Tempted at Every Turn (4 page)

He continued to drone on, but his words were lost on her. His hand still held her arm, preventing her body from moving away from his side. Her heart beat wildly in her chest, but it was not from fear, and that in itself was frightening. He was trying to protect her. Gone was the charming, arrogant man who would flirt and jest with any available woman. In his place was an intense and protective man who shot awareness through her body and made her very glad she was of the fairer sex.

She reminded herself that he would do the same for any woman in this situation, that this wasn’t something unique for her benefit. Still she’d be fabricating were she to say his actions had no effect on her.

“You might think yourself prepared to see a deceased body, but believe me, you are far from it,” he said.

“Are you quite finished?” she asked. She couldn’t handle any more of his close attention.

He nodded.

“Well, then, I was merely going to suggest that I was perfectly capable of waiting in the hall. I need not a place to sit or rest.”

He eyed her silently, then nodded. “Very well.” He turned back to Fenby. “The lady wishes to remain in the hall.”

Willow watched as both men started down the hall, leaving her to her own devices. She took the opportunity to calm her frazzled insides and make some observations.

The wood-paneled hallway smelled of fresh lemon oil and shone from the high, arched ceiling to the cold marble floor. Evidently, photography was more profitable than she had imagined. Then again, it was quite like Society to pay a small fortune in order to participate in something deemed fashionable. And oftentimes all it took was one well-named member doing something different to start the latest frenzy.

It was not long before James and Fenby rounded the corner. James carried his bag as if he was a doctor, but Willow knew there was nothing healing tucked within the folds of the leather case. Instead it would contain evidence from the room and James’ notes regarding what he’d seen.

Willow imagined the room covered in blood and she shivered. She might not have gotten ill when Edmond had cut his arm that time, but James was right—she was not prepared to see death.

“Someone should arrive later to remove the body,” James said. “Did you ever find the weapon? Or remove anything from the room? Because I saw nothing there that could have caused that damage.”

Fenby shuddered. “I touched nothing. I sent for the police as soon as I found him.” Then he swallowed visibly. “How was he killed?”

“Knocked over the head,” James said.

“Knocked over the head,” Fenby repeated. “Then I suppose I might know what the weapon was. At first I thought Master Drummond might have moved it to a new location, but I have been unable to locate it.”

“It?” James asked.

“There used to be a rather heavy vase. It was from China, I believe, and was nothing more than a decorative piece. But I noticed just this morning that it was missing.”

James nodded, then made another notation. “Did you collect any pieces of the vase anywhere, shards or fragments? Because there were none to be found on the floor.”

The butler shook his head. “No. As I said, I thought it had been moved, because there was no sign of it anywhere.”

“So it must not have been made of clay,” Willow pointed out. “Else it would have shattered. Unless they swept it up. Was there blood on the floor?”

James’ eyebrows rose and she thought she detected a slight twitch of a smile. Then he nodded to answer her question. “There was blood on the floor.”

“No, the vase was not clay at all,” said Fenby. “Bronze, actually.”

James eyed Willow briefly but said nothing. She took in his full height. He stood shoulders and head over her and at the moment his dark blond hair hid his eyes as he jotted a note. Hid eyes that she knew were a startling crystal green. Knowing that made her feel slightly uncomfortable, as if she knew a secret he kept. But it was not her fault that she was so observant. It was hard not to notice him. He was such a…presence.

“Was anything else missing?” James asked.

“No, I don’t believe so.”

James nodded. “I trust you are not planning on leaving town.”

The old man was gracious enough to look offended. “Of course not. My duties are not finished with the Drummond family. I must facilitate Master Drummond’s burial and services. Not to mention finalize the financials with his solicitor.”

“So he was doing rather well, then?” James asked. “Financially speaking.”

“Oh, yes, sir. All to the help of His Grace,” Fenby said.

“And who might that be?” Willow asked.

The butler tugged on his vest. “The Duke of Argyle.”

“He was a patron of Mr. Drummond?” James asked.

“Indeed. He gave Master Drummond his very first commission, even passed me to him from his country estate. I much prefer the climate here in London,” he explained. “Once His Grace made it known that Master Drummond was whom to go to for portraits,
everyone
came calling. The Duke was even sponsoring the exhibit next month.” His voice cracked and he put his hand over his mouth. “Many apologies.”

Willow offered him a smile and the elderly butler gave her a weak smile in return.

