He took a hackney to Chandlers Street; he couldn’t think where else Albin might have gone. Mrs. Stitchbury uttered a muffled shriek when she saw him. “Lord Cosgrove! You’re bleeding dreadfully!”
“Mr. Albin said I might wait for him in his room.” He displayed Albin’s hat, as if that item of clothing could grant him admittance.
“Certainly, sir,” Mrs. Stitchbury said, with an agitated curtsy. She led him upstairs and unlocked Albin’s door. “But your poor throat! So much blood! I can bathe it for—”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Stitchbury.” Marcus stepped into Albin’s room and firmly closed the door.
He waited until he heard Mrs. Stitchbury depart, then crossed to the window and opened it. A sparrow flew in, landing on the rug beside the fireplace.
Marcus latched the window again. When he turned round, Albin stood naked on the rug.
Marcus’s skin tightened in a shiver. What Albin did, changing the shape of his body, was impossible. And yet I see it with my own eyes.
“Are you all right, sir? Your throat—”
“Don’t.” His voice was flat, hard. “I’ve just endured your landlady’s fussing and I’m not in the mood for any more.” He crossed to the table and laid Albin’s hat on it. “I want an explanation. No lies. And for heaven’s sake, get dressed!”
“On my twenty-fifth birthday, a woman came to see me.” Albin pulled on his drawers. “She wasn’t human, sir. She said she was a Faerie.” He blushed, as if aware how foolish it sounded, and hurried on. “She said an ancestor of mine had done her a favor, many centuries ago, and that I was due a gift. A wish.” Breeches and stockings followed the drawers. “She said I could choose what I wanted. Invisibility or levitation or . . .” He paused part-way through pulling on the second stocking, his brow creasing in an effort of memory. “Longevity and translocation and . . . and foresight and . . . speech with animals.”
Marcus shook his head, instinctively rejecting this as impossible. Albin didn’t notice. He continued: “I chose metamorphosis, sir.”
“Metamorphosis.” The word felt strange on his tongue, as if the vowels didn’t quite fit together. “That’s what you did this afternoon?”
Albin nodded. He shrugged into a clean shirt and began doing up the buttons. “I thought it might be useful.”
Marcus grunted. He touched the cut on his throat. Dried blood coated his skin, sticky and tight and uncomfortable.
“I didn’t tell you, sir, because . . . because I haven’t told anyone! How can I? It’s too fantastical. Too . . . too unbelievable! I wouldn’t have believed it myself if it hadn’t happened to me.” Albin’s voice, his expression, were an appeal for understanding.
Marcus gazed at him stonily. I am not a chawbacon to be won over by excuses.
Albin’s face fell. He picked up a waistcoat.
“Explain this to me.” Marcus held out the pocket watch he’d found.
“What—? Oh!” Albin dropped the waistcoat. “You found it. Thank you, sir!”
“Charles Appleby was your former employer. Why is his watch in your possession?”
“He left it to me. If I’d lost it—” Albin took the pocket watch and held it in both hands, as if it were precious. “I can’t thank you enough, sir.”
“You were close to Mr. Appleby?”
“He was like a father to me.” Albin picked up the waistcoat he’d dropped and carefully placed the watch in the pocket. “Uh . . . did you find a key, too, sir?”
Marcus shook his head.
Albin’s expression became dismayed. “Mrs. Stitchbury won’t be pleased with me.”
Marcus couldn’t care less. He was still furious. You lied to me. Except that Albin hadn’t precisely lied; he’d merely concealed a fact about himself.
Lie or not, it felt like a breach of trust.
“Have you done it before today? Metamorphosed in my presence?”
Albin’s gaze slid away from his.
Marcus’s fury flared into rage. “You have.”
Albin squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. “Yes, sir. At Hazelbrook. When I followed the Smiths.” His eyes opened, beseeching. “I couldn’t have run so far otherwise, sir.”
