All Through the Night (18 page)

But he watched her until she disappeared.

The storm gathered power as the night continued. It came from the coast and when it found London, it hunkered down as if to stay. Adam Burke had arrived on the early mail coach from Sussex and walked the four-mile distance to the address the colonel had given him.

By the time he’d arrived, his boots were soaked through. Now every time he moved he made squishy sounds. A special agent assigned to Colonel Seward oughtn’t make such undignified noises, Burke thought.

He crushed his soft cap in his hands and waited for Colonel Seward to stop thinking and start speaking. Another clap of thunder shook the rafters, rattling the bric-a-brac. Burke looked around.

Not much of a place the colonel rented. Adequate and clean but not much in the way of creature comforts. Even the bric-a-brac turned out to be nothing but an empty glass set too close to a decanter.

Burke glanced at the colonel. This matter was playing hard with him. His hair was rumpled as if he’d run his hands repeatedly through it, and his jacket was off. In the six years Burke had worked for the colonel, he’d never seen either. Added to that, he looked bone-tired. But seeing how it was two o’clock in the morning, weren’t they all?

Burke had spent nearly a month following a fascinating paper trail. He’d finished reciting his findings, and mighty interesting findings they were. He couldn’t figure out why the colonel wasn’t clapping him on the back and saying “Good work, Burke lad, and thank you for comin‘ out this godawful night” instead of staring into the hearth like a cat mesmerized by the firelight.

“Tell me more about Anne Wilder’s father and Jamison.” The colonel’s sudden question caught Burke off guard.

Tribble and Jamison?
He tried to remember everything he’d learned about the odd association between a thief and a ... a Jamison. He didn’t know what to call Jamison’s position, just as he really didn’t know what to call the colonel, who worked directly below Jamison or the dozens of others—himself included— who worked for the colonel.

“I started with the banks,” Burke said, “trying to get a handle on who needs money. Well, the answer is they all do or did . . . except Anne Wilder’s dad, Sir Tribble. He had money.”

The colonel nodded encouragingly.

“But on looking closer, I found something odd. Tribble’s money doesn’t come from any investments; it comes in regular payments from someone in London. And I can’t get no further than that. So I visit Sussex and talks with them what served Tribble before he died. They tell me how he came up from London with a dockland’s accent and a trunkload of money. He bought himself a manor and married into the local gentry.”

The colonel turned away from the hearth and leaned his shoulders against the mantel. The light coming from behind him made it look as if he’d walked straight out of the fire. The notion was unsettling.

“This is all fine, Burke,” the colonel said, “but it doesn’t explain Tribble’s association with Jamison.”

“Well, soon the Tribbles have themselves a daughter. Mr. Tribble dotes on the girl. Won’t have her out of his sight, not even when the missus goes off to visit her folks in Bath, which she does thrice yearly. Mr. Tribble doesn’t go with his wife, in spite of them being what you call a devoted couple. Fact is, Mr. Tribble never leaves Sussex.”

“Go on,” murmured the colonel.

“Now things start falling into place. The servants say that as soon as the missus is gone, Tribble’s got his kid up to all sorts of outlandish tricks. Tree climbing, opening doors without any keys, walking on a rope strung between two trees, tumbling. ...”

The colonel looked up sharply, his attention finally engaged.

“Yeah, and it gets more interesting. As I said, Tribble never leaves Sussex.
Never.
He doesn’t even go to London, where he comes from. It’s as if he was afraid he’d be recognized. Or”—he laid his finger aside his nose—“he’d been told
not
to come to London. Except . . .”

“Except what?” the colonel demanded.

“Around ‘bout the war starts—and soon after Anne Tribble become Anne Wilder—Mr. Tribble suddenly starts traveling, staying away for weeks, sometimes months. Then the war ends and Mr. Tribble comes home to find his daughter a widow and all but thrown out of her own home by her husband’s mother.”

“
What
?” The colonel stepped forward.

Burke shifted uneasily on his feet and nodded. “The old bitch don’t want nothin‘ to do with the younger Mrs. Wilder. Blames her for her son’s death. Real vocal about it, too.”

“Was
she to blame?” the colonel asked in a low, tense voice.

“Huh?” Burke squinted at the colonel.

“Was Anne Wilder to blame for her husband’s death?” the colonel repeated.

“Oh! No, sir. Leastways no one else thought so. Not the gentry or the servants.” Burke shook his head. “By all accounts a perfect marriage. Mrs. Wilder’s maid swears he’d have given her the world if she’d asked. Can you imagine loving a woman that much?”

