The Trouble With Moonlight (26 page)

They exchanged companionable good evenings, while Lusinda seethed behind the bushes. Locke’s so-called friend was a traitor and no friend at all. Ramsden climbed into the waiting cab and pulled away. Lord Pembroke turned and went back inside the house.

She waited a few more minutes until Locke startled her with his return. He blended so well with the night that she had to move her face within inches of his in order to see him.

“I’ve discovered a way into the house around the back,” he said. “The study is dark. We shouldn’t have any trouble.”

“We’re too late. The safe is empty.” On one hand she was relieved that she wouldn’t be expected to crack a safe tonight. But on the other hand, she felt guilty. Had she accompanied Locke last night as he had wished, they might have recovered the document and been done with all this.

“What do you mean? How could you know such a thing?”

“While you were in the back, Lord Pembroke placed a sealed envelope in the hands of an emissary with explicit instructions that it be delivered to the ambassador.”

"That doesn’t mean—”

“Pembroke referred to it as a list of agents.”

Locke sat back on his heels, glanced at the house, and murmured a string of profanities. “We’re too late.”

She nodded, knowing full well the blame should be placed on her shoulders.

“I suppose there’s nothing more we can do here,” he said, although from the tilt of his head and the cadence of his voice, she thought he harbored a wish to investigate the safe anyway.

Together they left the Pembroke residence and walked back toward the waiting carriage.

“There’s one other thing I need to tell you,” Lusinda said once they were clear of the house. She dreaded telling Locke the truth, but it was necessary. She took a deep breath. “The emissary that is delivering the envelope to the ambassador is known to you.”

His brows rose. “He is?”

Lusinda nodded. “I recognized his voice. It’s Mr. Ramsden. ”

“You’re mistaken.” His brows came crashing down. “From your position, you wouldn’t have been able to see his face. Any number of men might sound similar. I’m sure it was someone else.”

He hastened his stride. Lusinda practically had to run to keep up with him.

“No. Lord Pembroke referred to him by name. He was the man at the Farthingtons’ as well. The one who warned Farthington that an attempt would be made on his safe.” She touched his arm to gain his attention. “Don’t you see, it all fits. If he’s a Russian conspirator, then it would explain how he knows of the Nevidimi. It might also explain why he escaped injury when the two of you were captured and placed in that prison.”

Locke stopped and turned toward her. “Ramsden saved my life. If it hadn’t been for him, I would never have made it back to camp. Why would he do that if he was a Russian spy? He would have let me die.”

“You were his friend.” She tried to catch her breath, grateful for the lull from the jaunt. “I suppose even Russian spies have emotions.”

He shook his head. “He wasn’t a Russian spy, at least not when we went into central Asia.” He strode the short distance to the waiting carriage with Lusinda hurrying to catch up. Once they were both inside and on their way back to Kensington, he continued. “I don’t believe that a man who has been my closest friend, who has been like a brother to me, could also be a traitor. You must have heard incorrectly.”

“Then how would he know of the Nevidimi?” she asked, uncomfortable with Locke’s allegations. She knew what she heard. She must make him understand the danger his friend posed.
Help him
, Aunt Eugenia had said. What better help than to advise him of the man who was about to betray him? “We are of rare origin. There is no mention of the likes of my people by name in English literature. There have been incorrect references to our nature, but never our name. How would Ramsden know of the connection to moonlight, or our proper name, if he wasn’t associated with the Russians?”

Locke studied her face. She shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. “How would you?” he asked.

“Because I am not a myth. You know that.”

“But you never mentioned that you were Russian. It seems if there was to be a Russian spy, it would be someone of Russian descent, would it not?”

“You think I’m a spy?” Her voice rose in disbelief.

“I think you’re the perfect spy,” he answered. “I knew that the very first night I didn’t see you.”

