Sinfully Yours (9 page)

“Well, at least I am making some progress,” she announced to the inkwell.

The silver-capped crystal did not echo her satisfaction.

“You have no idea how much mental effort is required to create a story,” she added. “It is
very
hard work.”

Her stomach growled in agreement. It had been several hours since the midday meal.

Deciding to reward her diligence with a break for some tea and pastries, Anna set off for the main parlor, where a collation of light refreshments were laid out for the guests throughout the day. After nuncheon, most of the ladies—including Caro, who had decided to visit the local bookshop—had gone on the shopping expedition with Lady Dunbar. And with all but a few of the men off tramping the moors, the house felt eerily empty.

It was silly, she knew, but the silence seemed to be whispering to her as she made her way through the corridor.

She was simply faint with hunger, Anna told herself. And her mind was half-lingering in its own inner world of imagination.

The suggestion was too brash—even for one of the Hellions of High Street.

She tried to ignore it, but the rustle of her skirts kept repeating the message.

A lady ought to be a little dangerous.

Exhaling an oath, Anna hurried across the landing instead of turning for the stairs and darted into the corridor housing Devlin’s rooms. At the midday meal, she had confirmed that he and the two other single gentlemen quartered here had elected to be part of the hunting party. So there was hardly any danger of being caught.

She promised herself that she wouldn’t spend long.

Just a quick look around.

For what? A horde of stolen jewels hidden in a waistcoat pocket? Priceless paintings rolled up and stuffed in a boot?

Shutting her ears to the voice of reason, she carefully counted her way down the doors. A peek at the housekeeper’s chart had revealed which room was his.

Holding her breath, Anna pressed the latch…

Only to find it locked.

Pulling a hairpin from her chignon, she offered up silent prayer of thanks to her late father. His expeditions had often taken him to wild places, and he had thought it important to teach his daughters basic survival skills so that they could fend for themselves if need be. Opening locks was one of them.

A deft jiggle released the catch.

Hoping her luck would hold, Anna slipped inside.

Considering Devlin’s dissolute reputation, the sitting room was surprisingly tidy. The furniture was free of rumpled clothing, the decanters appeared untouched, the desk was neat, with papers and books arranged in orderly piles.

Though she was curious as to what he was reading, Anna forced herself to head into the bedchamber. Averting her eyes from the large canopied bed, she opened the massive armoire and hurriedly checked through the clothing and bandboxes for anything suspicious.

Finding nothing, she looked around a little guiltily. It appeared she had let her imagination run wild. There was really nothing out of the ordinary about the marquess’s personal effects. Granted, a bejeweled ring—assuming it had actually been stolen—was small enough to hide anywhere. But suddenly it felt absurd to have fantasized that the man was a thief.

After taking a half-hearted look inside the chest of drawers, Anna was about to leave when she remembered the adjoining dressing room. It was unlikely that there would be anything other than an assortment of sporting boots and oilskin cloaks within the small space, but since she was here…

“How odd,” she murmured, giving the door latch another jiggle.

It, too, was locked. Which made no sense at all.

Once again, the hairpin made quick work of manipulating the levers. With a soft
click
, the door swung open several inches.

Pressing her hand to the waxed wood, Anna felt her pulse kick up a notch.

The
thump
,
thump
,
thump
began to hammer in her ears as she tentatively gave it a small push.

“Oh, stop acting like a peagoose,” she muttered. “There is likely a perfectly plausible reason for locking…”

As a dappling of daylight from the narrow window illuminated the alcove, she froze in place, staring in mute shock at the sight before her eyes.

A small worktable had been set up in the center of the space. An unlit argent lamp sat on a pedestal next to it, the oil-fueled glass globe angled to cast its intense light over the square of white felted wool that covered nearly the entire surface.

Swallowing her surprise, Anna ventured a step closer and leaned in for a closer look at what lay upon the fabric.

The pocket pistol from Manton’s shop had been disassembled, and all the parts laid out in an orderly grouping on one side of the table. But it was the weapon on the other side that wrenched a tiny gasp from her throat.

It was a copy of Mr. Manton’s design—and yet, it wasn’t. Some of the small metal workings had been made out of steel. But the majority were crafted out of beautiful burnished gold.

