Tempted at Every Turn (10 page)

Willow wasn’t certain what to say. She couldn’t
say she knew how Amelia was feeling. She certainly did not. She’d never tried to conceive a child and failed. But she did know what it was like to want them so badly that her hands ached to touch them, only to know it was a desire that would never come to fruition. But this was not about her. And Amelia, evidently, needed to talk about this.

“It is not that Colin is not enough for me. His love is perfect.” Her hand absently rubbed at her empty womb. “I just want to have children. At least one. I don’t remember much of my mother and I always thought that instead of having one, I could be one. But now it seems as if I’ll miss out on both.”

Willow rubbed her friend’s back and realized that she too was crying. “It will be all right,” she said reassuringly. Although she was not so certain that was true. She knew all too well that life held no guarantees. And that not everyone found the happy ending the fairy tales might lead one to believe occurred at every turn.

Amelia wiped at her eyes. “I’m sorry to go on about this. It is not fair to you. I know Meg and Gareth will be wonderful parents. And Colin and I might be the best aunt and uncle in London. I have so much to be thankful for. I never thought I would marry, and look what I found?” She smiled. “I am happy…”

It felt as if an
although
hung in the air. “No one doubts for a moment you’re happy,” Willow said. “And wanting more does not make you greedy. It is within a woman, naturally, to want to have children. There is no shame in the desire.”

“Do you want them?” Amelia asked.

With every part of her being, she wanted them. But she, unlike Amelia, would never be in a position to have them. She would never marry and therefore never have relations that could lead to the birth of a child. Her place was at her mother’s side. Regardless, she could not lie to her friend.

“Yes, I want them,” was all she said.

W
illow was supposed to meet James at his office at approximately two o’clock. Outside, though. He’d had enough of the jesting from all the other men. Being called “Bluestocking” was one thing. Being ribbed about his “lady friend” was another entirely.

They had an appointment at Burlington House, one of London’s favored exhibit halls, to examine the photographs of the ladies. James had Drummond’s diary in his left hand as he stepped out onto the street. They would compare the photographs with the names in the book and see if more matches could be made.

After meeting Willow’s mother, he had some doubts as to whether she was physically capable of the type of murder involved. From the position of Drummond’s body, James had to assume he’d been reclining when he was struck on the head. So it wasn’t completely unreasonable for a woman to
accomplish such a feat, in particular if the victim were sleeping and unaware of the forthcoming blow.

It was unclear whether or not Willow’s father was involved. Perhaps he had killed the photographer to protect his wife or as some form of retribution.

Something about that didn’t feel quite right. Willow’s father had been so patient and loving with his wife, it seemed if a man was capable of such warmth, he couldn’t, in turn, be capable of such violence. But James had seen it before: someone who was perfectly civil on the outside but still driven to murder.

“Inspector!”

He looked up and found Willow frowning at him.

“What?” he asked.

“I’ve only been calling your name for more than a minute.” A small smile crept onto her face. “Were you daydreaming? I never figured that for a particularly male pastime.”

“No, I was not daydreaming. I was thinking.” Thinking about her father being a murderer. Something told him she wouldn’t take too kindly to that.

“Shouldn’t we be going?” she prodded. “I thought our appointment was at half past the hour.”

“Indeed it is.” He helped her up into the rig and sat across from her. “You look rather fresh this morning.” Something was different. Amiss. “Different, though. What’s different?”

She blushed prettily. “You’re the detective,” she said dismissively.

He chuckled. He let his eyes roam over her, trying to determine precisely what seemed so unusual. She still wore one of her faded muslin dresses with the modest lines and starched sleeves. Her hair, pulled into the usual loose knot at the nape of her neck, looked as it often did. But still, something nagged at him.

“Before we get there I want to ask you about another investigation,” she said.

“Now you believe you are privy to details from all of my cases?” he asked.

“Of course not, merely curious. I was wondering about the Jack of Hearts.”

His eyebrows rose. “What do you know of him?”

“Only what I’ve read in the papers.” He watched her form each word precisely, sitting straight.

“Your spectacles,” he said, finally realizing what was missing. “You are not wearing your spectacles.”

She put her hand to her head where her spectacles would rest. “Yes, well, I must have forgotten them today. In any case, there aren’t many de
tails of the Jack of Hearts,” she continued. “The Ladies’ Amateur Sleuth Society has been trying to catch him for months now. We have yet to catch sight of him.”

“You’ve been trying to catch him? You and the other ladies?” He did an admirable job hiding his smile.

