The Trouble With Moonlight (7 page)

Her fingers began to tingle, signaling her body was about to phase-back to full flesh. Jupiter! Had she known she’d need to stay invisible for an extended period of time this evening, she would have taken precautions. She turned away from the doorway to explore the back of the house. Hopefully, she could find some linens or a garment she could borrow until the stranger left the household and Locke could show her where her trunk had been placed.

The kitchen spanned the back end of the house, but the long tiled counters and the wooden worktable were devoid of any useable cloth. She did, however, find some candles and a tin of matches.

The tingling sensation increased, and her skin began to reappear with a thin milky white, almost translucent quality. It wouldn’t be prudent for Locke’s visitor to catch an accidental glimpse of her prowling around the ground floor of the residence. Using a lit candle as a guide, she found the servant’s stairs. Once she had ascended to the next floor, she ventured halfway down the hall before finding an unlocked door. She opened the door and knew immediately she had stumbled into Locke’s bedroom.

The room, extraordinarily large and open, held his scent, cinnabar and sandalwood, as if he had just left. Rather than the popular four-poster curtained bed, his wooden carved headboard rose and curved into a half-tester, thus leaving the large mattress open to the light and elements. Books were piled everywhere, and on the opposite wall, two towering wardrobes were set within an arm’s span of each other.

She should leave, she thought, and explore further until she found another sanctuary, but her feet, contrary to her thoughts, carried her deeper inside. Locke was busy downstairs; he wouldn’t know what she was about. A glow in a full-length mirror caught her attention. She looked closer noticing that she was the luminous one. She’d never seen herself in quite this fashion. It was hard to look away as the glow intensified and then began to cool. Her skin took on the appearance of white marble, and she fancied herself looking a bit like one of those grand statues on display in museums and gardens. She smiled; all she needed was some proper draping, an urn of water, and chubby cherubs dancing around her feet to be mistaken for a fountain.

However, this marble maiden better find something to cover herself unless she wants to be caught naked dallying in Locke’s bedroom. She moved toward the wardrobes. One was bound to provide a garment of suitable length.

She placed her candleholder on a table and opened the wooden doors of the first wardrobe to discover a woman’s garments, which would not have been alarming had the garments been hers. They were not. Shocked, she stared at the silks and linens, feeling embarrassed and a bit humiliated. She hadn’t thought to ask Locke if another woman shared this house with him. As Locke was an attractive man of an eligible age, she supposed she should have expected as much. Was it any wonder that his glib proposal that she move into this house slipped so easily from his lips? A bitter disappointment lodged in her throat. Perhaps her earlier misunderstanding about his intentions was not far off the mark, after all.

Footsteps sounded in the hall behind her and she quickly stepped behind the open door of the wardrobe, letting the wooden panel shield her from knee to forehead.

“Miss Havershaw?” Locke called. “I see candlelight. You must be in . . . oh . . . there you are.” She heard laughter in his voice and tilted her head around the side. He held out the pink robe. “I thought you might need this.”

“I believe I’ll need a bit more,” she said, letting her indignation at her recent discovery filter into her tone. “If I recall, that robe has a large slit down the front. Under the current circumstances, I doubt that alone will prove sufficient.”

“Current circumstances . . . ?” He looked pointedly at her bare legs. “I see what you mean.” He tossed the munisak across the bed, cocked a brow, and strode purposefully toward the wardrobe.

Panic seized her. Her fingers dug into the edge of the wardrobe door as the last defense between her and total ravishment. Her throat tightened making words difficult. “What are you doing?”

He stopped on the other side of the wooden panel, close enough to pull it from her grip. “I thought Lady Kensington might have something here that would suit. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.” He fumbled among the contents of the wardrobe.

"L ... Lady Kensington?” Her grip loosened slightly on the door.

“She and Lord Kensington are at their country estate. They have allowed me to borrow their residence while I search for some vital information for the good of the Crown.”

“This is not your house?” Yet this room and the library seemed so attuned to him.

