Heart of Brass (4 page)

Five stayed there, outside her door, his breath occasionally fogging the glass, for a long time. Eventually, she pulled the stopper from the tub and let the water drain. She’d consumed another two glasses of whiskey during the bath, and when she wrapped herself in a thin, red silk kimono she swayed on her feet.

No, she would not fight him. She might even welcome him, he thought with his other brain—the one located between his legs. Scowling, he pushed that thought aside.

She extinguished the lamp as she walked past, but his eyesight was keen and the moon bright enough that he could still see her. She dropped the robe across the foot of the sleigh-shaped bed and slipped between the sheets naked, skin glowing from the bath.

He waited a little while longer, until he was certain the whiskey had lulled her into a deeply relaxed state, if not into actual slumber. Then, he turned the door handle. The door was unlocked—people rarely locked outside doors this far from the ground—fortunately for him.

Silent as a cat, Five slipped into the darkened bedroom. The scents of warm water and bergamot welcomed him, closing around him like a favorite robe. He made not a sound as he crept toward the bed where she slept. Even his coat was silent, the butter-soft leather so well-worn and conditioned.

Her breathing was the steady and shallow in and out of one firmly in the grasp of Hypnos. He eased himself down onto the mattress to sit beside her. She didn’t stir.

It was a mistake, but he allowed himself the luxury of studying her now that he was this close. Did he think that a more intimate vantage would allow him to see what it was that made her so unusual to him? Why she was so strangely intriguing? He felt drawn to her, pulled by an invisible force he couldn’t identify. He couldn’t seem to stop himself from lifting his hand and reaching out to brush her hair back from her temple. She slept on her back, face turned slightly to the left.

Long, thick lashes brushed against her cheeks, several shades darker than the brows arched so strongly over both eyes. Her nose had the barest tilt to it, and her mouth was a perfect bow—lush and bold.

But it wasn’t her mouth or her long neck, or even her hair that was her best feature. No, that had to be her skin—perfect unblemished skin the color of fresh cream poured over a bowl of peaches.

Five touched his fingertips against the smooth, pale flesh of her cheek. Such skin looked as though it would feel like cool porcelain, but she was warm to the touch.

He should do it now. All he had to do was snuff her out—like the fragile flame of a candle. It was easy—fingers around her throat and a few minutes of breath-stealing pressure.

It
should
have been easy, but as he withdrew his hand, her eyelids fluttered and opened before he could make his escape.

Perhaps it was a sign of weakness, but he didn’t relish the thought of having to look into her eyes as he killed her. Normally there was a sort of honor to meeting his prey’s gaze, but not this time.

His hands moved to her throat as she looked up at him. He clenched his jaw, a sour taste in his mouth. His fingers had begun to curl around the warm flesh when her gaze widened and she gasped.

“Luke?”

Five froze at the sound of her voice. His heart—normally calm and steady—jumped against his ribs like a caged animal fighting to get out.

She sat up, blankets falling around her hips. His useless hands fell away, palms skimming down her soft arms. He wanted to pull her close and kiss her. He knew she’d taste of whiskey and cloves. She always used clove tooth powder before bed.

How the hell did he know that?

He stared at her, gaze searching her pale, startled face. She had gained a little weight. It looked good on her, softened her. How could he know that either?

“It’s me,” she said, as though he should know exactly who “me” was. “Arden.”

As if she knew who he was.

He met her gaze, frowning.
Arden.

A terrible pain lanced through his brain—sharp enough that he cried out, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead to keep it from cracking and letting his brain ooze out.

“Luke!” Hands touched his shoulders. He could only feel her—the pain blinded him.

“Retreat,”
a voice in his head commanded, cutting through the pain. Any more of this and his head would explode.

He pushed her away and staggered to his feet, and as soon as he put that small amount of distance between them the pressure in his skull eased. His vision began to clear in time to see his intended victim tossing back the bedclothes. He had to escape. If she caught him he would die. He knew it.