James’ brow creased. “What exhibit?”

“Of his latest works. He had been working for months, photographing ladies, and the His Grace was to sponsor the exhibit at Burlington House,” Fenby said.

James made a note. “I don’t suppose Mr. Drummond kept a list of the names of the ladies he photographed? And what of the actual photographs? Where are they?”

“Most of the photographs have already been delivered to Burlington House, although I’m not certain. If he kept a list of the women, it would be in his journal. He wrote in that book every day.”

A diary. Now finding that would probably prove most helpful. “Do you know where he kept his diary?” Willow asked.

James frowned at her. She ignored him. She had every right to participate in the interroga
tion. How else was she going to win? Well, technically she had no right. She wasn’t an employee of the Metropolitan Police. She was nothing more than a well-bred lady without a cent to her name and nothing better to do with her time. Well, that wasn’t precisely true either. She could and should pass the time at her mother’s side.

Fenby shook his head. “I don’t know where he kept it.”

“I believe that will be all for the time being,” James said.

Were those all the questions James was going to ask? Well, she had one more.

“And what will happen to you once your work here is done?” Willow asked Fenby.

“It depends on the state of Master Drummond’s affairs, whether or not he made provisions for me. Perhaps I shall be retained by His Grace.” Then his face soured. “I do not wish to be ungrateful, but I would hate to return to the country.”

Willow gave the aging man a smile.

“I will be back tomorrow afternoon,” James said as he faced Willow and gestured toward the door. “Miss Mabson.”

She supposed that meant they were leaving. She frowned. He had been on his best behavior with Fenby, but when it came to speaking to her, he was nothing but rude. Since there was nothing else she could do here, there was no reason
to argue with him, so she turned on her heel and stepped out of the room.

“Is that customarily all the questions you ask?” she inquired.

He sat on the worn carriage upholstery and lurched slightly with the hackney’s abrupt movement. “The butler was in no place to answer questions today. I had suspected it might be him, but that old man couldn’t pommel a dog, much less a grown man.” Why was he answering? He didn’t owe her an explanation.

“Are we going back to the Scotland Yard offices?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t want an assistant. Especially not one who was so opinionated, regardless of her skills at observation. Frankly, if he had to have an assistant, he’d prefer one without breasts. That included some of the portly fellows at the Yard. He let his gaze fall to Willow’s chest as she sat across from him in the carriage. The modest neckline of her yellow muslin dress did nothing to hint at any cleavage, but he could tell by the stretch of the fabric that were he to sneak a peek, they would be the most glorious breasts.

He looked up and met her gaze, and both her delicate eyebrows rose above her spectacles. She’d caught him staring. She didn’t look annoyed or
even scandalized. No, what he saw in the brown depths of her eyes was nothing more than surprise. Now, why would she be surprised that he’d stare at her breasts? It was his experience that no matter how well bred, a man would shift his gaze to the supple mounds of a woman any chance he could.

So why would she be surprised?

And what else would surprise her? Would those perfectly arched eyebrows rise if she knew he’d not only closely examined her breasts (what he could see of them) but also the graceful curve of her neck and fullness of her lips? Would it intrigue her or enrage her to know he’d found himself wondering what it would be like to move his mouth across her sensual red mouth?

It was then that it occurred to him, a possible way to rid himself of her assistance and distracting presence. “Miss Mabson, it has occurred to me that we never set the parameters of our little wager,” he said.

“Parameters?” she asked, her voice sounding breathless. “Whatever do you mean?”

He grinned. “Meaning, what do I get when I win?”

“Is it not enough to know you are a winner?” She shrugged. “Or the loser, whatever the case may be?”

He watched her mouth enunciate each syllable. So precise. So perfect.

“Then it is nothing more than a race. But a wager—a wager has consequences. You either win something or you lose something,” he said. “It raises the stakes, provides more impetus for success.”

“I’m beginning to think, Inspector, that you have given this much thought. What is it you want from me?” Then she smiled. “
If
I lose?”

“A kiss.”

Her eyes rounded and her mouth worked itself into a tight line.

“Is that a yes?” he asked.

Those lovely eyebrows of hers fell into a downward point and her eyes narrowed. “No, it most certainly is not a yes. And I find jesting about such a matter completely inappropriate.”

“I’m not jesting. And those are the terms of my wager. If you do not comply, then the wager is off.” He sat back and rested his arms against his chest.