“Go ahead and laugh. I’m sure this is all rather amusing to you.” Instead of her usual severe tone, James thought he detected a bit of embarrassment.

“Willow, in all honesty, I have not been involved with that investigation. The inspectors who have been working that case are under a different superintendent within the Criminal Investigation Division.”

“So you don’t know anything?”

“You sound disappointed,” he said.

“No, I only hoped you might be able to shed some light on him. He is rather elusive.”

“Yes, he is. They will catch him, however. It’s only a matter of time. If people would fight him off or call for the authorities instead of treating it like a spectacle, then we probably would have caught him by now.” He shook his head. “Foolish people.”

“Yes, I’ve been saying the same thing.” She met his gaze and gave him a shy smile.

The ride didn’t take long and before he knew
it he was escorting her down from the carriage. She smelled lovely and clean. Not unusual, but he’d gotten a nice whiff as she’d swept past him. He wanted to bury his face in the soft skin of her neck and really allow the scent to assail his senses.

He wasn’t supposed to want her, let alone touch her. She was a lady. There were rules about that sort of thing. And despite the fact that he wasn’t one to follow rules, he knew these rules, if broken, came with stiff consequences. Like a special license and a quick marriage.

He desired Willow; he couldn’t deny that. He could even go so far to admit that he wanted her more than he had wanted any other woman. Something in her called out to him and he answered. He needed to touch her, but more than that, needed to comfort her and chase away those shadows that hid behind her eyes. But doing so would surely ensure their marriage, and he simply wasn’t ready to marry. Certainly not her. If for no other reason than his mother would approve. She would practically weep with joy.

The great double wooden doors opened to reveal a large hallway with galleries on both sides. A man stood just inside and he nodded as the doors closed behind them, causing an echo to travel through the marbled space.

“I am Finneas Burton, the curator here. If you will follow me,” the man said.

He led them to the back of the hall and out two more double doors into a spacious courtyard. Pebbles popped beneath their shoes as they continued to follow the curator. Then finally they entered the original Burlington House with all its splendor. A few twists and turns later, and they were in a back room.

“We’ve been storing the portraits in here, waiting to hear from His Grace on how to proceed.” Burton rubbed his hands together excitedly but never smiled. “We only just heard this morning that he wishes to proceed with the exhibit.”

The room was small and contained two bookshelves and one large table in the center with a sheet hung loosely over it, dragging on the floor.

“Let me just remove this.” Burton clapped his hands and a bevy of crisply uniformed maids appeared to gather the sheet and fold it nicely. He eyed Willow and James, and then looked at the table holding all of the portraits, then back at them. “Do be careful. These are quite delicate and obviously irreplaceable.”

James nodded, then waited for the man to shut the door behind him before stepping up to the table. He handed Willow a sheet of paper and a pencil. “For our list of names,” he said.

“Did you bring the journal?” she asked.

He retrieved it from his pocket. “Yes.”

“May I see it?”

“No. You make the list, I’ll look in the book.”

Her features tightened. She wanted to argue with him, he could see it in her eyes. “Why not?” she asked, her voice awfully calm.

“Willow, there’s no reason for us to get into this today. You know there is mention of your mother in this book, and that affects the investigation. I simply can not allow you to look at it. As it is, I could lose my position with the Yard by having you work this investigation with me.”

“So, she is still a suspect?” she asked.

He released a heavy breath. “I will not discuss this with you. Now can we look at these portraits and formulate our list? If we do not start questioning these women soon, I’ll be reassigned and this case will remain unsolved.”

“Very well.” She stood at the table’s edge, careful not to stand too close to him, and looked at the portraits.

He recognized a few of the women and said their names so she could write them down. One was a fairly good friend of his mother’s. Of course, that was the purpose of this exhibit, “Portraits of Ladies”—to display ladies of wealth and privilege. They had wanted to be among the first, he assumed, to be photographed and have their
image shown in a gallery, for all of their friends to look upon with envy.

“Do you know this one?” He pointed to an older woman who sat ridge still on the edge of a wooden high-backed chair. The photograph perfectly captured her lined face and the fervor in her eyes.

“I believe that is Lady Geraldine Rappaport,” she said.

She was still angry with him. He could hear it in her tone and feel it in her stiff movements. But it could not be helped. And it bothered him that he would even allow such a feeling to interfere with his work. Since when did he care if a suspect’s family member was angry with him? It was an occurrence that happened with every investigation. Why should this one be any different?