“You were the dog I met in the woods.”
“Yes, sir.”
Marcus strode to the window, trying to control his rage. He clenched his fists on the sill and stared down at Chandlers Street. “The night you went into Whitechapel—you did that as a dog, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I was worried for your safety!” He swung back to Albin. “More fool me!”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Albin’s face was pale, miserable. “I was only trying to help.”
“You deceived me.”
“Yes, sir.” Albin looked ready to cry. He blinked and swallowed and looked at the floor.
“Tell me, Albin . . . how can I trust you?”
Albin’s head jerked up. “But, sir, I did it for you!”
Some of Marcus’s rage drained away. He turned back to the window and touched his throat, felt the dried blood. I’d be dead, if not for Albin.
“Sir . . . I heard them say something—the Smiths—just before they attacked you.”
“What?”
“One of them said—I don’t know which one—he said . . . he asked whether they should do it now, or wait. I think it means they were hired to kill you.”
Marcus lowered his hand and turned to look at Albin. “Kill me?” Phillip might wish him dead, Monkwood might, Brashdon and Hyde might, but they’d hardly—
“Sir, you need to be extremely careful.”
He stared at Albin, not really seeing him. The Smiths’ attack was now comprehensible; not greed, not panic, but a question of business.
Someone wants me dead.
His mind rejected that statement, pushed it away, sought for something else to focus on. His attention latched on Albin’s stockinged feet. He remembered the bundle of clothes he’d tossed from the inn window. “Do you have another pair of boots?”
Albin shook his head.
“Another tailcoat?”
Albin shook his head again.
Marcus took a banknote from his pocket and held it out. “Buy yourself new top boots and a tailcoat. And get yourself a greatcoat, while you’re at it.”
“I can’t take your money, sir.”
Marcus looked down at the banknote. Specks of his blood were dark on it. “You saved my life today.” However angry he was with Albin, that fact was unmistakable.
Someone wants me dead.
His mind gave another automatic flinch, another rejection of the truth. He pushed away from the windowsill, laid the banknote on the table, and strode to the door.
“Sir? Am I still your secretary?”
Marcus halted. He turned and looked back at Albin, considering this question.
The lad’s face was so pale it was almost bloodless. There was anxiety in his eyes, and mute entreaty.
Do I want you as my secretary?
He was angry with Albin, furious with him—and yet . . . despite the magic, he trusted the lad. Not as completely as he had before, but . . . enough.
“Yes,” Marcus said. “You’re still my secretary.”
Marcus presented himself for his meeting with Miss Brown at precisely seven o’clock. “Good evening,” he said, aware of the weight of the dueling pistol in his pocket.
He examined the room while Miss Brown latched the door, satisfying himself that no one was concealed behind the folded screen, no one hiding beneath the bed.
They sat at the table with a candle burning between them. Marcus removed his hat and gloves. He ignored the invitation of the bed—clean sheets, soft mattress, plump pillows. It wasn’t sex he wanted from Miss Brown tonight; it was answers.
“How did your meeting with the Smiths go, sir?”
Marcus resisted the urge to check that the bandage round his throat was hidden by his neckcloth. “Not as well as I had hoped.”
“What happened?”
“A few questions first, Miss Brown, if you don’t mind.”
She moistened her lips. “Is . . . is something wrong, Lord Cosgrove?”
Marcus ignored the question. “Did you see the Smiths today, before my meeting with them?”
She shook her head. “No.”
His eyes narrowed as he surveyed her. “How did you make contact with them? How did you arrange the meeting?”
“I left a message for them at a tavern, offering work.”
“Did you mention my name at all?”
She shook her head again. “I called you Mr. Black. Sir . . . what’s wrong?”
“What is your connection with the Smiths?”
“I have no connection with the Smiths. They wouldn’t know me if they saw me.”
Marcus frowned at her in baffled fury. “Then how do you know their names? How do you know how to contact them?”