The colonel did not answer. He simply turned his attention back to the fire. Not that Burke thought he would reply. He smiled at the notion of the colonel trading romantic musings with him. He smiled even more broadly at the notion of the colonel
having
romantic musings. The colonel, fine and decent as he was, was the most pragmatic man he knew.

“They did say as how Mrs. Wilder changed a great deal after she married Mr. Wilder.”

“In what manner?”

“Well,” Burke said with a knowing smile, “she was something of a firebrand, you know. Always getting up to some mischief, and with what we now know about her dad’s child-rearin‘ technique, is it any wonder?” Burke chuckled. “Anyway, she was a cavalier sort of gel. But after she married Matthew Wilder, she settled right down. No more havey-cavey shenanigans and not an ounce of scandal attached to her name.

“Nope.” Burke shook his head. “Mrs. Wilder had no call to say bad things about the young Mrs. Wilder, and when Mr. Tribble came back from his journeys he was fit to be tied at the way his daughter had been treated.”

“Unpleasantness?”

“Nah,” Burke said. “Tribble was too canny to fight the old biddy openly. When all is said and done she’s quality and he ain’t. But a few weeks later Mr. Tribble is
Sir
Tribble and the old bitch is eating crow at his knighting. Next day she has an interview with ‘unknown persons.’ Thereafter, old Mrs. Wilder shuts up.”

“Is Jamison the ‘unknown persons’?”

Burke’s face crumpled dolefully. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I tried but I couldn’t find out.”

“No matter.”

Relieved by the colonel’s mild tone, Burke ventured on. “But aren’t you interested in what turns a plain, rich Mr. Tribble into a ‘Sir’ Tribble? I’m
real
interested specially as to why the finance minister recommends him for knighthood when he don’t have no financial interests.”

“Good question. I take it this time you found an answer?”

“Yes, sir. I got chummy with the finance minister’s secretary,” Burke said. “We gets talking about all these merchants getting knighted, and I mention Tribble’s situation and he says, ‘Oh, Tribble weren’t knighted by my gentleman. He got knighted at the request of some old eager my gentleman owed a favor, a chap named Jamison.’ ”

For a moment the colonel stood motionless. “I see.” He pushed himself away from the mantel and walked over to the window. He drew back the curtain. “So her father wasn’t just any thief. He stole things for Jamison. Probably information. First as a young man in London and later in France.”

“That’s what I think,” Burke agreed. “And Tribble taught his daughter his skills and maybe told her about his London connections who might be interested in a ‘sensitive article.’ Appears Annie Tribble is putting all that information to good use ... or bad, depending on what view you take.”

“So it would seem.”

Burke, amused, shook his head. “Who’d a thought? A member of the ton, Wrexhall’s Wraith. Think being widowed deranged her?”

The lines around the colonel’s lips deepened. “Have you reported any of this to anyone else?” he asked sharply.

“No, sir,” Burke answered, slightly affronted. The colonel had never questioned his loyalty before.

“Good. Don’t.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Had anyone else been asking questions? Have Jamison’s agents entered the race?”

Burke shrugged. “It didn’t occur to me that anyone else would be looking, sir. I never thought to ask.” He wriggled, brutally aware of the disappointment on the colonel’s face. “I mean, he set you on the case. I never thought he’d take it into his head to set someone after you.”

“Of course not. No reason you would,” the colonel replied. He looked back out of the window. Lightning danced in the sky, a fireworks display that would have put Covent Garden in its prime to shame. “Find out who else is looking, Burke. It’s probably too late already.”

A rap announced the old Scot, Griffin. He poked his head in the door and eyed Burke malignantly. “Finished your pleasure trip, have you?”

“What is it, Griffin?” the Colonel asked.

“Boy to see you, Cap. Says it’s urgent.”

“Send him up.”

“Already up, Cap.” Griffin turned and waved his hand.

A small sodden figure slipped into the room and headed for the fire. He lifted his raw hands, rubbing them vigorously. Steam rose in fragrant clouds from his mismatched clothing.

“Get him some hot tea,” the colonel said, sending Griffin on his way. “Now, what’s so important?”

The boy’s eyes slid warily toward Burke.

“Go on,” the colonel said.

“She left.”

“What?” the colonel shouted. Burke started in shock. He’d never heard the colonel even raise his voice before. In ground-eating strides, the colonel swallowed up the distance between himself and the boy. The lad cowered back toward the fire. Abruptly the colonel stopped, his hand clenched at his side.

