Laura Lee Guhrke (13 page)

Throughout the evening, Inspector Dunbar was charming to Auntie and the other two elderly ladies, and his knowledge of the history of India impressed the colonel enough that the old gentleman actually challenged him to a game of dominoes. Dawes seemed uncomfortable with his presence and left just after dinner to meet with his study group.

Sophie wished she could escape as well, but she didn’t dare. All evening, she felt tense and on guard. Until she could return the necklace, she had to find a safe place for it, and, as Auntie had pointed out, her desk was not a safe place. Dunbar was certain to search it, and a policeman must know all about secret drawers. On Monday she could take the necklace to the bank for safekeeping, but until then, she had to find a
new place for it. She couldn’t carry it about with her or she would surely lose it.

After dinner, while the men played dominoes and the ladies watched the game, Sophie settled herself in the library with a book, waiting until everyone retired for the night. She stared down at the book in her hands, but her mind was too preoccupied with thoughts of Mick Dunbar to read it.

He wanted her. Standing in his room with him earlier in the day, she had sensed his desire for her. She traced a line along her cheek with the tip of her finger, still able to feel the warmth of his touch on her skin. She couldn’t stop thinking of how he had pinned up her hair and buttoned her shirtwaist.

Sophie stirred in her chair, recalling the brush of his knuckles against her spine as he had refastened her buttons. Her own shivers at his breath against her neck. The warmth that flowed through her limbs at the feel of his body behind her. So close.

She was still shocked by his bold behavior and even more shocked that it hadn’t occurred to her to stop him from touching her. No gentleman would behave in such a way. Charles hadn’t even touched her until they had become engaged.

Mick was as different from Charles as chalk from cheese, and he knew a great deal more about women than Charles ever had. In fact, when it came to women, she suspected Mick Dunbar could do just about anything he wanted. He knew it, too.

He had watched her throughout dinner that evening, smiling as if he were the one who could read other people’s thoughts, as if he knew just how she
felt, how flustered she had been by his touch. She vowed that if he ever tried to do anything like that again, she’d kick him again, and it wouldn’t be in the shin.

One by one, the other members of the household went to bed, and through the open door of the library, she watched each of them go up the stairs. Mick went up as well, but Sophie didn’t dare remove the necklace from its hiding place until she was sure everyone was asleep.

She waited until the gong of the grandfather clock in the foyer announced that a full two hours had gone by, then she put her book aside and walked over to her secretaire. Glancing up often enough to make sure no one was coming back down, Sophie removed the shallow center drawer from the desk and set it aside, then knelt and pushed a hairpin into the tiny wormhole at the back that triggered the mechanism and opened the secret compartment. She removed the necklace and put it in the pocket of her skirt, then she shut the tiny door of the space.

With a sigh of relief, she picked up the drawer of the desk, but her relief was short-lived. Through the open doorway, she saw Mick descending the stairs, and she barely had time to thrust the drawer into place and get to her feet before he turned and saw her standing there. She froze, and all thoughts of the necklace fled from her mind.

He wore no shirt, not even an undershirt. The only thing he had on was a pair of disheveled gray flannel trousers. Though she had seen statues of men in museums, she had never actually seen a real man’s
bare chest before. She didn’t know men had hair on their chests. She was unable to look away from the swath of dark hair over his chest that tapered down into the waistband of his trousers. She was unable to move, fascinated by the muscles of his abdomen, shoulders, and arms. All of a sudden, the room felt much too warm.

He paused in the doorway, slanting her a knowing look from beneath those thick black lashes Violet had admired so much, and he smiled. Her breath caught in her throat. She’d been right. He knew a great deal about women.

He entered the room and walked toward her. She wanted to escape, but she couldn’t seem to gather her wits. Didn’t the man even wear pajamas or a nightshirt to bed?

“Still awake?” He came closer, walking around the secretaire toward her, and she couldn’t help taking a step backward, then another. She hit the tall book-shelves behind her, and she could retreat no further.

She forced her gaze up to his face. “I don’t sleep well.”