Five tore through the glass doors. Shards exploded around him, spraying both out and into the room under the force of his body. He grabbed the balcony railing and threw himself over it as though it was no more than a low wall. He landed on his feet on the grass and took off running toward the street. One of the patrol automatons spotted him and fired a shot that whistled past his ear. He didn’t slow down—the pain in his head had eased, but a bullet would change that for the worse if it managed to permeate his reinforced skull.

He ran all the way to the hotel where he had lodgings for his time in London. He didn’t stop until he was in his room, the door locked behind him. He didn’t know what had just happened, other than that he had failed to complete his mission. His superiors would be pissed, but that couldn’t be helped.

Did she know him, or had she confused him with someone else? And did he know her once upon a time, or was he confused as well? These were questions he could not answer.

One thing he knew for certain—the woman he was supposed to kill had seen his face, and whether he once knew her or not, there was no way in hell he could let her live.

“Perhaps you only
dreamed
that it was Huntley,” Hannah Merritt suggested as she fixed two cups of fragrant tea. Humid jasmine filled the air.

Seated in the delicate rose-hued parlor of Hannah’s town house, Arden fixed her friend with a rather sardonic gaze despite the watering of her mouth. Hannah’s tea was a particular favorite, as were her cook’s biscuits, of which there was a plateful. Arden had already indulged, and what she had eaten sat with a pleasant weight in her belly. Up until now she’d ingested nothing but coffee, one slice of toast and a measure of bourbon. The first had been to clear her confused mind, and the second had been to prepare her stomach for the third once she could think straight.

“Fancy it was a dream that shattered my balcony doors as well?”

“Of course not,” Hannah retorted with a
tsk
of her tongue, setting the china pot on a special holder of thin coiled copper tubing that circulated steam. Tea never went cold in this house. “Obviously you had an intruder. Are you certain you won’t reconsider my offer of having you come to live here? I have plenty of room since Mama’s passing.” She offered a cup and saucer with three biscuits arranged on the edge.

“You are a dear friend, and I’d prefer you to remain so.” Arden took a sip of hot, fragrant—delicious!—tea. “Why ever would I want to leave my house now that Huntley has returned?” She deliberately mentioned him once more since her friend so pointedly did not believe her.

She did not miss the sympathetic glance Hannah shot her way, nor did she acknowledge it. She bit into a biscuit instead, savoring how the sharp ginger flavor mixed with the more subtle tea. Hannah worried that she didn’t know her own mind, but if there was
anything
she, Arden Emmerson Chillingham Grey, knew, it was her own mind.

At least for now.

“I haven’t gone mad, Hannah,” she announced, dunking what was left of her biscuit into her tea before popping the sodden morsel into her mouth.

Her friend had the grace to look affronted—though it could just as easily have been horror at Arden’s manners. “I would never think you had. Not for an instant. Why, you are the most unemotional, dispassionate woman I know.” She grimaced when her mind caught up to her tongue. “I mean that you think more than you feel.” Another wince.

Arden arched a brow, suppressing the smile that threatened. “Stop it, I beg of you. Such incessant compliments will swell my head.” She’d known the other woman too long to truly be offended. They’d been friends since school. Hannah hadn’t cared that Arden’s father had a lesser title and not much of a fortune—or that he actually
worked
. In turn, Arden hadn’t cared that Hannah sometimes spoke before she had a chance to think.

Flushed and flustered, Hannah fluttered a hand in Arden’s direction. “You know what I mean. You are not the sort of woman to allow herself to be carried away. You place practicality above passion.”

“You’re really not making me feel better.” She made sure to inject a degree of humor in her tone to soften the bite of the truthful statement. Hannah meant it as a compliment, but Arden hadn’t always been emotionless. At one time she’d been quite happy to let passion and feeling rule.

But the source of that passion had disappeared almost seven years ago while on assignment, and ever since she’d found herself at a loss.

Until last night when she’d opened her eyes, certain she was dreaming, and seen her husband’s face staring down at her. She had just started to think maybe she would never see his crystalline blue eyes again. Had started to forget just how sharp his nose was, how jet-black his hair. He was older but it
was
him.