“Tell me,” the colonel clipped out.

“She snuck out ‘alf an hour ago,” the boy said gruffly. “I wouldn’t ’ave seen her but lightning flashed just as she was creepin‘ across the roof. That’s how she’s been gettin’ by me. She stays off the peak and waits for some fog to come up then blends in with the roof. Lord, it must be a slippery go.”

Lord of Mercy, Burke thought, staring out at a sudden burst of manic lightning dancing across the sky. She’ll be burned to a cinder out there.

“Where did she go?” the colonel demanded.

“Don’t know.” The boy cringed again. “Couldn’t see. It’s somethin‘ wicked out and what with the way she’s dressed and tryin’ to stare into the rain and all, I didn’t catch more than a glimpse of ‘er. She headed northeast, though.”

“Northeast? You’re sure?” the colonel asked.

“Pretty sure,” the boy said. “I tell ya, she’s like some bleedin‘ shadow.”

Griffin pushed the door open and entered carrying a tray laden with a pot, cups, and a plate heaped with bread and cheese.

The colonel raked his hair back with both hands. “Where in blazes would she—” He stopped suddenly.

He’s figured it out, Burke thought. He knows just where she’s heading.
If she makes it there.

The colonel headed toward the door. “Griffin, feed them and get them out.” He grasped the boy’s shoulder in his hand. “You’ve always known enough to keep mum. This time it’s doubly important. Not a word of who and what you did or learned this night. Not one word. Do you understand?”

The boy met the colonel’s gaze with a level one of his own. “I’ll consider me life to be worth the price of me silence.”

“Wise lad,” the colonel murmured, and then looked at Griffin. “Give the boy here two crowns.” He glanced at Burke. “You, do as we discussed,” he said, and left.

The boy bolted after him, heading toward the kitchen.

Burke met Griffin’s eye. “Is she really up there? In this?” he finally found the voice to ask. “She really must have gone mad.”

Her foot caught and she sprawled on the ancient shakes, slipping toward the edge. Driving rain sheeted her face, blinding her. She gouged her nails into soft, wet wood trying to arrest her fall. A foot from the edge of the roof she stopped. Laughed.

Gasping for breath—or was she sobbing?—she scrambled to her knees and pitched herself up the steep incline. She patted the bag laced to her side and smiled in relief at the reassuring weight of tiara and bracelets and money purse and broaches and ear bobs . . . and Lady Dibbs’s necklace.

Tell your friends, Lady Dibbs,
thought Anne.
Tell them how you suspect someone from that dreadful nobody’s charity was using the donors’ list as a sort of criminal guidebook. Convince your peers to rescind on their pledges and turn their backs on their promises, because by tomorrow it will be too late. At least for you.

Anne laughed again and lifted her face into the weather. The rain stung her chill cheeks and lips with icy needles. Lord, she was cold. Cold was good. Numb was better.

Just a little farther and she’d be to the rain barrel where she’d stashed her clothes: an overlarge skirt that slipped easily over the thief’s close-fitting stockinette, a heavy coat that hid her soaking shirt, and a bonnet.

The lightning rent the skies and heaven loosed its latest volley on her. The sound enveloped her, resonating in her heart, stomach, and blood. She gasped and when it was over, she smiled and looked down.

“Where are you, Jack?” she called softly. Home in bed if he’d any sense. But he didn’t, did he? He’d trusted her and that meant he had no sense at all. No one trusted a thief. Not with their hearts, not with anything.

Another flash of lightning. Bright this time. Nearer. She straightened, standing in the buffeting winds, concentrating on the electric promise tingling over her flesh, building toward the crescendo—

Boom!

She gasped with the elemental thrill of it. So close! Any closer and she’d become part of the storm itself, she’d meld with that exquisite white fire. She laughed again before fleeing along the aerial highways.

The lightning erupted into a blinding tapestry, lacing the sky with brilliance. Jack forced himself to squint against its glare. There she was. Lithe as the wind, lean as a winter sun, she sprinted high above him, heading toward the park. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply. God alone knew why she hadn’t been hit. It could only be a matter of time. No one challenged the elements like that and lived.

He started forward again, keeping one eye on the tops of the black rain-washed buildings and the other on the narrow streets. He’d been over this route any number of times, having weeks since picked out the easiest paths a rooftop traveler might take from Lady Dibbs’s house. He’d marked such routes for all the wealthy ladies and gentlemen who frequented Carlton House.