Hardly daring to breath, she carefully picked up a magnifying glass from among the set of precision tools wrapped in chamois and peered through the lens at the exquisite detailing of the half-finished model. Along with the intricate decorative patterns etched on the surfaces, some of the pieces were also covered by delicate indigo blue enamelwork highlighted by seed pearls. Looking up, Anna saw a number of glass vials containing powdered pigments grouped together with an assortment of small tweezers and paintbrushes.

“Good Lord,” she whispered.

Even more astounding than the partly finished golden pistol was the sight of a colorful miniature bird lying half assembled in the middle of the felt. Its eyes were two emeralds, and the tiny wings had been fashioned with a deft artistry that created the illusion of myriad feathers. Next to the golden claws was a bewildering array of impossibly small gears and levers.

The marquess wasn’t a thief, he was…

An artist? An alchemist with otherworldly powers to transmute ordinary elements into magic?

Feeling a little dizzy, Anna put the magnifying glass back in its place and slowly circled the table, checking to see if there was anything else that could shed light on what Devlin was doing.

It was then that she spotted several books stacked by the lamp. She opened the top one and saw that it bore Lord Dunbar’s bookplate, indicating that it had come from the library downstairs. Thumbing to the next page, she read its title—

The term “automata” was vaguely familiar. Her father had several books in his library on the subject. It referred to complex mechanical devices that performed some sort of movement, mostly for sheer entertainment—a majestic eagle that flapped its wings, a lute player who could strum his instrument, a ferocious tiger that could paw its prey. Popular since ancient times, there were, she knew, some very clever and complex constructions.

Intrigued, Anna paged through the chapters of the book in her hand, stopping occasionally to study the detailed engravings of various examples, including an elaborate thirteenth-century Arabic model of a jewel-encrusted peacock fountain and an eighteenth-century French flute player. But much as she wished to read the text, she needed time to think over what she had discovered before confronting the marquess.

As she closed the book a folded piece of paper fell out of it. Smoothing it open, she read over the list of names carefully before putting it back between the pages.

Ye gods—what is the marquess up to?

Reluctantly placing the book back atop the others, she quitted the dressing room and relocked the door. After checking that the corridor was clear, she reset the main lock and hurried back to her own chamber.

Shrugging out of his hunting coat, Devlin draped it over one of the armchairs of his sitting room and went to pour himself a drink. The first swallow of whisky burned a trail of welcome fire down his throat, but as he turned away from the sideboard, a tiny chill teased against the nape of his neck.

Something wasn’t quite right.

The desk blotter was slightly askew, and a pillow on the settee had been shifted several inches.

Setting down his glass, Devlin moved into his bedchamber, and the sensation grew even more pronounced.

His eyes were attuned to notice minute details, but even an unschooled gaze could see that someone had been in here going through his belongings. And whoever it was hadn’t been particularly skilled at it. The clothing in the armoire hung at odd angles and several lids of the bandboxes were not quite closed.

Ignoring the chest of drawers, he quickly crossed the rug to check the dressing room door. That the bolt was in place brought some measure of assurance that his secret was still safe.

Until he fitted his key into the lock and clicked it open.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

The intruder had been more careful in here, but not quite careful enough. His work-in-progress was undisturbed, but the tools and books showed small signs of tampering.

Frowning, he crossed his arms and considered the conflicting evidence. On one hand, the clumsiness of the search betrayed an inexperience in spying. On the other, the lock-picking skills said otherwise.

“Damn.” Uttering the oath aloud, Devlin lit the lamp and angled the beam of light into every nook and cranny of the far wall. He worked his way back methodically around the rest of the room’s perimeter, then concentrated his efforts on the area beneath his work table.

There, between a narrow joint of the floor planks was a colored thread caught on a splinter. He picked it out and carefully folded it in his handkerchief, though the chances were slim that it meant anything. Tucking it backing his pocket, he redoubled his efforts. But after a thorough search turned up no other clue that might help him identify the intruder, he finally gave up and returned to his sitting room.

Picking up his whisky, Devlin set the amber liquid to swirling in a slow, spinning, vortex. He disliked being at a disadvantage. However, for the moment there was nothing to do but wait for his unknown adversary to make the next move.

Or was there?