He acted like he didn’t know her—a vicious insult added to the injury his long absence had already wrought.

One of her hands was seized in Hannah’s surprisingly robust grip. “What did Lord Henry say when you told him?”

Arden rolled her eyes at the mention of her brother-in-law. “I haven’t told him, and I do not plan to until I know for certain.”

“A wise course.” Her friend looked so relieved, as though she believed there was a chance Arden would give up the silly notion that her husband still lived. After all, she was the only person in all of England who believed it. Even Luke’s own brother had given up hope a long time ago.

Her husband’s family hadn’t offered much in the way of support after Luke disappeared. His mother had never really liked her, and Arden hadn’t known his father. Fortunately, she’d had her own father to lean on for a brief time. And her mother, for an even briefer moment.

Her mother-in-law’s coldness hadn’t surprised her, but Henry’s had. He was always so keen to please Luke, Arden had thought he might actually declare himself her personal protector. That hadn’t happened. He’d become more and more distant, and then he began his plans to take over the title. Arden had successfully foiled him for years, but soon the seventh anniversary would roll round and then she would be powerless to stop him. Then she might very well need to take Hannah’s offer of a room until she found her own house.

“I must confess I hope Lord Huntley returns just so I don’t have to see you in half mourning anymore, or those morbid chains.”

Arden raised her fingers to the fine strands of silver. “Queen Victoria herself commended me for my obvious devotion.”

Hannah snorted. “Of course she did, but she’s an old woman and you, my dear, are not. You still have plenty of life left.”

A sharp remark about Hannah’s own life rose to Arden’s lips, but she bit it back. There was no need to be cruel, especially not when she knew how badly her friend wished her situation was different. Hannah was two years younger than Arden’s eight and twenty and had given up almost all hope of ever finding a husband or having children. It wasn’t that she was unattractive, and she was certainly rich enough. She simply hadn’t found a man she “liked well enough to spend the rest of my life looking at him.”

Arden had once suggested she take matters into her control and have a child—she could always go abroad and come back with a child and a conveniently dead husband’s name. The suggestion had
not
been well received.

“You are right,” she conceded with no little amount of enthusiasm. “It is time I gave up my mourning.” No need for it now that Luke had returned. How she wished she could be happier about it, but he hadn’t recognized her at all. Hadn’t known her. Could he have forgotten her? Or were there darker forces at work?

“Fancy a trip to the dressmaker’s?” she inquired, coming to the determined conclusion that she needed to find out what was going on rather than speculate with maudlin thoughts.

“Now?” Hannah’s face brightened so vibrantly Arden felt a pinch of guilt beneath her breastbone. The particular dressmaker she had in mind was Madame Cherie, who was also a Warden. She inclined her head toward the parlor door with a curve of her lips. “Fetch your coat.”

Hannah leaped to her feet and rushed off to do just that, leaving Arden alone to give in to the chuckle she could no longer contain.

A short time later, footmen handed both of them, and Arden’s maid, Annie, into the shiny black steam touring carriage she’d purchased just before the Season began. Unlike the high, old-fashioned contraptions many of her peers—and Arden herself when occasion called—were often driven about town in, this was lower, with an open top. It looked nothing like a horse-drawn carriage—or even the horseless sort—and she scandalously drove it herself.

Hannah’s normally smooth brow furrowed with trepidation as she settled in on the leather bench seat. “Are you quite certain this is at all safe, Arden?”

Arden adjusted a pair of driving goggles over her eyes, positioning them so the leather cups fitted comfortably against her face. “Of course it is! You don’t mean to suggest I would ever put you in danger?” She softened her words with a smile.

Her friend didn’t look convinced, or very contrite. “Not knowingly, of course not.” She peered nervously over the side as she lowered the veil of her hat over her face.

Grinning, Arden glanced over her shoulder at Annie, who was perched on the small seat in the back of the carriage, bonnet tied securely under her pointed chin. “You snug and secure back there, dear?”

“I am, ma’am,” the maid replied eagerly. How fortunate Arden was to have an employee with such a spirit of adventure.