered at him from over the wire rim of round spectacles. “Our mutual friend contacted me when you didn’t respond. Is everything quite all right?”

A controlled smile curved Five’s lips. “Right as rain.”

The smaller man inclined his head. “May I come in?”

This was going to get messy, Five realized as he stepped back into the room. “Of course.”

The Doctor crossed the threshold with a seemingly relaxed posture, but like all trained killers, there was a tension in him that came from being around another of his ilk. There was a very good chance one of them might not leave this building alive.

Five closed the door. The Doctor surveyed the room with feigned disinterestedness. He was looking for anything that could be used as a weapon or for defense if necessary. Five would do the same thing were the situation reversed. Fortunately, he already knew where all the useful items he owned were stashed.

“So, why didn’t you answer when our friend called?”

Five rolled his shoulders, loosening the muscles there. “I was asleep.” It was the first time he’d lied to a Company agent, and it rolled off his tongue like a Scot’s r’s.

“Asleep?” A sandy brow arched. The man had a face like a can of worms, scarred and pockmarked. “You sleep six hours a night, and that’s it.”

“Unless I’m knocked unconscious.”

“Someone knocked you out?” That he sounded so surprised might have been taken as a compliment.

“I remembered something.” He shouldn’t admit it, but he wanted to see the reaction it got. He watched his companion carefully. “I remembered that I have a wife.”

“Did you?” The leather bag was set on the table, the top of it open just wide enough for slim fingers to fit inside. Little bastard thought he wouldn’t notice? “Who is she?”

Acting on a hunch, Five shifted his weight to a stance that would allow him to move quickly. “I’m not certain, but I think Arden Grey can tell me.”

The Doctor went still, and that was all Five needed. The enigmatic Lady Huntley was right—she knew him, and he should know her. Five pounced. One arm went around the shorter man’s neck, and the other came down to seize the wrist of the hand holding the syringe the “doctor” had taken from his case.

“You don’t want to do this,” the wiry man rasped, fingers of his free hand clawing at Five’s forearm.

“You’re right,” Five growled. “What I want to do is kill you, but I don’t want my landlady to find your body. So you’re going to take a little nap instead.” He squeezed his arm closed, cutting off the man’s oxygen. It didn’t take long for him to stop struggling and pass out. The man might have been a deadly adversary, but once it came down to sheer size and strength, there was no contest.

Five lowered his burden to the floor and picked up the syringe that had fallen to the rug. He studied it for a moment before taking his coat from the closet and slipping his arms through the sleeves. Then, he grabbed the Doctor’s bag from the table and yanked open the door. The pounding in his head threatened to start again as he bounded down the stairs, images dancing in and out of his memory like the flickering of a candle. They teased him; coming just close enough that he could almost recall the exact moment, and then dancing away before he could tell what the hell it was.

His velocycle was parked on the street where he had left it. Frankly, it was a surprise no one had stolen it yet, but anyone who crossed his path in this neighborhood knew a predator when they saw one and knew better than to draw his attention. He set the bag on the back of the cycle and used the straps there to hold it in place. He straddled the machine before flipping the ignition switch, and releasing the kickstand.

He tore off down the street as the sun sank on the horizon, casting a pinkish halo over the city. He had no friends, no idea who he was. He had just rendered one of his brotherhood incapacitated—an act of sedition—and the one person who had any of the answers he wanted was a woman part of him still thought he should kill.

Well, at least he knew what to do next.

Arden retired early. She took a bottle of scotch and a glass with her, and instructed Mrs. Bird that she was only to be disturbed if the house was afire or someone was dead. The housekeeper eyed the bottle in her hand with pursed lips, but she nodded anyway. Dear thing knew to pick her battles.

In the sanctuary of her room, Arden entered the adjoining bath and turned on the water for the tub. After the day she’d had the only thing that could possibly get the knots out of her neck and shoulders—and dull the ache in her heart—was a hot bath and a stiff drink—or six. She undressed as the tub filled.

She drank too much. She knew it. Her servants knew it. Inspector Grant knew it. Hell, perhaps every citizen of London with one working eyeball knew as well. She didn’t care. If it weren’t for spirits she would have gone mad, or even killed herself, years ago. As she poured a hefty measure of scotch into a glass she recognized her weakness and took comfort in it. She would sleep well tonight.

After adding a few drops of bergamot oil to the water she turned off the taps and stepped in. The water was the perfect temperature and had warmed the back of the copper tub as well. Arden leaned back against the metal with a sigh and took a sip from her glass as she closed her eyes.

Poor Henry. His was the face she saw on the back of her lids. It was almost as if she was seeing him through someone else’s eyes, like with the A.R.O.T.S. She’d only ever seen him so discomposed once, and that had been when Dhanya had met with the two of them and told them Lucas was most likely dead.

