“I won’t know until I break back in tonight,” he said cheerfully.
“You mean when we break back in,” she corrected.
All cheer drained from his features. “When I said we were a good team, I only meant you were helpful with the ambassador. I don’t intend to involve you in the actual theft of Mr. Beddington. It’s too dangerous.”
“But not too dangerous for you?”
“Larla, I’ve been trained for this type of activity. You haven’t.”
“Her Majesty’s Intelligence officers stoop to burglary often then?
“Oftener than you might think,” he admitted. His stern expression made her realize that even more grievous acts might be required of Trevelyn in the Queen’s service. For a moment, she wondered if he’d been forced to kill to protect the Crown’s interests.
She decided not to ask.
“Still, you need me with you,” she insisted, “if for no other reason than to help you find the right statue.”
“I got a pretty good look at it.”
“Really? Describe it for me.” The rhythm of the cab wheels over the cobbled streets jostled her closer to him with every bounce.
“It’s a Shetland pony, rearing on his hind legs, its fat little belly bulging,” he said. “A ridiculous pose for the breed, but cleverly done. I can see why it caught the Crown’s attention.”
“Do you realize that description fits either Mr. Beddington or Miss Bogglesworth?” She tried to ignore the solid plane of his thigh against hers. “The statues are very similar, as like as two peas. You won’t be able to tell which you have in your hand. But I will.”
“I’ll burgle them both,” he said.
“And burden yourself unnecessarily at a time when you may need a free hand,” she argued. “The statues themselves aren’t too heavy, but the new bases are.”
“Then I’ll put them both into a sack so as to have a free hand,” he countered.
Artemisia gasped in indignation and edged away from him, pressing herself against the side of the compartment. “And risk damaging them?”
“My apology. I thought we were chiefly interested in the saving of Mr. Shipwash, not the preservation of clay horses,” Trevelyn said darkly. “Besides, you sculpted them. Can’t you make them again?”
She shook her head. “The twelve-year-old who made those statues for the sheer joy of it is gone. Once my work started winning competitions, the expectations began to press down on me. I’ve never been as free in my creations as I was when I had no artistic reputation to live up to.”
With that flash of insight, she realized why she’d been so mercilessly particular with her art, so obsessed with perfection. It was draining all the joy from not only her work, but her life as well. And only she could free herself from the crushing weight of the pursuit of the perfect.
“Of course, you are right. Do what you must with the statues,” she said. “Retrieving the key to free Mr. Shipwash is the most important thing. But I do insist on accompanying you whether you will it or no. If you refuse to take me, I shall simply follow you. And who knows what trouble that could lead to?”
“I shudder to think.” He leaned toward her and took both hands in his. “Why, Larla? Why must you come?”
Because you are going into danger and I can’t bear the thought of you risking yourself for me and not being there to help.
But she knew she couldn’t say that. It would be admitting that she cared more than a little for him when he’d not spoken a word of love to her. Their relationship was complicated enough without becoming entangled in the sticky web of sentiment.
“Because Mr. Shipwash is in my employ. I’m responsible for him,” she said truthfully. “One way or another, I will see this through to its end.”
“You are stubborn as a rock.” Trevelyn gave her a grudging smile and cupped her cheek with his warm hand. “And softer than silk.” He leaned forward and kissed her, the sting of the ambassador’s vodka still flavoring his lips. “And sweeter than brandy-wine.”
“Careful,” she said when he finally drew back. “One shouldn’t mix drinks.”
“I’ll risk it.” He jerked the cab’s curtains closed, thrusting them into semi-darkness, and pulled her onto his lap.
She surprised herself by going willingly. His vodka-tinged kiss lit a fire in her belly. A fire that could only be extinguished by more of him. “Trevelyn Deveridge, you are turning me into the most brazen wanton.”
His mouth was on her neck, sending delicious shivers of pleasure over her. When he began to unbutton her bodice, she made no move to stop him. Artemisia watched in fascination as he loosed her buttons one by one.
“You’ve already proved I can’t make you anything other than what you are. But you’re no wanton,” he said. “You’re a desirable woman with needs she’s not afraid to acknowledge. When you first told me you required a lover, I said to myself, ‘There’s a rare find.’ Most women I’ve known haven’t a clue what they really want or how to go about getting it.”
“There’s where you’re wrong. Most women want marriage,” she said as his fingers slid in to toy with the hollow between her br**sts. “And they have definite ideas about how to get it.”
His hand stilled beneath the hollow at the base of her throat and he met her gaze squarely. “And is this your idea of how to snare a husband? Because if it is—”
“Gracious, no! The last thing I need is a husband.” Artemisia forced a laugh. Why had she even brought up the subject? He’d think she was trying to trap him into marriage. “I enjoy my freedom. But I do still have plenty to learn about what passes between a man and a woman. The gravity of our situation could hardly be more dire and yet, your mere presence makes my toes curl, sir. Why is that?”
