The Trouble With Moonlight Page 2

  Lusinda doused the oil lamps on the mantel and the gas jets on the wall before returning to the parlor window. She’d been spotted. Consequences always followed a sighting. At best the rumors of ghosts and headless horsemen would resurface; at worst they would need to once again find a new home. What would it be like not to schedule one’s existence according to the phases of the moon? To not constantly worry about being labeled the devil’s child or a witch? Perhaps she was being too vigilant. Perhaps there was nothing to worry about. Still, an uneasiness settled heavy about her heart.

  THE NEXT MORNING, JAMES SPOTTED THE QUAINT TOWN house easily enough. Although the flowers that had bloomed so enchantingly in the moonlight were closed and twisted tight, he remembered the location and the glimmer of the brass plaque by the door. How could he forget it? Late into the wee hours of the morning, he had contemplated the mystery woman and her magnificent feats of magic—if, indeed, they were magic. One way or another, he was determined to find out.

  Already he had learned through inquisition of the neighboring merchants that a widow, Mrs. Eugenia Gertrude, and her three nieces had rented the residence. The information pleased him as it validated his sighting of a widow the evening before.

  The town house faced a park, so he found an empty bench and watched the front of the house. The day stretched on with no remarkable activity. Indeed he had invested enough time on that hard bench to have read his copy of the Illustrated Times five times, front to back. Waiting in the open air, however, would never again prove a hardship, not after all he had endured. Thank God he served the British Empire and earned their intervention when needed the most.

  The rattle of an approaching closed carriage interrupted his thoughts. It rumbled to a stop in front of the town house. Watching with interest, he observed the rather broad Mrs. Farthington exit and climb the few steps to the town house with difficulty. She was ushered inside without incident.

  James felt a smile pull at his lips. Mrs. Farthington’s husband, a gentleman who, it had been rumored, had fallen on some desperate times, was well known around the gambling hells Pembroke frequented. He’d be willing to bet that the Farthingtons were the link between the mystery widow and Lord Pembroke’s safe. James stood and nonchalantly crossed the street, moving closer to the front of the house.

  When Mrs. Farthington reemerged thirty minutes later, Locke was ready. He hailed a cab to follow her home. The mystery widow did not realize it, but the noose about her enchanting neck was about to tighten.

  JAMES HADN’T ENGAGED IN DISGUISE SINCE HIS TRAVELING days with a caravan crossing the Karakum Desert in central Asia. He affixed a bushy mustache that made his upper lip all but disappear, then added bushy eyebrows as well. Padding thickened his waist and gave him a bit of a belly. He covered it all with an unfashionable tweed jacket, knickerbockers, and gaiters. He checked his image in the mirror, confident that if the widow had glimpsed him in Pembroke’s study, she certainly wouldn’t recognize him now. With spirited determination, he journeyed to the widow’s address and rang the bell. He glanced at the brass plaque by the door, “Appointments during daylight only.” What in the devil did that mean?

  A cat, black as the widow’s gown, jaunted up the steps and wove its lithe body between his legs. “What have we here?”

  He scooped the cat up in his arms and was giving it a good scratch between the ears when the door opened.

  “Oh my.” The stout woman held her hands out for the cat. “Has our Shadow been digging in your gardens? I’m so sorry.”

  “Not at all.” Disappointment clawed at his throat. Although the woman at the door was dressed in widow’s weeds, she certainly couldn’t be the same woman he had observed leaving the brougham. Her height was about right. However, he would have taken an oath that she had been a bit thinner last evening. Perhaps the moonlight had played tricks with his vision. If so, it wouldn’t have been the first time last evening. He cleared his throat. “No, this fellow just joined me on the step.” He handed the cat over to its owner. “I had hoped to see the lady of the house.”

  “I suppose that would be me, sir.” She stroked the cat’s head and studied Locke from her position in the doorway.

  “Oh!” He snatched the brown bowler from his head. “I’m Laurence Langtree.” He cast a nervous eye to the street. “I’m told that we might be able to do business.”

  “Is that so?” She cocked her head and frowned. “And what kind of business would that be?”