After a meditative sip, he returned to his temporary workroom and took out his most powerful magnifying glass from a wooden case beneath his paintbox. Fishing his handkerchief from his coat, he smoothed out the snowy white square of cambric and arranged the thread in its center.

Light winked off the highly polished lens.

“Well, well, well.”

It was, perhaps, a flimsy scrap of evidence to go on. However he had a keen eye for color and could only recall having seen this exact hue once before.

D
ust motes danced in the shaft of morning sunlight, the free-spirited swirl of the tiny gold sparkles at odds with her own conflicted mood. Perching a hip on the carved oak windowsill of the deserted picture gallery, Anna took a moment to try to sort out her thoughts.

The previous evening had been a subdued occasion. Both the ladies and the gentlemen had appeared tired from their sojourns into the inclement weather, and after supper, no one had lingered long over tea or cards. Even the marquess had been unnaturally quiet. That he seemed too preoccupied with his own thoughts to torment her with his teasings stirred yet more questions to tangle around the conundrum.

What the Devil was he up to?
Was his brooding the sign of a guilty conscience? Or something else altogether?

Try as she might, she couldn’t make any sense of it.

“My own heroine is far more clever than I am,” murmured Anna. “Emmalina can solve all manner of convoluted mysteries, while I find myself doing naught but spinning in mental circles.”

As the day had dawned clear and bright, all the men had set off early for a day-long trek through the moors. Several carts would carry a noontime picnic to a spot near the loch, so they wouldn’t be returning until dusk. As for the ladies, a scenic walk to the nearby abbey ruins had been arranged, with an outdoor nuncheon overlooking the seaside cliffs.

Anna had once again begged off from the excursion—Lady Dunbar must think her more fragile than the most delicate Meissen porcelain figurine. Nothing, of course, could be further from the truth.

I am hardier than a horse. But clearly my brain is weaker than that of a fly.

While the others were strolling along the gentle meadow footpaths, she had found her way to a remote part of the castle, where the ancient picture galleries looked as if they hadn’t been visited in years. Walking within their stretches of solitude, watched by only the dour stares of long-departed Dunbar ancestors, afforded a chance to mull over the situation in some much needed privacy.

It wasn’t easy to find any solitude at a house party. Even in her own rooms, there were frequent interruptions as her own maid and the castle tweenies went about their daily tasks.

“Alone at long last,” said Anna, exhaling a sigh.

The whisper of air echoed softly off the age-dark paneling, only to give way to a louder sound,

“Not quite.”

Anna whirled around from the window, dislodging a fresh cloud of dust from the faded velvet drapery. She couldn’t yet spot him in the gloom, but her whole body was suddenly prickling with the awareness of his closeness. “I—I thought you were out stalking birds with the others.”

Devlin stepped out of the shifting shadows. “I decided to do my hunting in here today.”

“I—I am not a grouse.”

“Nor a pigeon,” he agreed. “If anything, you are a finely feathered predator, a sharp-eyed hawk or eagle who is no less lethal for all its lithe, lovely lines and aerial grace.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” said Anna, yet even to her own ears, the assertion rang hollow.

He came a step closer and held up his hand. “I’m talking about
this
.”

In the hazy half light, it appeared that the only thing grasped between his fingers was thin air.

“Is this another of your taunting tricks?” she demanded. “I see nothing.”

“It’s a tiny fragment of fabric.”

“Grasping at threads, Lord Davenport?”

His bark of laughter held no amusement. “You are exceedingly clever with words, Miss Sloane. So let’s play a little game with language, beginning with the words ‘why’ and ‘how.’”

Her heart began to thud against her ribcage. “Unlike you, sir, I have no passion for sport.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

“I don’t really care what you think. I—” Her throat seized as he took a stride toward her. A panther-like stride, all sleek muscle and bristling strength.

“Nonetheless, you would do well to listen to what I have to say.” His eyes blazed, though whether in fury or some other inner fire was impossible to say. Whatever the spark, his usual air of bored detachment had, in that instant, gone up in smoke.

To her dismay, Anna could not keep from falling back a step. No hawk, however fierce, could stand up to such overwhelming power.

“Go on,” she whispered.