He stopped his searching and turned to her. Heat rose from her chest as she realized only a thin wooden door separated her bare skin from his perusal. Hoping that the shadows would hide her blush, she pulled back slightly from the thin glow of the candlelight.

“I’ve made my home in India,” he said. “There are certain aspects of living in London that no longer agree with me. But”—he glanced over his shoulder, about the room—“I must admit that I appreciate Lord Kensington’s generosity. One could grow accustomed to living in such luxury, I suppose. ”

“Then there isn’t another woman in residence here?”

He laughed, a hearty sound. “Heavens, no, Miss Havershaw. I believe most of the servants went on with the Kensingtons. There’s a housekeeper who brings two girls with her during the day. Pickering, my assistant, plays butler and cooks when Mrs. Harrison is away. Otherwise, he prefers to keep to himself above stairs.” He glanced upward before turning his gaze back to hers. “Truly a skeleton staff. I’m afraid my needs don’t require much effort. I’m accustomed to doing for myself.”

He was so close, inches away in fact. His eyes glittered in the candlelight, and the flickering shadows accentuated the fine line of his lips and jaw. He had a magnetism that pulled at her. Indeed, she discovered she had pressed herself tightly against her side of the panel as if drawn to him. His gaze flickered to her lips. She sucked her lower lip between her teeth.

The movement apparently surprised him as he stiffened and turned his attention back to the wardrobe.

“Perhaps this will do for now.” He pulled out a diaphanous nightgown that would never be worn outside of an intimate encounter. “I’m afraid Lady Kensington is shorter and a bit broader in certain places than yourself. Of course, in your unbound state . . .” He looked toward the panel almost as if he could see through the wood. Her body heated as if she were standing before a roaring fire and not just a cold piece of cabinetry. He quickly dropped his gaze as if he too felt discomfort, and held the gown aloft. “Perhaps combined with the munisak, this will provide adequate coverage until you unpack your own garments.”

She pulled the nightgown from his grasp. “Stay there,” she ordered as she slipped deeper into the shadows between the matched wardrobes. Only a moment passed while she slipped the nightgown over her head and let the white, barely opaque fabric settle around her body. The expensive night rail was hardly better than nothing at all, which might be good and well for a married woman, but not appropriate for a single miss. Even one with her vastly limited prospects.

“I believe I shall still require the munisak,” she said. Within short order, his hand appeared around the door with the pink garment. She slipped it on and tied the ribbon before she would venture from her hiding spot. Even though she had stood naked before him in full-phase, she was suddenly shy to be seen without her numerous layers of foundation garments and clothing. She hugged herself to further shield her body from his sight.

“I suppose you’d like to see where Pickering put your things,” he said, almost as if he could read her mind. She nodded and he offered his arm.

“I believe I’d like to follow behind you, if you don’t mind,” she replied. But he did mind, judging from a quirk in his lips.

“I’ve placed you in a room just down the hall.” He turned and led the way out of the room. She followed in step. “I hope you’ll find it to your liking. Lord Kensington had hot and cold plumbing installed in the dressing room, so you should find it amenable. I’ve asked for clean towels, and the room has been aired in anticipation of your arrival.”

“The housekeeper and servants know that I’m here?” She almost stumbled in her sudden panic.

He stopped to offer a steadying hand at her elbow. “I’ve told them that you are my sister late arriving from the country. ”

“Thank you,” she said, relieved at his consideration. At least she would not have to worry about gossiping servants. She glanced up at his rich dark hair and intense brown eyes and realized that the ruse would be up the moment they were seen together.

He left her at the doorway to the bedroom, not very far from his own. “Good night, Miss Havershaw. I pray you a pleasant rest. I’m afraid I shan’t be here for breakfast as I have an early call in the morning. However, there was much left unsaid from our earlier conversation. Shall we begin again tomorrow afternoon in the library?”

She turned just inside her room and had begun to close the door when an internal alarm pulled at some fringe of consciousness. She opened the door just enough that her head could peek around the door edge. “Does this morning call concern me, sir?”

He didn’t manage to hide his surprise. “Why do you ask?”

“I must remind you that my presence here as well as my unique abilities must be kept secret from everyone.”