James swore softly beneath his breath. What a fool he had been. Training Lusinda to steal secrets that she probably already knew. He felt his eyes narrow and his heart harden. “Did you know that I worked for the Crown? Was that your mission? To insinuate yourself into my life so you could report back to your superiors?” Her face paled beneath his accusations, but he didn’t care. “The letter is probably lying in Pembroke’s safe right at this moment. You’ve succeeded in directing me away.”

“Locke! Listen to yourself! I never sought you out. I never wanted to become a spy. You were the one that insisted I move into your household. You were the one who tricked me into revealing my abilities. I’m not a Russian spy.”

She placed her hand on his leg and he pushed it away. He refused to look at her. How could he have allowed her to do this to him? He had carefully protected his heart all these years and she ripped it out of his chest in an act of betrayal. He should have known better. Didn’t his mother do that very thing?

“Locke, please listen to me.” He heard a bit of a sob in her voice, but turned his heart away from it. “It’s true that my mother is of Russian descent. She was born near the Caspian Sea where a tiny group of Nevidimi has secretly existed for centuries. But she left that country by choice to be with my British-born father. I was born in England. My sisters were born in England. I’m as much a loyal citizen as you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me of your heritage before now?”

“Because you hate the Russians so. I didn’t want you to hate me because of my mother’s lineage.” As the carriage passed a gaslight, he noticed the reflection of tears on her cheeks. His chest tightened. The last time she had ridden in this carriage, she had shed tears as well. Of course, then she was curled on his chest, crying because he had robbed her of her innocence. Was she doing the same to him?

“I never wanted you to hate me,” she said in a sad voice that barely carried above the rattle of the carriage.

“I don’t hate you,” he admitted. The sad fact was, he couldn’t hate her. Besides, he couldn’t deny the logic of her argument. He had been the one to pursue her. From the first night, when he had witnessed the dancing necklace, he had been intrigued. He hunted her down and trapped her with a net. Knowing Lusinda, he couldn’t imagine that she’d walked into that trap with the full intent of attracting his notice. Although how could any man not be attracted by the feel of such a sweet naked body beneath his own? Even now the memory stirred his groin.

He had blackmailed her to move into his home. No one knew of the hand tremors or his discomfort with closed spaces that had resulted from his imprisonment. He couldn’t blame her for his incapacitation last night. Had she truly been a Russian spy, she wouldn’t have run from him after he had taken her innocence. She would have used the situation to insinuate herself into his life. No. He wasn’t convinced that Lusinda was a spy, not yet at least.

“I can not accept that Ramsden is a traitor,” he said after a long spell of quiet. “Perhaps he learned of the Nevidimi from a different source. Didn’t he say that he attended a lecture by that Kavarzin fellow?”

Lusinda started to interrupt, but he held his hand up to silence her. “However, I will be watching him. If he is a traitor, he will make a mistake, then I’ll know the truth. Meanwhile, we’ll need to progress to the Russian ambassador’s safe.”

“How fortunate that you’ve been working on a plan for that very thing. I heard Rams . . . one of the men . . . refer to the ambassador’s ball. It appears he will be there.”

He recognized her inference that Ramsden would be present. “Yes, it’s been mentioned around the club. The ball is to be held next weekend.”

“Have you received an invitation?”

“Yes, but it’s known that I rarely go to those things, all that noise and music.” He waved a hand in a manner of forced gaiety. “Actually, I have found the unattended safes of so many of the partygoers to be a larger attraction than a dance. The night of a ball has always been something of a working night for me.”

Even in the dark of the carriage, she could see the gleam of his smile. Her lips tightened. All those years when she had longed to go dancing at a ball, this infuriating man ignored the invitations he received, preferring instead to rifle through the private papers of the participants. She wondered if they knew. All the time they were dancing and flirting and sipping refreshments . . .

“That safe is under constant surveillance. We’ll have to be extremely careful in our planning if we are to succeed.” His glance settled on her face. “It would have been much easier if we could have intercepted the letter at Lord Pembroke’s residence.”

The front wheel of the carriage rocked into the ill-fated hole in front of the Kensington residence and came to a stop. They both glanced at each other with full memory of what had happened the last time they encountered that rut.