  Mrs. Farthington had prepared him for this very question. He leaned forward and lowered his voice to a conspirator’s hiss. “Recovery business.”

  Her face brightened. “Then I suppose you should come in so we can talk.” She backed from the doorway to let him cross the threshold, then steered him to the front parlor.

  He quickly surveyed the room, absorbing the intelligence the furnishings offered. An ornate grandfather clock complete with a lunar phase dial immediately caught his attention. It was clearly the most valuable piece of furniture in the cluttered room. However, if he wasn’t mistaken, that bump beneath the flowery tablecloth hid the lock mechanism for a small safe. He smiled, remembering his last encounter with a safe and his purpose in being here.

  “I have been advised that you possess, shall we say, some remarkable attributes in the area of recovery.” He fidgeted, waiting for the woman to sit. The furnishings, though frayed about the edges, were clean and welcoming. Not the normal abode for a thief of extraordinary talents.

  “I, sir?” The woman smiled, though it did not reach her eyes. She sat in one of the overstuffed chairs and he followed suit. She pushed her lenses up higher on the bridge of her nose. “Whoever told you that?”

  “I am loath to name sources. I wish to respect privacy whenever possible.”

  “In that case, I’m afraid you are mistaken, Mr. . . .”

  “Langtree. Laurence Langtree,” he said with a broad smile that he hoped would earn him the woman’s confidence. He suspected she was not English by birth. His ear detected the undercurrents of a foreign accent, though it was too suppressed to identify as yet. In time, he was sure, it would come to him.

  Light footsteps sounded behind him. He tensed.

  “Aunt Eugenia, I wonder if you would mind—”

  James gained his feet at the sound of a feminine voice and turned, stunned. This was the one. This had to be her. She had a proud straight nose with just the slightest uplift on the end, and the high cheekbones that had molded the veil. Yet, there was so much more. Her eyes were the deep blue of the evening sky just before the sun slipped from view, made all the more striking by her almost luminous skin. It had been wise of her to wear a black veil, he thought with appreciation, for skin like that would outshine the moon.

  “Mr. Langtree,” the older woman said, quickly appearing at his side. “Allow me to introduce my niece, Miss Lusinda Havershaw.”

  “Miss Havershaw.” He casually bowed, acknowledging the introduction. Even her name suited her, Lusinda, with hair the color of moonlight and, he noted, a curtsy borne of good manners.

  “Mr. Langtree believes he has need of your recovery services, ” the aunt said.

  “Oh?” Miss Havershaw’s head cocked and intelligent eyes assessed him. He felt a stirring in his bones. Yes, this was the talented one he’d encountered last night. She removed a handkerchief from her serviceable pinafore, then wiped her hands. “I apologize, sir. I was doing a bit of gardening in back.” She motioned for them to sit, while her aunt disappeared in pursuit of refreshments. “What precisely did you wish recovered, Mr. Langtree?”

  Not surprising, her voice was as enchanting as her appearance. He was in the presence of an angel. Even her scent was bewitching. Something floral, something familiar . . .

  “Mr. Langtree?”

  Pull yourself together, man! She’ll think you’re a drooling idiot. He cleared his throat. “A pocket watch of great sentimental value.”

  “You’ve lost your watch?”

  “In a ma
nner of speaking, it is in another’s possession.” He watched her amazing eyes. He could almost see the clockwork of her mind, the tumblers clicking . . . Unfortunately, he noticed her eyes narrow as if insulted.

  “I’m not a thief, Mr. Langtree.”

  “Of course not.” Liar. A thief is exactly what you are, and one of the best I’ve ever seen. He smiled, ever so slightly. “The watch belongs to me even though it currently resides in another’s pocket.”

  Her brows lifted. “How could such an injustice have ever occurred?”

  Sarcasm! He swallowed the grin that threatened to spread across his face, enjoying perhaps a little too much this encounter with the saucy thief.

  “The watch was initially . . . my father’s.” He feigned sadness hoping to appear sincere. “As I mentioned, it has great sentimental value.” The aunt reappeared with the basic tea elements on a tray. He accepted the offered teacup and sipped. “My mother decided to gift it to her paramour even though it was not hers to give.”