He didn’t even want to begin to decipher that puzzle. He would not allow himself to develop tender feelings for Willow. It was simply an impossibility.

He looked back at the portrait. “She looks surly,” he said. “And there is no mention of a Geraldine in the journal.”

“She
is
surly.” Willow stepped around to the other side of the table. “This is Lady Mona Thatcher,” she said, pointing to a fair-haired woman. “She was raised poor, in the country,
but met Lord Thatcher at a fair, and now she is one of the wealthiest women in London. Not to mention happily married.” She met his gaze and her smile faded. “Those details aren’t important.”

She was embarrassed for some reason. As if he’d caught her thinking about something she ought not think about. Happy marriages?

He flipped the journal open and looked at the pages he had marked. Jane, Anne, Millie, Sophia, Agatha, Eleanor. Were any of them here?

“Do we have any Eleanors on the list?” he asked.

“No.”

“Do you see any here?”

She circled the table and looked at each portrait carefully. “No, I don’t see anyone here with that name. There is an Esme, but not an Eleanor.”

“Do you recognize all of these women?”

“Yes. I do not know all of them, haven’t spoken to a good many of them, but I do know their names. I’ve always had a gift with names and faces. I remember people and their names from seeing them only once.” She gave a halfhearted shrug. “It’s an odd skill.”

“Seems it would be rather useful. Or at least amusing, if you want to trip people up when you know they won’t remember you.”

“I could never do that,” she said.

He smiled. “I would do it.”

“You enjoy teasing people, though,” she said. Her tone wasn’t accusatory; she was simply stating a fact.

“I do. If you knew my family, you would understand.”

She placed one hand on the edge of the table. “Explain it to me,” she said.

“My mother is the pinnacle of propriety, and she did everything she could to raise me and my brother that way. She succeeded with my brother. He’s so straight, he’s practically made of wood. I, on the other hand, was not so pliable. Doing things a certain way because someone has deemed it the right way never appealed to me. I wanted a better reason. I suppose I’m more like my father, although no one seems to remember his rebellious side. Now he’s simply old and accommodating of my mother and her proper ways.”

“They don’t sound that bad, James. In fact, they sound perfectly normal to me.”

“Yes, but you’re one of them.”

Her brow furrowed. “You say that so disdainfully, as if being polite and following rules is repulsive. I can assure you, there are quite many of us out there. I know you can be on your best behavior, because you’ve done so, for the most part, for the duration of this case.”

“I can behave.” He shrugged. “I simply don’t see the point. The world continues to turn with
out my following every guideline Society has created. I solve as many cases, if not more, than the other inspectors.” He leaned against the wall and crossed his ankles. “In short, nothing terrible ever comes from my not following the rules.”

“They are not really different from law, yet you enforce that,” she pointed out.

“Laws created by our government are very much different from so-called rules, created by a group of pompous men, that people must adhere to in order to be considered civilized. You do realize there is an entire population in this city who are not privy to Society’s guidelines.”

She said nothing, merely eyed him suspiciously.

He pushed off the wall and swaggered toward her. “For instance,” he said. “Who decided that I can not introduce myself to someone without being properly introduced by a mutual acquaintance?”

She stepped away from the table. “It is the polite way,” she said softly.

“But say we had not already met before I saw you at the Fieldcrest ball.” He closed the distance between them. “I would not have been able to invite you to dance until someone introduced us.”

She swallowed visibly.

“What of the rules we’re breaking right now?”
He traced a finger over the tiny ruffle at her neckline. “Do those not count?”

Her eyes widened.

“No chaperone, and you are very much unmarried, Willow, as am I, yet still we are here together.” He leaned close and whispered, “Alone. Tell me, Willow, what do I have to gain by trying things your way?”

She stiffened and took several steps away from him. Then she pointed her pencil at him, looking very much like a strict governess. Oh, the games they could play with that vision. He had been rather naughty as a boy, often in need of punishment. With a brief closing of his eyes he was able to picture Willow standing before him in nothing but her spectacles, her rounded body taut with desire and her expression stern. She looked so damned alluring.

“I don’t have to prove anything to you,” she said, jarring his image. “Entire societies are built on rules and laws and guidelines, yet you seem to believe that
you
are above them. That somehow you’re untouchable. It makes no sense to me at all. But then I’m simply one of the sheep, blindly following rules, simply because they’re there to be obeyed, right?”

He’d evidently touched a nerve.

“I have all of the names written down,” she said, then stepped over to the door.