“It was merely a . . . a lucky chance that I came by the information.”
“What lucky chance?”
“I can’t tell you,” Miss Brown said, twisting her hands together. “I just . . . I just wanted to help you, sir! I’ve seen what they’ve done—the windows and . . . and the nightsoil. You don’t deserve it, sir. You don’t deserve any of it!”
“A philanthropist,” he said, his voice flat with sarcasm.
She flushed at his tone.
Marcus scrutinized her. Was she telling the truth? Was she as genuine as she appeared to be? “The Smiths tried to kill me this afternoon, Miss Brown.”
Miss Brown was silent for a long moment, her hands clutched together. “I don’t understand,” she said finally. “Why would they do that?”
“You tell me.”
“Me?”
“You know more than I do.”
Miss Brown shook her head.
“Where do they live?”
“I don’t know. But I can try to find out.”
“How?”
She bit her lip, then shook her head again. “I can’t—”
“Can’t tell me.” Frustration flared inside him. If he took Miss Brown by the shoulders and shook her—
Marcus squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose with hard fingers. Control yourself, man. How could he even think about offering violence to a woman?
“The Pig and Whistle in Aldgate. That’s where I left a message for them.”
Marcus lowered his hand, looked at her.
“I can’t tell you how I know they drink there.” Tears shone in her eyes. “If I could, I would tell you, sir. I give you my word of honor that I only wish to help you.”
It was impossible to doubt Miss Brown’s sincerity. She looked as tragic as Albin had. No one was that good an actress. Not even the celebrated Sarah Siddons.
Marcus’s rage drained away, leaving tiredness in its place. He released his breath in a sigh. “I offered the Smiths money today, Miss Brown—quite a significant sum—in exchange for the name of their employer. But instead of accepting, they tried to kill me.”
“Are you all right, sir?”
Marcus lifted one hand to his throat, feeling the layers of bandage beneath his neckcloth. “We fought them off.”
“You were hurt.” It was a statement, not a question.
“A little.” He let his hand fall. “But it begs the question—why? Why choose to kill me? Why turn down so much money?”
“Do you think . . . they’ve accepted a commission to kill you?”
“It’s a possibility.” Marcus leaned back in his chair. “You see why I’m eager to find them, Miss Brown?”
“Yes.” Her fingers twisted tightly together, the knuckles whitening. “Sir, you need to be extremely careful. If they’ve accepted a commission to kill you—” She leaned across the table, her voice urgent: “Sir, you mustn’t go anywhere alone!”
“The Smiths are in no position to harm me. Mr. Albin saw to that.”
“But whoever hired them will hire new men!”
Probably. Tomorrow he’d have to start looking over his shoulder, but this evening he should be safe.
Marcus glanced at the bed. Last night, when he’d suggested this meeting, he’d been thinking of sex. Tonight . . .
He didn’t want to return to Grosvenor Square, to a house that was empty except for servants. He didn’t want to spend the evening thinking about his own mortality. A soft bed, a warm female body, sex—those were what he wanted.
But not with Miss Brown.
Tonight he wanted a woman who knew how to distract a man from his worries. A woman skilled in the art of giving pleasure.
He reached for his hat.
“You may stay if you wish.”
Marcus looked at her. In the candlelight, Miss Brown wasn’t beautiful, but she was undeniably attractive—smooth skin, clear eyes, soft lips. Behind her, the bed offered its silent invitation.
He could visit Madam Cecily’s establishment, drink too much expensive brandy, pay for the services of the most talented of her girls. Or he could remain here.
Marcus turned his hat over in his hands, weighing up the options. Last night had been pleasurable, but an evening at Madam Cecily’s would be even more so. Miss Brown was clean, he could catch no diseases from her, but she didn’t have the skills of Madam Cecily’s girls.
“Why?” he asked.