  “Have you asked your mother to retrieve the watch for you?” The slight tilt of her lips suggested she thought he was a bit of an addlepate, which was his intention. He was sorely tempted to drop the pretense just so he’d stand taller in her eyes. Still, he needed to finish the game.

  “She wouldn’t hear of it. Mrs. Farthington suggested I come to you.” The name had registered with her aunt, but only a hint of recognition showed in the faint separation of the niece’s enticing lips. She was competent at hiding her emotions. Thank the powers that be that the likes of Miss Havershaw would never be admitted to a gentleman’s club for the purposes of a card game. He’d lose his shirt. Of course, if he lost it to Miss Havershaw, that might not be the worst of experiences. “Mrs. Farthington mentioned that you had retrieved an item for her for which she is most grateful.”

  “Yes, well, I would have preferred that Mrs. Farthington had not shared that information.” She narrowed her gaze, studying him with an air of skepticism. He concentrated on the teacup, hoping to avoid her scrutiny.

  “Are you familiar with Lord Pembroke, Mr. Langtree?”

  What the devil? His cup rattled on the saucer, as he lowered it to the table. His disguise must be failing! He delicately touched his napkin to his upper lip, just in case the steam from the tea had weakened the spirit gum.

  “No. I’m afraid not.” He balled the napkin in his palm. “Of course, I expect to show my gratitude with a financial boon for the return of my watch.”

  She studied him a moment longer, her distrust still lingering, then glanced at the tall parlor clock.

  “How much of a boon, Mr. Langtree?” the aunt asked.

  “Shall we say, twenty pounds?” Her eyes widened and he hastened to add before she questioned his generosity, “It is a very dear and rare watch.”

  Judging from the state of their brougham and the parlor furnishings, it would be a difficult offer to decline. Besides, he hadn’t the social boon that the pair had extracted from Mrs. Farthington. The women exchanged a glance.

  “Perhaps you should tell us more about this watch, Mr. Langtree,” the aunt interceded with a piqued interest. “Where do you suspect it to be?”

  And so he did. Their tea finished and the bait set, he stood to take his leave. “When do you suppose I’ll see my dear watch again?”

  He noticed the aunt’s eyes shift to the tall clock in the corner, while Miss Havershaw kept him firmly in her gaze.

  “I imagine before the week is out,” the aunt said.

  He nodded. “Good day, ladies.”

  LUSINDA ATTEMPTED TO DISCRETELY PEER THROUGH THE draperies at Mr. Langtree once he had left the town house. There was something about the man. Something that just didn’t register as true. His clothes and mannerisms seemed at odds with the sharp glittering acuity in his eyes. There was something familiar about him as well, disturbingly familiar. The fine hairs at the base of her neck prickled.

  “This has certainly turned into a profitable week.” Aunt Eugenia could hardly contain her excitement. “First, Mrs. Farthington and then Mr. Langtree, we shall have enough funds for the household expenses and a little extra to put aside for the winter.”

  “Winter,” Lusinda grimaced, Aunt Eugenia’s euphemism for living on the street. Fighting starvation while avoiding detection, without a shelter to call home and hungry mouths to feed . . . Yes, she understood her aunt’s joy at avoiding that dire turn of circumstances. But still, there was something about that man . . .

  She recalled his expression when she had first entered the room. Given his odd clothes and overabundance of facial hair, he was hardly what one would consider a handsome man. Yet, a delicious warmth had spread beneath her corset at his appreciative stare. Even now, at the memory, a strange fluttering pushed at her stays. Then he spoke, his voice soft and deep, like a childhood lullaby meant to seduce the listener to do one’s bidding . . .

  “Lusinda? Are you listening to me, dear?”

  Her aunt’s voice chased Mr. Langtree’s pleasant attributes from her thoughts. “I’m sorry, you were saying?”

  “I was noting that you only have about two more nights of full-charge moonlight left. When do you propose to retrieve Mr. Langtree’s watch?”