In answer, Devlin dangled the thread closer to her face. “An unusual shade of blue, don’t you think? Rather like a late afternoon sky which has been darkened by stormclouds.”

“You a have a very poetic soul, sir,” she replied, trying desperately to deflect his interrogation. “I never would have guessed that.”

“Don’t try to distract me.” They were now nose to nose. She could see the faint stubbling of dark whiskers on his jaw, the tension radiating from his pores. “What were you doing in my rooms?”

Anna thought about denying it. A thread was awfully slender evidence. But then, her own ire suddenly ignited. “Don’t ring a Holier-Than-Thou peal over my head, sir. I saw you sneaking around the castle the other night, and then when the comtesse’s ring went missing, I couldn’t help but be suspicious.”

“I had a feeling that was you skulking behind the suit of armor,” growled Devlin. “What were
you
doing out wandering the corridors at that hour?”

“I—I couldn’t sleep, so I was going down to the library to fetch a book when I heard noises.” She drew in a ragged gulp of air. It wasn’t precisely a lie, just a slight stretch of the truth. “It’s well known you are desperate for money. So after putting two and two together, I decided to have a look around your quarters.”

“And what would you have done if you had found the ring?”

“I…” Anna swallowed hard. “I…hadn’t thought that far.”

He swore under his breath. “Of all the buffle-headed, bird-witted actions. Had it not occurred to you that walking into the lair of a criminal might have been
bloody
dangerous?”

“I had ascertained that you were out,” she replied tersely.

A tiny muscle of his jaw twitched. “And if I had returned?”

She lifted her chin, refusing to be cowed by his scowl. “I suppose I could have shot you with that fancy pistol. By the by, does it fire golden bullets?”

“That,” he said softly, “is
not
funny, Miss Sloane.”

“It wasn’t meant to be,” she answered. “Gold, silver, pearls, diamonds, special enameling—that’s quite an expensive, not to speak of unusual, firearm you are crafting. What’s it for?”

“It has nothing—
nothing
—to do with the subject we are discussing.”

Sensing a note of defensiveness in his voice, she pressed on. “Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it. Perhaps we should allow Lord and Lady Dunbar to decide what is and isn’t important in the search for Lady De Blois’s missing ring.”

“That would not be a wise move, Miss Sloane.”

“You are aware that it hasn’t been found, aren’t you?” she replied.

“Assuming it exists,” countered Devlin through gritted teeth.

“I suppose that’s true. But for the moment, I see no reason not to take the comtesse at her word. While you—you appear to be hiding a dark secret.”

“A secret.” Suddenly his big hands were framing her face. The heat of them nearly made her jump out of her skin. “Yes, I confess, I do have a secret. However, it is not what you think. I ask that you…trust me.”

“You have given me precious little reason to trust you, Lord Davenport,” whispered Anna.

“Your sister and Lord Wrexham might disagree. Had they not trusted my information, despite my terrible reputation, the kidnapping of Wrexham’s son might not have had a very happy ending.”

Anna bit her lip. It was true. The marquess had provided critical information—and for no gain of his own. “Trust cuts both ways, sir. If I am to hold my tongue for now, I should like to be told the reason why.”

“God give me the plague, rather than an aggravating, outspoken hellion to contend with,” he muttered.

“Be careful what you wish for,” said Anna.

A ghost of a smile flitted over his lips. “You are a very stubborn young lady. There are good reasons I can’t reveal certain secrets. Is there nothing I can say or do to convince you to accept that for now?”

“No,” replied Anna, trying not to let the sinuous curl of his mouth cloud her judgment. “Nothing.”

“No?” The question was more a shiver of breath than a sound as he leaned in to close the tiny gap between them.

“No.” This time a shove punctuated her refusal.

Devlin fell back a step. “No?”

Anna scowled. “For someone who just suggested playing a language game, this repetition is getting very tiresome.”

“Ah. I see that I shall have to change tactics.” He rubbed at his chest. “Do you train at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon? For a delicate creature, you throw a very hard punch.”

“My father believed that ladies should know survive on their own in the world, including how to protect themselves from predators.”

He regarded her clenched fists, unsure whether to feel bemused or exasperated. “Did his survival skills also include picking locks?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. If a lady finds herself an unwilling captive, the ability to open manacles or a locked door is a very useful talent to have.”