He could see her mentally stammering—trying to develop an argument, a protest—but the only thing that came was a slight tint of red, settling in her cheeks.

“But what shall I get if
I
win?” she asked.

“Perhaps you would like a kiss as well,” he offered.

“I most certainly would not.” A few silent moments passed before a slow smile crept onto her
face. “I’ve got it. If I win, then you must write a formal apology for all your reckless antics with a promise to fully adhere to the rules and regulations set forth by the Metropolitan Police, to be published in the
Times
.”

Oh, and that reminded him. “I wasn’t actually done with my own guidelines,” he said. “If I win, I receive the kiss. Willingly, I might add. As well as a promise from you to never send me another letter again.”

She opened her mouth to protest, then shut it and frowned.

He almost laughed, but he feared she might actually box his ears if he did. If he wasn’t mistaken, she was going to agree to his ridiculous request. So far, she continued to surprise him. Well, if he were to be saddled with an assistant, at least he’d win peace in the end. Not to mention a kiss.

“Are we in agreement?” he asked.

“I suppose I have no choice but to win,” she said.

“Let us kiss on the agreement,” he suggested.

She stuck her hand out in front of him. “I prefer to shake hands, thank you very much.”

He took her gloved hand and shook it gently. No kiss today, but he would taste her lips sooner or later. He knew one thing for certain: Willow would never beat him at his own game.

W
illow had made a deal with the devil, and then she had agreed to kiss him. She had taken serious leave of her senses. His request, though, had taken her aback. Men did not tease her or flirt with her, and they certainly did not request kisses. So, she had been disarmed and completely unprepared to respond to such a ridiculous request.

If she won, however, there would be no kissing, and he would have to publicly apologize. Yes, that was sounding more the thing. Why had she agreed to such conditions? She took a deep breath. She would win, so none of the kissing would come to fruition. She had nothing to worry about. All she need do was keep her eyes focused straight ahead and analyze the facts of the case. This would be no different from any other mystery she’d solved, fictional or real.

Granted, the only mysteries she’d ever solved
were
fictional, unless she could include the assistance she’d given Amelia in discovering the whereabouts of her father’s missing artifact. So, she did not have an enormous amount of actual experience. It did not mean that she didn’t know how to go about investigating.

No, the wager’s conditions would not be a problem, because she would ensure she solved the crime first. She could do that. Tomorrow was another day, and they were set to return to the photographer’s house to search his studio. Once the body had been removed and the blood cleaned up, they would be able to look for other evidence. She had been unable to accomplish much today, but she had some ideas for gathering additional information.

She was, after all, a member of the only ladies’ sleuthing society. Her friends certainly knew of the photographer; perhaps they had some insight into who his clients might have been. Charlotte was generally active enough in Society that she would know if Mr. Drummond had any enemies.

More than likely this was simply a burglary gone awry, but until that was certain, she would sniff about and see what she could uncover on her own.

James eyed Willow as she stood next to him on the stoop. They had knocked and were waiting
for Fenby to answer the door. She was enveloped in a brown cloak of wool, and he could see the determination furrow her brow. He knew that look. He’d made that expression himself.

An invisible line passed between them. They might be rather different, but there were some similarities he could not deny. He’d be a fool not to recognize them. Willow had something to prove. Either to him or to herself—perhaps even the world—he wasn’t certain which. But he knew what it felt like, and recognizing it unsettled him. A strand of commonness that he could neither touch nor ignore.

A moment later the aging butler cracked the door. “Oh, Inspector. I wasn’t expecting you,” he said, then opened the door the rest of the way. He nodded at Willow. “Madam.”

James cleared his throat. “I’ve come to further investigate the studio.”

Fenby’s watery eyes scrutinized them before he moved out of the way and admitted them. “I did as you instructed and locked the door to prevent anyone from disturbing any details.”

“Very good,” James said.

“I also located the missing vase,” Fenby said.

“Whereabouts?”

“The hallway that leads to Master Drummond’s studio goes in the other direction, but ends at a wall. He always thought to expand his studio
down that way, but it was not to be.” Fenby put his hand to his mouth. “The vase is in that darkened corner.”

“Did you touch it?” James asked.

Fenby shook his head. “Follow me.”

James noted the slight bend in Fenby’s back and the cane he now leaned on to walk. It nearly masked a limp. James rattled his head trying to remember if the man had had a cane and limp yesterday, but nothing surfaced.