A blush mounted in her cheeks. “I thought . . . I thought it was why you asked to come tonight. But I perfectly understand if you don’t want to. I’m not . . .” She bit her lip, and then blurted, “You can do much better than me, sir.”
It was what he’d been thinking, but he tried not to show it. “Would you like me to stay, Miss Brown?”
Her blush became fiery. She lowered her gaze. “Last night was . . . nice.”
Yes, last night had been surprisingly enjoyable.
Marcus turned his hat over in his hands again. A professional, or Miss Brown? Or both, a voice whispered in his head. He could visit Madam Cecily’s afterwards.
“Are you still, er . . . protected?”
“There will be no child. I can promise you that, sir.”
His gaze slid to the bed. Her body had welcomed him inside, last night. She’d been sleek and hot and deliciously tight. He’d climaxed hard inside her, harder than he had for a long time.
“Very well. I’ll stay.”
There was a familiarity to it tonight. This was the third time he’d stripped in front of Miss Brown, the third time he’d undone the buttons of her gown. Her breasts were familiar in his hands, the scent and taste of her skin was familiar, the softness of her hair—and the heat and tightness of her was familiar, too.
Marcus was less gentle than last night, more urgent. It wasn’t a conscious choice; his body dictated it, demanded it. Sex. Affirmation of life at its most basic. Miss Brown seemed to feel his urgency—and to match it. She shuddered to a climax seconds before he reached his own release.
Marcus automatically gathered her in his arms afterwards. Was Albin prey to this elemental need to have sex after coming close to death? Was the lad even now in a brothel, losing his virginity?
He smoothed a hand over Miss Brown’s hair, feeling an inexplicable tenderness towards her.
He pressed his lips to her shoulder, her throat, her cheek, inhaling the scent of her skin. His mouth found hers. He hadn’t planned to kiss her properly, but it seemed natural—to tease her lips apart with his tongue, to gently explore her mouth.
That she’d never kissed anyone was blatantly obvious. Her response was hesitant, clumsy. Their teeth bumped.
“I’m sorry,” she said, flustered, embarrassed, trying to draw back.
Marcus didn’t let her. He held her close and laughed softly against her mouth. “The only way to learn is through practice.” He kissed her again, lightly, gently.
Miss Brown hesitated—and then shyly returned the kiss, tasting his lips, learning the shape of his mouth.
Heat grew between them.
This time their lovemaking wasn’t fast and urgent, but leisurely, intense. Marcus kissed her as he entered her, kissed her as he built a slow rhythm, kissed her as his arousal spiraled tighter. Long, exquisite minutes passed. Miss Brown climaxed, her sleek muscles clenching around his cock, and yet it wasn’t over, wasn’t over—
If anything, his climax was more intense this time. It felt as if his heart stopped beating for an instant.
Marcus floated slowly down to reality: a soft bed, Miss Brown warm beneath him, the bandage tight and uncomfortable around his throat.
He gathered Miss Brown in his arms and held her while his heartbeat slowed and his skin cooled. Minutes passed. He didn’t want to withdraw from her body, didn’t want to climb out of the bed, didn’t want to dress and leave.
Not Madam Cecily’s. Not tonight. Not after this.
He stroked curling strands of hair back from Miss Brown’s face, bent his head and kissed her. Small, feather-light kisses. No urgency, just gentleness, tenderness.
The way he’d kissed Lavinia after they’d made love.
Marcus released Miss Brown abruptly and rolled away from her. He didn’t want tenderness. Tenderness was dangerous.
He climbed off the bed and dressed silently. When he was fully clothed, he looked at Miss Brown.
She had donned her chemise and stood barefooted beside the bed. Her hair was tousled, her lips rosy, her eyes dark.
Arousal stirred in his groin.
I want her again.
Marcus turned away, picking up his hat and gloves. “May I see you tomorrow evening?” he asked, not looking at her, as if by not meeting her eyes he wouldn’t have to acknowledge how much he desired her.
“If you wish.”
He did. Very much.