Page 27 of The Lady is Trouble
He glanced over his shoulder, his lips forming what could only be a grimace. Let the boy read that expression. Or, if not, he was welcome to Julian’s thoughts.
Finn bobbled his glass. “She meant you?”
“Impossible…” was all Julian got out in the way of a response. It was impossible, he and Piper, even if he wanted them tobemore than he’d wanted anything in his life.
“Downright frightening,” Finn whispered.
Exactly. Her desire combined with the blistering rush he experienced every time he saw her made for a combustible problem.
The lodge’s door flew back on its hinges as Humphrey shouldered into the room, his somber expression one presented before stepping in the ring. “We have a problem,” he said as he shook raindrops from his coat, pushed a sodden mass of hair from his brow. “Messenger just arrived from town.”
Julian jammed his shoulder against the window ledge, bracing himself. Damned if this day was going anywhere but down.
“Crowley found someone lurking in your Mayfair office, ripping the place apart looking for God knows what.” Humphrey cracked his knuckles, three slow pops. “Got him locked in the wet larder at present. Maybe someone connected to the woman in Finn’s dreams? If so, this might be a good thing.”
Life in the rookery had prepared Julian for conflict in a way no amount of proper training could. Rugby and Oxford had provided the sheen when everything underneath was sullied. The poor sod locked in his larder would be terrified should he know how far this middling viscount had gone to protect what was his.
“Bring him to me,” Julian whispered and gazed back into the pitch night.
Even amidst a violent storm, Harbingdon maintained a unique, soothing stillness. Piper stretched beneath a crisp bedsheet emitting the faint essence of jasmine, Tennyson’s book of poetry slipping from her hand. Her mother had loved the scent, and one of Piper’s only memories from that time was lying with her in a towering tester bed perfumed much as this one. Adding fragrance to the laundry was one of the minor requests she’d made of Harbingdon’s staff, usually after a healing session, when said servant was bright-eyed and appreciative, better able to complete tasks they had no training for. The house had smelled like a gentleman’s club, or what she assumed one smelled like before she made minor modifications—drapes open to let in the sun, flowers from the garden brought into the house, rearrangement of decor. Everyone knew the nicest rugs went on the main floor, every advance of a level advancing the deterioration.
She wondered if Julian would mention the changes, but so far, not one peep.
A door slammed belowstairs, disrupting the calm.Humphrey. No one slammed a door like that man.
She looked to the window, the drape drawn in and out as if on a staggered breath. Tucking her arm beneath her head as lightning illuminated the room, thunder shook the house hard enough to rattle the glass panes in her wardrobe. The flame from the oil lamp fluttered like a butterfly’s wings, casting dramatic shadows on the ceiling. Tennyson’s warm words were doing nothing to bring sleep this night.
Tis better to have loved and lost. She frowned at the plaster ceiling cap, overly ornate, and not in step with the rest of Harbingdon. What in heavens name did he know? Loving and losing, or neversecuringlove, was nothing short of horrendous.
A branch struck the house with a snap, and Piper sat up, sending the book of poetry thumping to the carpet. A boy lingered at her bedchamber door, hair the color of ripe wheat streaking into his face and over his nightshirt collar. His shoulders shook, hand grasping the beveled doorknob like a lifeline. Henry, her morose but steady companion of late, got to his feet and edged closer.
“He don’t bite, does he?” the boy asked. Evidently, the dog was less risk than the storm.
“He hasn’t bitten me yet. But I’m not sure he wouldn’t like to.”
Die being cast on the baize as the boy shuffled from one foot to the other in indecision, she patted the bed, crooked her finger in invitation. “It’s a turbulent night. Company would be welcome.” After a week of evading Julian, this was mostly true.
The boy came forward with halting steps as if he were being pushed forward and pulled back in unison. He glanced toward the window when another roll of thunder clamored over the house. “I don’t like storms.” When he reached the bed, she held back from helping him as he scrambled atop the high mattress. A rush of affection hit her, a straight shot to the chest. He was a pathetic little thing, too thin by half, bony knees barely covered by fine linen that, if she looked closely, appeared to be one of Julian’s shirts.
She laughed. “This bed is made for a king, isn’t it?”
He slid beneath the sheet with a sniff. “Smells right like a king, I reckon.”
Another chuckle burst from her, and he flinched as if a blow naturally followed sudden movement.
She breathed in and out twice, quieting her rage, then tucked the sheet closer about him with the gentlest of movements. He studied her all the while with yearning in his deep brown eyes. “It does indeed smell nice.”
“And there’s no one lurking,” he said with a none-too-gentle nose rub. A streak of dirt trailed up the side of his cheek and into his hairline. Wasn’t someone on the staff, ineffectual as they were, assigned to oversee this child’s care? He needed a haircut, bath, clothing.
She settled back, her gaze seeking that silly ceiling cap. Molded roses and arrows intertwined, like an image from ancient Greece. “Lurking? Do you mean Humphrey?”
He kicked his legs, lifting the sheet high. “Lawks, no. The people. Thedeadones.” He sighed as if this were an answer she should have known, the sheet deflating to rest on them. “Was hoping they were only city toffs, but nah, in the bloody country, too. Not like folks don’t expire here, same as anywhere else.”
Piper turned her head, the boy’s silhouette in stark relief. She knew little about him. Simon, rescued from St Giles, a pickpocket of extraordinary talent. She’d assumed he would be brought to her when the time was right. “Do they talk to you?”
Eyes shadowed from exhaustion met hers. The troubled gaze spoke of dreadful negotiations with those livinganddead, enlightenment no boy of eight or nine should have. “You the healer?”
Wordless, she nodded.