“I should speak to Pickering about filling that spot. Can’t be good for the suspension.”

She averted her gaze. She could attest to that. It was definitely difficult to suspend oneself when one’s carriage dips violently into a rut. Her cheeks began to warm.

“Have you decided, then?” he asked. He lifted her hand and put it in his. “Do I send Fenwick on to your aunt’s house or will you stay here with me?”

She hesitated, wondering once again if she were moving in the proper direction. Once she voiced a decision, there would be no turning back.

“You’ll be able to practice before we attempt the ambassador’s safe,” he said, as if that would be an added inducement. “I’ll have Pickering assemble a lunarium. You can even bring back that black cat of yours, if you like.”

“I don’t think Rhea would like that,” she said with a smile.

“Please, Lusinda. Stay.”

The yearning in his voice and the need reflected in his eyes melted her resolve. Her aunt’s words played back in her mind.
We can’t undo what has been done. If you love this man, then you must help him
. It would be easier to help him if she were close by. And if she were close by, perhaps his need of her hands might grow into a need for her heart.

“If I exit the carriage here, someone might see me going into your house at this late hour.”

Locke smiled and quickly tapped a code on the wall behind his head. The carriage lurched forward to head around back to the carriage house.

GIVEN THE LATE HOUR, THERE WAS NOT MUCH TO do once they went inside but retire to their rooms. Lusinda hurried up the stairs so as to avoid awkward moments with Locke. She had left some of her clothes in the house with the intent to send for them later, but as she had returned, she could avail herself of her remaining wardrobe. Perhaps she knew in her heart that she would return, she thought as she stepped out of the boy’s trousers. Perhaps she never really wanted to leave.

She slipped a comfortable nightgown over her head and unpinned her hair. Still, even after the tedious task of brushing her long tresses, she felt a restless energy that prohibited sleep. She slipped Locke’s munisak over her nightgown and set out to see if she could find a suitable read in the library.

The gas jets were lit. Locke sat behind the desk, nursing a snifter of brandy.

“You couldn’t sleep either?” she asked.

“You left me with a lot to think about,” he said.

“The ambassador’s ball?”

“Ramsden.” He took a swallow of his drink and turned a somber face toward her. “I still can’t accept that after all we’d been through together, Marcus could be a Russian agent, but there are questions . . .”

She hated to see the sad, depressed expression on his face. Far better to glimpse his slight smile when he had solved a riddle, or his earnest concentration when he showed her how to work the levers. Or better yet, to view the complete abandonment to pleasure when he laved her breasts while she balanced above his lap. That memory alone stirred her breasts and set them to tingling beneath the cotton of her nightgown.

“I thought I might find something to read, to help me relax. Can you recommend a book?” She stood before the high bookcases scanning the titles. She heard his chair slide back before the prickling at the back of her neck advised he was behind her.

“Most of these titles are tedious scientific studies.” He stepped beside her, but his hand pressed lightly against the small of her back. “How desperately do you want to sleep?” His eyes crinkled.

With his fingers idly drifting up and down her back, she wasn’t sure she wanted to sleep at all. Her body awakened beneath his touch. Her shoulders lifted and settled, giving her chest a slight arch.

“There’s some history books near the top of this shelf that might have you asleep in moments, while over here”— guiding her with his hand, he turned her slightly toward him—“we have religions of various cultures.”

It was a wonder that he knew what was on the shelves as his gaze seemed focused on her breasts. The tickling in her chest drifted down to her core. She had no interest in the books before her, as her entire body hummed with delicious desire, desire for the man next to her. She wanted more than his glance; she wanted his mouth, and his hands, and . . .

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, leading her to believe he wasn’t as unaffected by her presence as he otherwise appeared.

“Is there a book on husbandry?” The words just slipped out before she had the presence of mind to stop them. His eyes opened wide, his fingers froze. Her cheeks started to warm. Where was the errant moonbeam when you desperately needed one?