Fenby led them through the kitchen and down some back steps. He nodded to his right. “The vase is down there.”

“We’ll collect it on our way back up. I want to gather evidence in the studio right now,” James said.

They proceeded to the left end of the hallway, where they came to a large door. Fenby inserted a key, unlocked the door, and then nudged it with the weight of his entire body. The door did not move. James pushed it himself and it creaked open.

“Thank you,” Fenby said. “These bones are not as strong as they used to be.”

James nodded but said nothing.

They stepped into the room, and had James not been standing so close to her, he would have missed Willow’s slight gasp. Rich red and purple silks draped the walls, and plush furniture sat
arranged in the middle of the room on an exotic Persian rug. Lining the wall to his left was a large rosewood breakfront. It had a central fitted secretary drawer with side drawers and four base cupboards, and its shelves were hidden behind glazed doors.

Aside from the missing dead body, the room looked exactly the same.

“Mr. Drummond spared no expense,” Willow said under her breath.

“No, he always had an eye for things such as these,” Fenby replied. Apparently the man might be failing in some of his senses, but hearing wasn’t one of them.

James turned to face Fenby. “Thank you. We’ll let you know if we need anything.” The old man clearly knew when he was being dismissed, but made no immediate move to leave the room. After a long scan around the room, Fenby nodded curtly, then turned and headed for the stairs.

In the center of the room sat an oak tripod topped with a wooden accordion box camera with black hood attached. It was aimed at the settee, clearly ready for the next model.

“My mother is quite fascinated with the advent of photography,” James admitted. “I can’t really say that I share her wonder.”

“The girls and I posed for one at a fair once. I believe Amelia still has the tin reproduction in her
room,” Willow said. “But they’ve already made such strides in how these things are done.”

James moved to the breakfront. A new Scovill portable box camera sat on the secretary edge; James doubted Drummond had had the opportunity to use it. He bent and began opening the cabinet doors. The shelves were lined with wooden plates, glass screens, pieces of linen, and glass jars filled with liquid chemicals. Everything needed to expose the photographs and print them onto the linen sheets.

“What precisely are we looking for?” Willow asked.

“Anything that might explain why someone would want this man dead. Evidently, the murder wasn’t motivated by theft, or this expensive equipment would have been taken and sold. So if something was stolen, then it might be more of personal than monetary value.”

Willow’s lips parted as if she had something to add, but thought better of it. She was a handsome woman. Not by all standards beautiful, but something about her face intrigued him. He wasn’t certain if it was the delicate arch of her eyebrows that framed her unassuming brown eyes, or perhaps the classic bow-and-arrow shape of her lips. The small cleft in her chin certainly demanded some attention, but didn’t prevent one from noticing the graceful line of her neck or the creamy texture
of her fair skin. He forced himself to turn away from his scrutiny of her features.

Whether or not Willow Mabson was considered classically beautiful had no bearing on their current investigation. And if he were to work with her on this case, he had to find a way to keep his observations of her flawless complexion in the back of his mind lest it cloud his judgment.

He shoved his hand through his hair to push it from his eyes so he could focus on the task at hand. He opened a drawer and rifled through the contents. He found a ledger, bill notes, old copies of some gossip broadsheets, and a small leather pouch full of coins.

“It’s not right,” he heard her say from behind him.

“What’s not right?” he asked as he turned to face her.

“This.” She spread her arms out to encompass the room. “It feels wrong to rifle through his belongings. It’s his privacy,” she added in a whisper.

“He’s dead,” James offered.

She looked from him to the brocade chaise lounge next to her and then back at him. She shook her head.

He released a puff of breath. Evidently she needed more convincing, and he knew precisely how to spur her into action. “This is what it takes
to be a detective. But if you need me to do this part of the investigating, I understand,” he said with feigned compassion. “You can simply sit and wait, and then—I don’t know—read my notes or something.”

She seemed to grow a full inch in height and he suppressed a smile.

“I most certainly will not stand by and just read your notes,” she said. “I meant it when I said I could best you in this little competition.”

He shrugged. “But if the privacy issue bothers you…”

“I’ll push aside my concerns for the sake of the investigation,” she said sweetly, then turned and immediately began perusing her surroundings. Several ornate frames had to be moved, as well as long cuts of lush fabrics that were strewn about the studio.

