He leaned forward, cupped the back of her head with one hand, brought her face very close to his, and covered her mouth with his own.
She seemed stunned for a few seconds, but she did not try to pull away. He felt a shiver course through her. He tightened his grip. She put one gloved hand very delicately on his shoulder. Her lips parted slightly.
Everything inside him leaped with excitement. It was all he could do not to pull her down onto the seat, push up her skirts, and sink himself into her. That thought made him realize that the windows were uncovered. Without releasing Louisa he used one hand to yank down the blinds.
When the shadows of the closed cab enveloped them, he gripped her head with both hands, anchored her, and deliberately deepened the kiss. Her mouth was soft and infinitely inviting. He drank from the warm well she offered as though he had been deprived of water for months, maybe years.
He heard the tiniest of feminine moans. The small sound enthralled him. He was thoroughly aroused now, hard and straining against his trousers. He lowered one hand to Louisa’s breast, learning the shape of her through the fabric of the gown.
There was another little sound, a small gasp of surprise this time, and then her fingers tightened convulsively around his shoulders.
“Mr. Stalbridge,” she got out in a choked voice.
“I know.” He groaned and raised his head reluctantly. “This is hardly the time or place. My apologies, madam. I am aware that this is not the way this sort of thing is usually done. All I can say is that where you are concerned, nothing seems to occur in a predictable fashion.”
She stared at him through fogged-up spectacles, her mouth open, cheeks flushed.
Amused, he removed her spectacles. She blinked and then frowned ever so slightly when he took out a freshly laundered handkerchief and proceeded to polish the lenses.
He handed the spectacles back to her.
“Thank you,” she said, sounding breathless.
She put on the spectacles and suddenly became very busy adjusting her hat and straightening the skirts of her gown.
He watched her for a moment, enjoying the sight of her sitting there across from him, savoring the knowledge that she had responded to him. After a time he raised the blinds.
When Louisa eventually ran out of small chores she cleared her throat, sat back, and clasped her hands very tightly together.
“Well, then,” she said, and then stopped.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he reminded her gently.
Her brows snapped together. “What question?”
“When did you develop your great passion for bringing the criminals of the Polite World to justice?”
“Oh. After I came to stay with Emma.” She looked out the window. “Before that I took it for granted that there was nothing that could be done about such people.”
“Did something happen to someone you care about?” he asked, probing carefully. “Something that inspired your desire to see justice rendered among those who move in Society?”
“It was nothing personal,” she said smoothly. “Merely my observations of the world.”
She was lying, he realized. Very interesting.
He smiled slightly. “One of these days I will have to introduce you to a friend of mine. He is a man who understands what it is to be driven by a passion for justice. The two of you will have much to talk about, I think.”
She glanced at him, frowning slightly. “Who is he?”
“His name is Fowler. He is a detective in Scotland Yard.”
An expression that could only have been horror flashed across her face. It was gone almost immediately, but not before it had made a forceful impression on him.
“You are personally acquainted with a policeman?” she asked tightly.
There was mystery upon mystery here. He folded his arms and lounged deeper into the corner of the carriage, his curiosity thoroughly aroused.
“Fowler was the man who investigated Fiona’s death,” he explained. “He also dealt with the suicide of Victoria Hastings. Like me, he was convinced that there was a connection to Elwin Hastings, but he could find no way to prove it.”
She was gripping her parasol so fiercely now, it was a wonder the handle did not snap. “Did this detective also investigate the third suicide that you mentioned? The one that took place that same month?”
“Joanna Barclay? Yes. He was obliged to look into it because he investigated the murder of Lord Gavin.”
“I see.”
She seemed to be having difficulty breathing.
“Are you feeling unwell?” he asked, abruptly concerned.
“No, I’m fine, thank you.” She hesitated. “I was not aware that you were associated with someone from Scotland Yard.”
“I do not advertise it to the world for obvious reasons. Fowler is equally cautious about keeping our connection quiet.”
“I see. You must admit that it is somewhat unusual for a gentleman of your rank to have a close acquaintance with a policeman.”
He shrugged. “Fowler and I share a mutual interest.”
“Proving that Hastings murdered Fiona?”
“Yes.”
“Can I assume that Mr. Fowler is the source of your information concerning Elwin Hastings?”
Anthony inclined his head. “He also supplied me with some background on Clement Corvus. Fowler has been most helpful.”
She gave him a brittle little smile. “How nice for you.”
15
A short time later Anthony escorted her to the front door of Number Twelve and bid her farewell.
“Send word to my address immediately if and when you hear from Miranda Fawcett,” he said as Mrs. Galt opened the door.
“I will,” she promised, desperately wanting to be rid of him.
He gave her a cool, assessing look and then stepped back. Nodding politely to Mrs. Galt, he went down the steps toward the waiting cab.
Louisa rushed into the hall, feeling as if a legion of demons were in pursuit. She practically hurled her bonnet and gloves to Mrs. Galt.
“Is Lady Ashton home?” she asked.
“Not yet, ma’am. She’s due back from her Garden Society meeting very soon, though.”
“I’ll be in the study.”
It was all she could do to walk, not run, down the hall. She went into the study and closed the door behind her. Clasping the knob behind her back with both hands, she sagged against the wooden panels.
She could not seem to catch her breath. It was as though she were wearing a steel corset. Her pulse was pounding. She wanted to flee, to hide, but there was nowhere to go.
She needed something for her nerves. Pushing herself away from the door, she crossed to the brandy table, yanked the stopper out of the decanter, and splashed a large amount of the contents into a glass. She swallowed too much the first time, sputtering wildly and choking a little. Gasping for air, she began to pace the room.
“Remain calm,” she said. “He cannot know who you are. There is no way he will ever learn the truth.”
Wonderful. Now she was talking to herself.
She took another swallow of brandy, a smaller sip this time, and went to the window. She looked out into the garden.
Inwardly she was reeling. Perfectly understandable, she assured herself. She had sustained one great shock followed by another. First there had been that devastating kiss. Then had come the equally devastating news that the man who had just thrilled her senses was personally acquainted with the detective who had investigated the murder of Lord Gavin.
She tried another sip of brandy. It was some time before her breathing returned to normal, but gradually the panic drained away.
It would be all right, she thought, setting the empty glass aside. She would have to be very careful, of course, but she was in no immediate danger of discovery. Clearly Anthony was consumed with his desire to avenge Fiona. As long as his attention was riveted entirely on achieving justice for the lady he had loved and lost he had no reason to become overly curious about the woman who was helping him in the project. Did he?