My Lord Immortality
Page 8

"I hope it is nothing serious?"
"No, I do not believe so," she babbled. "Still, he is very weak."
"Ah, well, then I will not trouble him," the runner said, rising to his feet.
Amelia stood and crossed toward the door. The sooner this man was out of her home, the better.
"That would be for the best, I believe."
Moving across the room, Mr. Ryan paused as he stepped through the door. "Thank you for your help, Miss Hadwell. Oh, and please tell your brother that I will return in a day or so to speak with him."
The hope that she had managed to put this man off died a swift and painful death. He would return. And on the next occasion he would insist on speaking with William.
Not even her fierce determination could keep her smile from fading to a grimace.
"I... very well."
"Do not bother to see me out. I can find my way."
With a bow, the large man had moved into the hall and was walking briskly toward the door.
Amelia watched his retreat in troubled silence.
What was she to do?
Take William and flee?
But to where?
She could not return to her parents. As much as she loved them, she knew that the presence of William was too painful for them to bear. Within weeks they would once again be threatening to have him sent to Bedlam. And while she had her allowance, she had spent most of her savings upon this house. She could not afford to remain in hiding forever.
Besides which, a more sensible part of her warned that taking William and leaving would only make the runner more convinced of his guilt. If they did discover them they might very well have him hauled off and convicted before she could prove his innocence.
Restless and in need of a means of clearing her thoughts, Amelia found herself absently moving down the hall. She would go for a short walk, she told herself. Perhaps the fresh air and exercise would allow her to rid herself of the brooding sense of danger that continued to haunt her.
Amelia shivered as she tiptoed her way up the long staircase and slipped into the empty front salon. It was not only the heavy silence that made her cringe. Nor the squeak of worn floorboards that seemed to echo eerily through the heavy air. It was more the prickling sense of self-reproach that grew more pronounced with every step.
She should not be here, a stern voice chastised in the back of her mind. She had left her house to take a simple walk. To clear her mind and consider what was to be done. But even as she had left her home she had discovered her feet determinedly heading in a straight line to this town house. Almost as if she were being inwardly compelled to seek out Mr. St. Ives.
That compulsion had remained even when she had discovered no response to her numerous pulls upon the bell. Sensibly, she knew that she should return home. She should not even have come. But, then, she had not followed the sensible course.
Instead, before she was even aware of what she was doing, she had pushed the door open and boldly stepped into the foyer. The empty silence that greeted her only prodded her onward. The gentleman had proved to be decidedly reluctant to answer her questions, she remembered, attempting to justify her unreasonable behavior. And she was quite certain that he knew more of this shadow, and the ghastly murder, than he was willing to confess. Why should she not use this obvious opportunity to her advantage?
Glancing about the large salon, she studied the furniture, still shrouded in covers, and the windows that did not appear to have been washed in the past several years. Amelia frowned.
There was a barren, neglected air about the room. Definitely a bachelor's home, she acknowledged. Any woman would have had the house scrubbed from top to bottom before ever setting foot inside.
Indeed, it was almost as if no one lived here at all.
Gnawing upon her lower lip, she moved through the shadows, seeking some sign of occupancy. It was the right house, was it not? She could not be mistaken. This had to be the house the stranger had led her into.
Absently turning, with the vague thought of continuing her search to another room, Amelia came to a sharp halt. She had heard not a sound, but leaning negligently in the doorway was a large male form. A magnificent male form attired in a smoke gray coat and black breeches. -
Oh . .. blast, she cursed silently. She was in the soup now.
A decidedly embarrassing soup.
The brilliant silver gaze was hooded as it silently flicked over her.
"So, it was not a mouse that I heard scurrying about my house, after all. Instead it is a rather unexpected guest," he murmured in his dark, honey-accented tones.
Her hand pressed her pounding heart. "Oh, Mr. St. Ives."