It was difficult, but he managed to stifle a chuckle and went back to his own search. He opened the next drawer and found mostly newspapers. He tugged on the next drawer and found it locked. Interesting. He scanned the area for something he could use to open the lock and spied a metal letter opener.

James fiddled with the letter opener and the lock for what seemed like five minutes, but eventually the lock gave way and the drawer loosened. He opened it, fully expecting to find it full of
money. The drawer was much more shallow than he’d imagined, and it contained nothing resembling money. All the thin drawer contained was blank parchment. He pulled it all out and fanned through it, but found nothing but page after page of unused paper.

He went back to the deceptively small drawer to further investigate, going so far as to pull the drawer completely out. As he did so, a small, soft leather book fell to the floor.

Before he picked the book up, he turned to see that Willow was busy, bent over a stack of books she was examining. He tried not to notice how nicely rounded her bottom appeared with the bustle out of the way and the dress molded to her curves.

He turned with a groan and grabbed the book. He flipped it open to a random page and saw that it was a diary, no doubt the one Fenby had mentioned yesterday. One more flip, and it opened to a list of names. Certainly this book would be of use. He tucked it into his coat pocket, then bent to examine the hole where the drawer went. Nothing else remained, so he returned the drawer and moved on to another cabinet. The diary would remain his secret for the time being.

James finished searching through all of the cabinets and drawers and found nothing else of importance. Willow had apparently found a stack
of letters tied together and was in the process of unbinding them.

“Who are they from?” he asked, walking toward her.

She frowned. “I’m not certain.”

“Put them in your bag; we’ll take them with us and go through them later. I’ve gone through everything over there, so if you’re finished, we can be on our way. I do have a few more questions I’d like to ask Fenby before we leave, though.”

Willow eyed the letters once more before tucking them into her reticule. “There wasn’t much else over here besides books, and these chests”—she gestured to her right—“were filled mostly with various fabrics. But buried inside one is where I found the letters.”

James nodded. “Perhaps they’ll be of use.” He would keep the diary from her for the time being, but she might have found something useful herself. “Don’t forget your cloak.”

Willow gathered her cloak and they shut the door on their way out. They made their way down the long hallway past the staircase and to the empty wall where the hall ended.

“Strange design,” Willow said, noting the hall that seemed to lead nowhere.

James nodded, then bent down to retrieve the bronze vase that looked to have been tossed into the dark corner. He slipped a glove on before
touching it. “We’re still a long way from being able to use fingerprints in our investigation, but Colin said we should try to keep our prints off as much evidence as possible.”

“His research is quite fascinating,” Willow said.

“Indeed.”

“Is it heavy?” she asked as James lifted the vase from the floor.

“It’s not light.” He moved away from the corner. “It’s too dark here to see if there is anything on it. We’ll better be able to see upstairs.”

She nodded, then headed back for the stairs, all too aware of his presence behind her. If she concentrated hard enough, she could almost feel his breath. It didn’t take long to find Fenby; he was waiting in the kitchen for them.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked.

“We’ll have to wait to see how the investigation unfolds,” James said. “I do have some additional questions for you, however.” The bronze vase hung from his hand at his side.

Fenby tilted his white head, then turned and walked away. James gave her a half smile, clearly amused with the butler’s behavior. That crooked smile nearly stopped Willow’s heart—which was completely ridiculous considering it was quite unlikely that a simple smile could actually stop the beating of someone’s heart.

She followed James and Fenby to the front parlor and went and stood by the window. Distance was what she needed. And sunlight. She peeked outside and was met with an overcast sky. So much for the latter. Being in that dank, windowless studio downstairs alone with James had been…nothing. No matter how she tried to spin it in her mind, there was nothing remotely scandalous about the encounter. He’d been so busy digging in the cabinets and drawers, he hadn’t even known she was in there with him.

Lock Meg alone with a man, and she gets kisses stolen and a compromised reputation.

Amelia was nearly killed by a lecherous shop owner.

But no, boring Willow could spend hours alone with a man, and he wouldn’t so much as look at her inappropriately. Not that she actually wanted him to.

Oh, this line of thinking was getting her nowhere. And it confused her to boot. She tried to concentrate on the conversation between James and Fenby.

“So there weren’t any other investors besides Duke Argyle?” James asked.

Fenby’s withered hands fidgeted in his lap. “Not that I ever heard.”