He should have realized her intent earlier; she’d all but boasted of her plans. But he thought he’d scared the hell out of her.
He‘d
left the party last night confident of his power to intimidate her.
She’d
left the party last night and taken immediate advantage of his hubris. She’d simply outmaneuvered him. And how ravishingly well she’d done it, he thought angrily.

Jack sneered. How many times had he consoled himself with the thought that the men he’d sent into danger had been cautioned never to underestimate the enemy? Yet he’d underestimated her five times over. A warm flood of harsh anticipation, of near gratitude, washed through him.

So she wanted to play, did she?

Well, they’d play then, and when he won—and he fully intended to win—he knew just what trophy he would claim.

His lungs labored now and his legs ached. The rain grew heavier. His coat’s sodden weight hung on his shoulders like lead, slowing him down. He wouldn’t risk losing her. He shed the wool greatcoat, dropping it to the flooded streets, and ran in his shirtsleeves, impervious to the cold, biting wind or the drenching rain.

A lorry driver cursed him for a lunatic when he bolted in front of his cart. A pair of prostitutes huddled in the doorway of a church shrank from him, hooting when he passed.

He saw her twice more. Each time her silhouette grew smaller against the sheets of lightning, as if she were slowly disappearing into the very center of the storm. East over the exchange offices she went and then a perilous drop to the slate-covered roof of an Episcopalian church. South now, coursing over the stable roofs of countless town houses until reaching the park. There she’d no choice but to alight, his little bird. And he’d be there waiting.

The breath whistled in his lungs, burned in his throat. Two more streets. She
had
to be coming from one of the buildings on the next street. He sprinted around the corner and collided with a girl in a light-colored coat. His hands shot out to keep her slight body from pitching into the wall, righting her before shoving by. Her voice stopped him.

“Why, Colonel Seward! Can that be you?” He spun. Anne Wilder stood before him in a prim, fawn-colored coat. Neat gloves encased her hands. A fashionable bonnet covered her hair.
Impossible.

“How?” he demanded. “How did you get dressed like that?”

She laughed with odd and inappropriate pleasure. She sounded feverish with excitement. Her eyes gleamed like wet, blue-black ink. The rain tangled in her thick lashes, studding them with diadems of water.

“Why, Colonel, you’re soaked through!” she exclaimed. “You’ll catch your death out on a night like this without a coat. Whatever could you be thinking?”

His temper snapped. He grabbed her by her shoulders. “How did you do it? Where are your clothes?”

She laughed again, making no attempt to break free. “My clothes? I am wearing clothes, Colonel, and a good deal more of them than you.”

He stared at her. With awful clarity he recognized the expression in her eyes. She was beyond his ability to influence by threats or reason. She’d been to Lady Dibbs’s and she’d stolen her jewels and she didn’t have them on her. Jack read it in her unbridled excitement and fevered laughter.

She’d gorged herself on the elixir of victory and now she felt invincible. Like the soldier whose entire regiment is wiped out in a charge yet somehow remains personally unscathed, she reeled with guilt and power and a horrifying sense of her own invulnerability.

He took her arm and wheeled her around. With his touch her bravado shattered. She stumbled in his grip.

“No!” she said, setting her heels. “What are you doing? You can’t just—”

He ignored her protest, dragging her out of the alleyway and onto the street. She threw her weight back against his, but this time the hand holding her wasn’t slick with blood or weakened by a cut and his clasp did not loosen in spite of her best efforts.

“Are you insane?” She gasped, clawing at his fingers.

“I must be.”

“Let me go, Colonel,” she said. “Have you lost your senses? You can see I’m not your thief. You’re deluded.”

He hauled her to his side and hailed a cabdriver lounging beneath the shelter of a tree on the far side of the street. The cabby’s eyes widened at the sight of him clad only in a soaking shirt, a woman struggling in his grip.

Jack cursed roundly. Anne slipped on the slick cobbles underfoot and fell to her knees. She tore at the hand clasping her wrist. Her skirts soaked up the water streaming in the gutter. Her face, turned up into the driving rain, was frantic. God help him.

“Me wife’s been taken with a fit!” he bellowed above the din of sudden thunder. “Five quid to get us ‘ome!”

The man stared a second more as Jack hefted Anne into his arms and secured her thrashing body against his own. With a nod, the cabby began a slow climb to the driver’s seat.

“Are you mad?” Anne gasped, gulping on her sobs.

“Am
I
mad?” he shot down at her. “What are you doing out here, Mrs. Wilder?”

“I ... I ... the Home ... I went to see—”

“You haven’t been anywhere near there. You’ve been stealing Lady Dibbs’s jewelry, and tomorrow morning I’ll have the square mile around here turned over leaf by leaf to find it.”