He was standing right in front of her now, his wide chest like a wall, blocking out everything but him. She caught the scent of him, a masculine mixture of bay rum, castile soap, and a hint of tobacco. “I couldn’t sleep either,” he answered. “I came down for a book.”

Sophie swallowed hard and struggled to think of something to say. “I didn’t know you read.”

His smile widened. He bent his head, bringing his face within inches of her own. “I do know how to read, luv.”

Realizing the idiocy of her comment, she tried to gather her wits. But when she looked into his eyes, she felt a strange, melting sensation that pooled low in her abdomen, something she’d never felt before.

He reached up his hand, and she tensed, thinking he would touch her again, but he didn’t. Instead, he lifted his hand above her head. “Pardon me,” he said, his gaze still locked with hers as he pulled a book down from the shelf.

“I saw the books in your flat,” she said, vacillating between hoping he would move away from her and hoping he wouldn’t. “Of course you can read. I never meant to imply that you couldn’t. I just meant that . . . that . . .” Her voice trailed off because even she didn’t know what she’d meant.

Amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes, and she tried again. “I didn’t have the chance to see what sort of books you had in your flat. Do you like classics, such as Shakespeare or Milton, or do you prefer modern novels? Detective stories, like Sherlock Holmes, perhaps? I like them all. I don’t much care for parties, you see, and I hate dancing, so I read a lot. Auntie and Miss Peabody prefer books on Egyptology and spiritualism. The colonel reads the
Times
every day, and he loves Kipling. Mr. Dawes always reads medical texts, and Miss Atwood only reads
Punch
, though she plays patience, too. What do you like?”

He didn’t answer. He simply continued to look into her eyes. But when she passed her tongue over her dry lips, the movement seemed to draw his attention. He lowered his gaze to her mouth.

He wanted to kiss her. He was thinking about it right now. Worse, she wanted him to.

“I like lots of things,” he murmured, staring at her lips. “Cherries, especially.”

She didn’t know why he was bringing up food when she’d asked about books. Hadn’t she asked him about books? Heavens, she couldn’t think.

“Why do you hate dancing?”

That question brought her to her senses, because she had actually opened her mouth to answer it. She stiffened. What was wrong with her? She’d almost confessed her greatest social ineptitude to a man she barely knew, a man who was standing in front of her without most of his clothes. Sophie thrust her hands into the pockets of her dress, and the fingers of her right hand closed around the necklace. The jewels felt like ice in her hand.

“I think I’ll go to bed. Good night.” She ducked under his arm and practically ran for the door, fleeing the sight of his bare skin, the scent of bay rum, and probing questions she didn’t want to answer. She raced up the stairs, grateful he did not try to stop her.

Once in her own room, she felt as if she could breathe again. She pulled the necklace out of her pocket, berating herself as a fool. What if he had kissed her? She touched her fingers to her lips. What if he had put his mouth on hers?

Sophie closed her eyes, and her fingertips brushed lightly across her lips. What if he had held her in his arms and pressed her body close to his own? What if he had explored her with his hands tonight as thoroughly as he had done in his flat?

He would have found the necklace.

Sophie jerked her hand away from her face and told herself firmly to stop being a silly schoolgirl. She must keep her wits about her. She must.

She stared down at the emeralds and diamonds that glittered in her hand for a moment, then looked up to stare straight at the drawers of her dresser. Auntie’s advice about hiding places came back to her.

Sophie crossed the room and opened the bottom drawer. She pulled out a pair of her stockings, unrolled them, and dropped the necklace inside one of the stockings. She then rolled it back up and placed it in the bottom of her drawer, buried beneath other stockings, garters, and bows, and closed the drawer.

Auntie had said no man would think to look among a woman’s most intimate garments, and when it came to searching through drawers, Auntie was an expert.

Though she had bemoaned the expense at the time, Sophie was now grateful that she’d had locks installed on all the bedroom doors three years ago when some lodgers had requested them. She now understood their concern for privacy. Though she never had before, she intended to start locking her door whenever she was not in her room.