A bronzed brow slowly arched. "I did not expect to encounter you again so soon, Miss Hadwell. A delightful surprise, of course, but I am rather displeased with my housekeeper. She did not bother to tell me that you had arrived."
Amelia shifted uneasily. There was no ready lie to explain her wicked behavior. She had boldly been nosing about his house, like the lowest sort of sneak thief, and had been caught.
There was little to do but own up to the truth.
"No, it was not your housekeeper's fault. I did knock but there was no answer. I... I sneaked in so I could look about."
"Ah." The silver gaze slowly trailed down to the hands that were tightly clenched at her side.
"A rather odd habit."
"It is not my customary habit," she retorted in wry tones. "As a rule, I possess all the usual manners. I suppose my only excuse is the fact that I desired to learn more of you."
Surprisingly, the full, sensuous lips twitched at her ridiculous words.
"Learn more of me? Why?"
"Well, you seem rather determined to remain a mystery. I suppose I thought to discover more of you."
He glanced pointedly about the barren room. "Among the dust sheets?"
The heat returned to her cheeks. "I realize that I was being absurd. In truth, I do not know what I sought. I am not thinking very clearly this day."
There was a moment of silence as he studied her tense countenance more closely. A sudden frown lugged at his brows.
"You are troubled? Has something occurred?"
Amelia hesitated a mere heartbeat before giving a slow nod. Perhaps it was not entirely fair to unburden her troubles upon a gentleman who was little more than a stranger. But, the need to confess her latest troubles with someone, anyone, was undeniable.
"Yes, a Mr. Ryan from Bow Street called upon me this morning. He was asking ... questions."
The pale features hardened at her words, and for a moment Amelia was sharply reminded of the faintly alien quality about him. It was in the elegant perfection of his countenance and the sinuous grace of his movements. He seemed somehow . . . above other gentlemen. As if there were more to him than the usual London dandies.
Thankfully unaware of her absurd thoughts, Mr. St. Ives held out his arm.
"We must speak of this, but not here. We will be more comfortable in the library."
Amelia found herself placing her hand upon his arm and allowing herself to be led from the room. Deep within her, she realized that it was certainly not proper to be alone with this man. A maiden never called upon a bachelor. Most especially when there did not even seem to be a servant about.
But neither did they sneak into homes or lie to Bow Street runners, she acknowledged wryly. It was rather too late to become missish at this point.
In silence they moved down the shadowed hall, and then with great care Mr. St. Ives turned her into a large, surprisingly cheerful library.
Consuming two floors, it possessed a lovely bay window and, far above on the ceiling, a fine rendering of Apollo pursuing Diana.
With a hint of bemusement, she regarded the towering shelves that were bulging with an enormous collection of leather bound books. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands. It seemed impossible to believe that any one man could ever work his way through such a vast number of tomes in an entire lifetime of study.
There was nothing neglected about this room, she acknowledged as she was settled onto one of the wide wing chairs. Everything was polished and gleamed with loving care. It was obvious Mr. St. Ives cared more for the privacy of his books than the more public rooms that remained shrouded in dust.
"Here you are."
With a blink, Amelia realized that her host was pressing a glass of amber liquid into her hand.
She slowly lifted her gaze to meet the simmering silver eyes.
"Brandy? Is it not rather early in the day?"
He gave a lift of one shoulder. "You are pale and clearly in need of something to settle your nerves. I believe brandy is the prescribed cure for such a malady."
Well, it could not hurt, Amelia acknowledged as she lifted the glass and took a cautious sip.
At first the smoky flavor filled her mouth and warmed her tongue in a rather pleasant manner; then, without warning, a fire blazed down her throat and hit her empty stomach with unexpected force.
"Ugh." With a grimace she pushed the glass back into his hand. "It is not much of a cure."
His lips twitched but he readily set aside the glass before settling upon the matching wing chair and regarding her with a steady gaze.
"Perhaps you will feel better if you tell me what the runner desired."