God, she hoped they could fix Luke. They had to fix him. It didn’t seem likely that either she or Henry would survive if they couldn’t. Her fingers tightened around her glass. She could kill every agent the Company had at this moment, and it still would give her no peace.

Such thoughts were not conducive to relaxation, so she pushed them as deep into her mind as she could. Soon, thoughts of Luke filled the empty spaces, reminding her of times they’d shared. He’d been gone longer than they had been together, and some of the time they’d shared hadn’t been good. They fought a lot, about why he didn’t want to have children right away, and when he would cut back on his work for the Wardens. It seemed so foolish now, when she’d give anything to have him back.

She took another sip of scotch. Its warmth slid down her throat to blossom like a flower of heat in her chest. The heat of the bath made its effects all the more potent, and by the time she’d finished the rest a delightful lethargy had taken hold of her limbs.

Her mind turned to more intimate memories. Luke had taught her things she never could have imagined. He was the kind of man whose pleasure was intrinsically tied to the pleasure of his partner. The more aroused he made her, the more aroused he became. These memories woke that familiar tension inside her, caused a delicious thrum between her thighs.

For seven years she’d gone without the touch of any man, not just the one she loved. It was a long time for a woman to go without, especially one who had enjoyed a rather passionate marriage. Arden had learned not only how to look after herself, but how to indulge herself in other ways too.

That was how her delicate little invention was born. Originally the small brass clockwork device that was worn over the fingers like a ring, but rested on the underside of the longer three, was meant to be used as a treatment for aching muscles and knots of tension.

However, curiosity led to experimentation, and suddenly Arden found herself with a discreet way of relieving
all
of her tension. She’d mentioned it to Zoe, who demanded to have one—and refused to take it until Arden agreed to let her pay. Then Hannah of all people had asked for one, and soon she had a surprisingly large clientele of upper-class women who did not want to go to a sanitorium to treat their hysteria, or were unmarried, or quite bluntly, wanted to give themselves what their husbands or lovers could not—at least not on a regular basis.

Best of all was the design. If anyone saw it they might think it an odd piece of jewelry or a trinket, unless they had one of their own. It certainly was more subtle than a brass phallus.

She had yet to perfect a waterproof prototype, so in the bath her plain and nimble fingers had to do the job. She slowly lifted her left leg—it felt as though it weighed five stone—and draped it over the side of the tub. Then she slipped her right hand between her legs, parted the curls there and began to stroke what Luke had called her “sweet spot.”

In her mind it was Luke who touched her. In her fantasy he used his fingers and mouth to tighten her nipples to a point just shy of discomfort before sliding down and using his mouth to torture her. In the water she could almost pretend her fingers were his tongue, licking faster and faster as she gasped and cooed, the ache inside her building. She lifted her hips, matching the jerky rhythm of her hand until the protrusion of slick flesh beneath pulsed and spasmed, engulfing her in shuddering ripples of delicious liquid heat. She moaned aloud at the pleasure of it, the release.

Tension drained from her limbs and she sank deeper into the tub. It took a few seconds for her to realize that the leg draped over the side was cold and that her water wasn’t much warmer.

She could run more hot water into the bath, but she was beginning to prune, so she pulled the stopper and reluctantly pushed to her feet. Languid from head to toe, her legs trembled slightly with the effort of keeping her upright. Carefully, she blotted her skin with a towel and stepped out of the tub onto the mat where she quickly dried her legs and feet. She hadn’t the energy for it, but she hated climbing into bed damp.

Her Japanese silk dressing-gown lay across a brass apparatus that resembled a cross between a radiator and a quilt rack. The rungs of it were actually tubes that circulated hot water, warming whatever was placed over it with a gentle heat. Arden sighed as she slipped her arms into the heated silk, and used her big toe to switch the machine’s boiler to the off position.

After cinching the belt of her gown, she retrieved the scotch and her empty glass and carried both with her into her bedroom. Another little sip before slipping between the sheets, and she wouldn’t have to wait for sleep to find her—she’d find it quick enough.

The carpet was soft and plush beneath her bare feet as she padded into the dimly lit room. A small fire crackled in the hearth, warm and inviting as it warded off the evening’s spring chill.

“Don’t scream.”

Arden jumped, a strangled yelp breaking free of her throat. The glass fell from her fingers, thudding heavily on the carpet. It didn’t shatter, but a few drops of leftover scotch speckled the top of her foot.

The bottle, however, remained safe in her grip. There was no way she was going to let go of it—not when it was the only weapon she had.

Lucas emerged from the soft shadows in the corner near the fireplace. He was disheveled—hair mussed, shirt open several buttons at the throat. There was a certain tension in his face that concerned her. It was an expression she’d seen before, usually when he was extremely agitated, trying to find the solution for a problem that just would not be solved.

“How about I won’t scream, and you won’t kill me?” How long had he been there? How had he gotten in without her hearing? She had only been in the next room with the door open.