Satisfied that she’d found the best possible hiding place and had done all she could to protect Auntie’s secret from Inspector Dunbar, Sophie changed into her nightgown and crawled into bed. She closed her eyes, but it was a long time before she slept. She couldn’t stop wondering why he had talked about cherries.

*  *  *

Victoria was the busiest train station in all of England, with countless passengers coming and going through its doors every day of the year, but now, with the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee going on, the station was packed with people and porters. The hiss of steam engines, the clatter of luggage carts, and the noise of the crowds combined to form a roar that made ordinary conversation difficult.

“I’m sure Charlotte was pleased to receive my letter about Agatha staying with her instead of us,” Violet shouted to Sophie over the din as they walked to the huge chalkboard showing information about arriving trains. “She prefers it that way.”

“She might be pleased, but Mama won’t,” Sophie shouted back. “She’ll be furious.”

“Oh, no, she’ll understand the circumstances. If she doesn’t, dinner is going to be most uncomfortable.”

“Isn’t it always?”

Violet chose not to answer that. She glanced over the board and pointed to a line of writing nearly halfway down the board. “The Yorkshire Express is coming in on platform number twelve.”

Sophie followed her aunt through the bustling crowds toward the platform for trains from the north. Charlotte and Harold were already there, and her sister watched their approach with her usual lack of warmth. Violet put an arm around Sophie’s shoulders as they crossed the platform toward the other two. “Don’t let her bother you, darling,” she murmured.

“I don’t, Auntie,” she assured her. “I reconciled myself to Charlotte’s contempt for me a long time ago.”

“She’s afraid of you, dear. That’s what it is.”

“I know.”

They walked to where Charlotte and Harold were waiting for the train. Her sister’s greeting was as pleasant as ever. “Late as usual, I see. You’re quite lucky the train is late as well.”

Sophie smiled at her sister so sweetly that it almost made her gag to do it. “Luck had nothing to do with it. I knew the train was going to be late.”

Charlotte
hated
it when she referred to her psychic ability in any way, and her only reply was a humph of disbelief. Beside her, Harold shifted his weight from one foot to the other, ran a finger around the inside of his collar, and cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable.

Sophie knew the reason for that. Harold was afraid of her, too. He had good reason to be. He stepped closer to Violet and began chatting to her about the unseasonably hot spring they were having.

Harold Tamplin was a tall, plain man of high intelligence and low morals. He embezzled the trust funds of clients, he kept a blond mistress in a luxurious flat near his offices in the City, and he did not love his wife. Charlotte knew all that, but she didn’t care. She had the life she had always wanted, and that was all that mattered to her. Sophie felt sorry for her sister, not because Charlotte received no love from her husband but because she was so incapable of giving love to anyone.

Her next words proved it. She leaned closer to Sophie, and murmured in a low voice, “I cannot believe what Mama is thinking, to have us bring you
out into society again, as if it would do any good. I’ve just had a baby, and all these balls and such things are not good for my health.”

“I’m so sad to hear you’re feeling poorly, Charlotte,” Sophie answered, knowing full well her sister would never miss a social engagement during Jubilee, baby or no. “Have you seen a doctor?”

“Don’t play the game of sisterly consideration with me, Sophie,” Charlotte whispered back. “Mama is determined to find a husband for you. As if that were possible! Besides, we both know you don’t care at all about me or my health. You never have. You only care about yourself.”

That was so unfair that Sophie had to bite her lip to keep back a sharp reply. Except when Mama came to visit, she never saw Charlotte and her husband, and at moments like this Sophie was most glad of it. She always ended up quarreling with her sister as if they were little girls again, fighting over things that were just as silly as who got the first ride on the new pony, or who got to stir the Christmas pudding first, or which of them the local squire’s handsome son liked best. They were grown women now, and she would not trade insults with Charlotte. Fortunately the train pulled in at that moment, saving Sophie from further conversation with her sister, though she suspected there was worse to come. Her mother proved her right.

When Agatha stepped off the train, Charlotte’s first words were more than a greeting. “Mama, it’s wonderful to see you. I’m so glad you’ll be staying with Harold and myself after all!”