“Who would have guessed that beneath the outward appearance of a demure demoiselle lies the spirit of an intrepid adventuress?” he murmured.

“Who would have guessed that beneath the outward appearance of a debauched devil lies the spirit of an artist,” she countered.

“So, we have something in common. Secrets, which we wish to keep to ourselves.”

She shifted, and as a momentary flicker of light illuminated her face, it seemed that her expression softened just a bit.

A hopeful sign, he mused, for her cleverness had put him in a deucedly difficult position.

How much of the truth can I tell her?

On one hand, he was sure that she could keep a secret. On the other hand, however absurd the conjecture might seem, he couldn’t completely ignore the fact that she was a possible suspect. Her interest in firearms, her furtive foray into the wing of the castle where the prince was lodging…

“Lord Davenport?” Another small shuffle, and now she was wreathed in shadow.

“I am thinking,” he replied slowly.

“Of what lies or deceptions you can tell me?”

He let out a grudging laugh. Oh, yes, she was clever. But he’d met scores of clever women before and handled them easily enough. This was no different.

“Partly,” he answered.

She smiled. “Well, that at least was an honest answer. So perhaps I shall venture another question. Are you or are you not a jewel thief?”

“Forgive the tedious repetition of the word—but no,” he replied. “Purloining jewelry is not among my admittedly many faults.”

“But in Lord Dunbar’s library I saw you hide a book in your pocket,” she challenged. “If you weren’t stealing it, why conceal the fact?”

“Caught that, did you?” Devlin blew out his cheeks. “The answer isn’t nearly as intriguing as you think. It was a book on the history of mechanical devices—”

“Automata,” interrupted Anna.

“Precisely.” No harm in admitting it. The minx had seen the evidence. “I have a special interest in the subject. But would prefer to keep it private.”

“I saw it on your worktable,” she said. “Does that mean the golden pistol is some sort of automata, and not a real weapon?”

He nodded. “You are far too clever in puzzling out things.”

“I wondered about the little bird on the table.” Her fists finally unclenching, Anna lowered her hands and set them on her hips. “What’s it for?”

“Never mind.” Seeing her eyes narrow, he quickly added. “I am not in the habit of talking about my projects. Making these devices is a very painstaking process. I have an idea in mind, but until I am sure that I can make it work, I don’t like to discuss the details.”

“Fair enough,” she conceded, an odd little expression flitting across her features. “I can understand that.”

“Then may I take it that you will agree to stay silent about my work?”

This time it was she who made a move to close the gap between them. “About your automata, yes. But I still think you are hiding something, sir.” Her tone was defiant. “There was a sheet of paper tucked into the book. It listed all the guests here, and there was a penciled ‘X’ next to several names.”

Damnation.

“Miss Sloane, don’t play with fire,” he replied in a measured voice. “Clever as you are with your mind and your nimble little fingers, you may very well end up getting burned.”

“That’s not an answer,” she retorted. “That’s a provocation.”

Up close, her face was even more alluring. The luminous intelligence in her eyes blazed with a bright fury, while her mouth challenged him to…

Feeling a little off-balance, Devlin fought to regain his edge.

“It’s
you
who are provocative,” he growled. “I vow, you could drive St. Peter to drown himself in Blue Ruin.”

“Are we going to stand here all day and trade quips,” she demanded.

“That depends on you,” said Devlin. “Honor requires—”

“You claim to have no sense of honor.”

“I must have left a few crumbs in the corners when I swept out my conscience,” he drawled.

“You,” she said, “are utterly impossible.”

“Agreed,” answered Devlin.

She took a step closer. “Utterly outrageous.”

“True.”

“Utterly infuriating.”

“Absolutely.

Her hands came up…

Devlin braced himself for a punch.

…and set on his shoulders.

A jolt of heat speared through the layers of wool and linen.

“Is there nothing I can say or do to convince you to tell me what you are up to?” she asked in a soft murmur.

Devlin blinked, trying to control the sudden hot and cold surges thrumming through his body. His brain was barking orders, but his body wasn’t listening.

Anna slid her hands up and down the slope of his shoulders, her slim fingers tangling in his hair as she drew her touch up to the knot of his cravat.