“Danger is a powerful aphrodisiac,” he explained. “It’s like spice for the sauce. Flirting with danger sets the body’s juices flowing.”
Even though she wore her many layers of petticoats, she felt the length of him hard beneath her skirts. The answering warmth between her own legs started a low pulse beat of longing. “So I see.”
“Gives a man a terrible cockstand.”
“Oh, dear.” She kissed his ear and nipped at the lobe. He groaned low and plunged his hand down the front of her bodice to knead her breast. “What can we do about that?”
“A resourceful pair like us, we’ll think of something,” he assured her. When he bent his head to sample the exposed tops of her br**sts, she arched her back, thrusting the aching mounds up to him.
“No sensation at all in your lips, eh?”
“It’s starting to come back to me,” he said with a wicked grin. His hand crept under her voluminous skirts and found the slit in her bloomers. He separated her delicate folds and ran his finger the length of her wetness. A jolt of desire sent her blood singing through her veins. “It’s a long trip back to Tydburn Street, thank God.”
She closed her eyes and let him take her to that dark, hot place, waiting to burst into light.
“Amen,” she whispered fervently. “Amen.”
* * *
“Stop the presses,” Clarence Wigglesworth shouted as the door to The Tattler office banged behind him. “I’ve got your front page right here.”
Mr. Upton, the editor, looked up from his clanking press and shoved his spectacles back up to the bridge of his nose. “Hold your noise, Wigglesworth. I’ve no time for your nonsense.”
“This is no nonsense and if you don’t buy this story, I’ll sell it to your competitor. Old Farsinglass over at Bon Mots will probably pay double, no questions asked.” Clarence waved the ink-blotched page under his employer’s nose. “In fact, I’ve half a mind to do just that.”
Upton snatched the page from him and ran his gaze over it, his lips moving wordlessly as he read.
“You’re right, for once,” the editor said. “Help me reset the page then. This will curdle the ton’s milk and no mistake.”
Several hours later, Clarence sat down among the stacks of the print run and read his career-making piece. No doubt about it, this story was his finest hour as a journalist.
A Troth Betrayed
The Honorable Mr. Trevelyn Deveridge only recently announced his engagement to Miss Flora Dalrymple, but seems to have forgotten that obligation this evening.
Lord Warre’s second born son and an ostensible “cousin” of the female variety enjoyed a secret “tête-à-tête” in a decidedly seedy establishment in a less than fashionable London neighborhood. This reporter can attest to the fact that there was little conversation going on during the meeting, which lasted several hours. Nothing was heard from the Honorable (and we use the term with extreme looseness) Mr. Deveridge’s room, unless one counted the complaints of his creaky bedstead.
Then Mr. Deveridge flaunted his “cousin” in a lark about London in a hired hansom. Upon their return to the aforementioned seedy establishment, when said hansom came to a halt, the cab continued to rock rhythmically for about a minute before the pair emerged, disheveled and wind-blown from their exertions.
The cabby, a Mr. Winthrop Hornby from Chelsea, was most impressed with Mr. Deveridge’s performance. He commented to this reporter that he’d have said the gentleman was incapable of carnal knowledge of a woman due to extreme intoxication. Apparently, the Earl of Warre’s second son had to be carried bodily from an undisclosed location and deposited in the hansom with his unnamed “cousin” for the return trip to their illicit love-nest. One is filled with admiration for Deveridge’s recuperative powers, if not his morals.
One hopes the hapless Miss Florinda Dalrymple will have friends kind enough to warn her of her future husband’s proclivities before it is everlastingly too late.
“Proclivities,” Clarence repeated. “Good word, that.” After a few more well-deserved moments of self-congratulation, he gathered his payment and shoved it in his pocket. The stack of coin was still on the low side of paltry, but markedly better than he’d done in recent days.
Deveridge will have no kick coming, he reasoned as he stepped into the dark, empty street. Write anything you like about me, he says. So b’Gad, I did. And I didn’t mention the duchess by name once. No, by Thunder, not once.
Chapter 24
“Well, Larla, I think we’ve broken some kind of record.” Trevelyn laid back on his pillow, spent and gasping. Each time he thought there was nothing more in him, but at the slightest provocation—a smoldering look, her sultry voice, the smooth whiteness of her bare skin—his c*ck was primed and ready for another round. The woman might well be the death of him, but he’d die smiling. He laced his fingers behind his head. “But we’ve not gotten a smidge of rest.”
Larla raised up on one elbow to look down at him, her long dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. He’d never think of her as ‘Her Grace’ or even plain Artemisia ever again. She’d always be his Larla, even though he still had no idea what her secret name meant. Her rosy nipple was tantalizingly near, but he was satisfied for the moment just to look. It puckered tight and was undoubtedly aching under his scrutiny.