“I understand that you harbor a concern that—”

“Everyone, Mr. Locke,” she insisted.

He stood so close. She could see the soft dimple on his chin, the gentle swell of his lips, and the narrowed scrutiny of his gaze. He held her gaze even as he nodded.

She wanted to believe him. It would make the soft melting occurring in her innermost private areas a bit more acceptable. But she willed herself not to yield. She had her family to protect and no one to rely on but herself for that purpose. Uneasy, she bit her lower lip, then glanced at him. “I shall see you tomorrow then, in the library, sir.”

He waited until the door fully closed, and even a moment or two longer until he heard the click of the lock. He smiled, not that a simple door lock would stop him if he was determined to get into the room.

A moment later, he heard a heavy object slide in front of the door and he swallowed his smile. She obviously recognized his capabilities as well.

LONDON WAS FULLY AWAKE BY MIDMORNING. UNfortunately, he was not.

The overcast skies enhanced the general grayness of the city. Men and a few women bustled along the sidewalks while wagons and hacks pulled by weary horses jingled past on busy streets. It all blurred together into an indistinguishable backdrop for Locke’s thoughts. Fortunately, his feet knew the turns to make while his mind dallied on the prior evening with Lusinda.

The woman bedeviled him so. How was he to remain aloof and detached when the woman seemed determined to present herself naked at the most unpredictable of times? Did she imagine he was less than a man, like a Persian eunuch? Of course not, he dismissed the thought. Miss Havershaw didn’t know enough about that culture to assume such a thing. Besides, had she observed him hiding behind the wooden globe, or listened to Marcus’s playful banter, she knew that he was a virile male.

Then why wasn’t she afraid? Why would she choose to hide in his bedroom, of all places, naked as a newborn babe, and as visible as the hand attached to his arm? He held his hand up for his inspection as if to verify it was indeed visible. He groaned. With a woman like Miss Havershaw underfoot, one began to doubt one’s own opaqueness.

Looking beyond his fingers, his face reflected back to him in the plate glass of a jewelry merchant. Cold. Hard. The reflection surprised him. What had happened to the youthful, enthusiastic adventurer who had climbed through the ranks in the British army with passion and excitement? He remembered believing his own explorations of central Asia were comparable to that of Dr. Livingstone and his exploration of Africa. Dr. Livingstone, however, was not whipped and tortured like a dog and left to rot in a prison. The window reflected his grimace. Yes, such cruelty would put a hardness to any man’s features.

Still, he had managed to return with more riches than he knew how to spend. His lack of family, which had been expounded as an asset in his recruitment, left him with no one with whom to share his fortune . . . or his quiet hours . . . or his dreams. He peered at the cold, ghostlike image in the glass. What if he were to vanish one night? Disappear from the face of the earth? Would anyone notice?

Stark reality chilled him at the few names that came to mind. Pickering and Colonel Tavish, most likely . . . Marcus, perhaps . . . Miss Havershaw? An image of her face wove through his thoughts.

The glass reflection frowned back at him. She would notice. In fact, she would rejoice. Her secret would be safe and she could return to her family. He shifted his weight while that discomforting notion took hold. Not only would she gain by his misfortune, but she also had the gift of invisibility to assist her in expediting the same.

No. He shook his head. From what he knew of her, Miss Havershaw was not the type to cause injury to another, not intentionally. If it wasn’t for her ability to sneak up on him . . .

Movement behind the glass distracted him from his maudlin thoughts. The shopkeeper situated several brooches, some incorporating a stone or gem, some not, onto a velvet display in the window. A tiny silver bell was attached to the bottom of each brooch specimen.

That’s what he needed. A bell he could fasten onto Miss Havershaw so she would lose her unique advantage. Even if he snorted his wine or managed to catch a cold, he’d still be able to hear her, and know precisely her direction. A smile teased his lips. She’d be like a pet cat that warns its prey that it was about to pounce. Perhaps then she couldn’t continually invade his privacy, or invade his thoughts. Perhaps then he might keep his focus on the mission at hand, and say adieu to Miss Havershaw once the list was recovered.