“You won’t find it. You won’t find anything.” She stopped struggling. “You can’t prove anything,” she said. “Let me go.”

“No.”

The hack lumbered to a stop before them. The driver clambered down to open the door.

Jack tightened his hold on Anne. “Do not make a scene,” he said in a hard voice filled with promise. She must fear him, realize he would commit any act he deemed necessary. And wouldn’t he? He could not ever remember being so angry.

He forced the cold implacable words from his mouth. “If you do, I shall strip you right here and now to discover your secrets.”

She blanched and went utterly still except for the shivers racking her body. He swore savagely, low vehement words learned in a Scottish workhouse. Her shivers turned into shudders. He thrust her into the cab and climbed in after her. Already she’d scooted across the seat and grabbed the handle on the door opposite.

He grasped her around the waist and hauled her back onto his lap. Her sopping skirt soaked through his trousers. The brim of her bonnet smacked into his face. Holding her tightly around her middle, he loosed the ribbons of her hat and jerked it from her head. Long silky black ropes of hair uncoiled down her back. Wet silk.

“Amazing how your hair is wet, considering the lining of your bonnet is still nearly dry, isn’t it, Mrs. Wilder?” he asked.

In answer she redoubled her efforts to escape. The sweet, taut swell of her buttocks wriggled against his groin. Rolling shock waves of pleasure rippled through him, surprising and infuriating him. Even here, even now, even knowing how she’d played him, he wanted her.

“Be still,” he said with a growl, willing himself to ignore the feel of her strong, supple little form.

She went limp and roughly he pushed her from his lap. Immediately she scrambled into the corner of the cab and turned to stare at him like a feral cat.

“Where’s the letter that you stole from Lord Atwood’s room,” he ground out. “The one in the silver jeweled chest.”

She blinked. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He grabbed each side of her collar and jerked her from her corner. He heard her knees bang against the floorboards. He dragged her up so her face was level with his. Pitifully easy to do. She weighed next to nothing.

Terror declared itself clearly in her expression. Her lips trembled. God help him, he wanted to taste them, to stop their soft quaking with his own mouth.

Why not? Why the bloody hell not?

He yanked her forward and covered her lips with his. He angled his head, forcing hers to arch beneath his onslaught, opening his mouth in a rough demonstration of his power, forcing her to accept his tongue. She whimpered far back in her throat. He could taste the salt of her tears. That was all she needed to do.

With a sound of rage he tore his mouth from hers. He’d never forced himself on a woman before. It did nothing,
nothing
to satisfy the lust careening wildly at the back of his black thoughts. Indeed, it sickened him, and this in turn infuriated him.

He would not let her do this to him. He would not let her overwhelm him. He shook her and she cried out, a small, involuntary sound.

“Not to your taste, Mrs. Wilder? I thought you liked a bit of roughness to your amorous sport.”

“Please.”

“Oh, no. Not yet. Later. Right now I want answers, not you.”
Liar!

“But I don’t—”

“I’ve had enough denials, Mrs. Wilder. They begin to pall.” His voice was stiletto sharp, thin, and lethal. He was good at this. He was the fucking
best.
He pulled her a few inches closer, letting his gaze travel with deliberate leisure over her face and throat and bosom. “Now, let us try again. Where is that letter?”

Her hands flew up and circled his wrists, trying to stop him.
Useless act.
His thumbs brushed against the cool damp skin of her throat. If he wanted to, he could snap her neck like a twig.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she pleaded. “There wasn’t any letter in that jewelry chest.”

“At least we’ve progressed to a tacit agreement on your identity,” he said. “But you still aren’t quite complying with the spirit of the game, Mrs. Wilder. I ask a question. You answer. Stop shaking, damn you!”

“I can’t help it!” A sob broke from her throat.

“Where is that letter?”

“I told you,” she said. “I never saw any letter. There wasn’t anything in Lord Atwood’s chest. It was empty!”

“A secret compartment,” he said impatiently. “It was in there.”

Her face mirrored a confusion that looked real. If he’d interrogated her as a stranger, he would have sworn she told the truth. Being able to gauge if someone lied or not had been his bread and butter for more than a decade. But he couldn’t trust his judgment where she was concerned. He was far too involved and in far too many ways.

He had no concept of what she felt or thought, where her allegiances lay or even if she was capable of having any.

She was staring at him. “There wasn’t any secret compartment,” she whispered, as if afraid of provoking him.