  She bit her lip. On one hand, the unsettling contradictions about Mr. Langtree’s person normally would cause her to dismiss the notion of retrieving his watch. No harm would be done. He would simply seek other means to recover the watch. The city teemed with the sort of disreputable person who would recover any item for a minor price. However, should she do that, she would miss the opportunity of seeing him and, more important, hearing his voice again. She would be denied the opportunity of unraveling the riddle of his disparities.

  Then, of course, there was the lure of twenty pounds . . .

  “Tonight,” Lusinda replied with a nod to her aunt. “Best to keep winter at bay.”

  Two

  A WICKED EXHILARATION FILLED LUSINDA AS SHE walked the summer streets of London, bare-bottom naked. As long as the moon bathed her in its beams, she was invisible and free to do all the things a respectable woman only dreamed about. She could sashay up and wiggle her arse in the face of the ton, and they would be none the wiser.

  Recently she had even slipped inside the Velvet Slipper bawdy house to satisfy her curiosity. It was a bold adventure given the crowded rooms and needed dexterity to avoid accidental discovery. That excursion had left her with more questions than when she had entered, but she had no time to dwell on that tonight. No time for mischief this evening. She had a job to do and twenty pounds to collect.

  The house stood behind a high brick wall with an ornate iron fence. She smiled. Locks on iron gates were notoriously easy to pick. There’d be no need to attempt to scale a brick wall or a prickly fence in the all-together. A couple of foppish dandies strolled down the sidewalk, so she quickly pressed against the cold iron to avoid being accidentally touched. After so many years of avoiding detection, such actions had become second nature. Again she waited as a carriage ambled down the street. One of the wheels slipped in and out of a road rut, jostling the carriage inhabitants. Once the street had quieted again, she easily picked the gate’s lock and slipped inside.

  Whoever lived here liked their privacy, she thought, closing the gate silently on its hinges. She turned and glanced at the stylish Georgian architecture hidden behind the walls and amended that observation. They obviously liked their money as well.

  She quickly discovered several open windows on the first floor. Jupiter, some houses just begged to be trespassed. She pulled herself over the sill and slipped into the dark and silent interior of a salon. A clock somewhere to her right softly ticked the passing minutes. Mr. Langtree had suggested the watch would most likely be in the library at the rear of the house, so Lusinda quietly left the room and padded down the hallway in that direction.

  The pocket watch wasn’t difficult to find. In fact, the moment she opened the door to the library, a glint of moonlight flashed on the
engraved gold where it rested on the desk. The lid was open, as if someone had just checked the hour, but the desk chair was empty and no light other than that from a single window behind the desk illuminated the room. Her sense of smell never worked quite as well when she was in full-phase, but she recognized the scent of candle wax, peat, and something else. Something familiar, but out of place . . .

  She hesitated, caution suggesting she turn and flee. Still, the watch beckoned so close at hand . . . She only need grab it and go. She glanced quickly about the room, not able to see deep into the shadowy corners. The current owner was probably asleep in his bed, unaware that a stranger had penetrated his domicile.

  She stepped over to the desk, picked up the watch, and gently closed the lid. However, before she could take two steps toward the door, something fell from the ceiling wrapping her in thick heavy ropes. A trap! Panicked, she dropped the watch and ran, but her legs entangled in the foul-smelling webbing. She lost her balance and fell to the carpet.

  Her worst fears realized, she fought the knotted ropes pressing into her tender skin. She choked back a cry, pulling at the heavy threads, seeking an end to the encompassing snare.

  A match struck and yellowish light filled the room. “I hadn’t expected you quite so soon, but I’m glad you came tonight. ”

  She gasped, recognizing the low, mesmerizing voice. “Mr. Langtree?”

  Her gaze swept the freshly illuminated corner. He had exchanged the unfashionable tweeds for more appropriate evening attire, the bushy mustache and eyebrows had disappeared, as well as the thickness cluttering up his middle. But the eyes, those intelligent assessing eyes, those were the same. His lips, now free of the burdensome mustache, lifted in a superior sneer.

  Her initial fear hardened to anger. The devious son-of-a -cur! Once she escaped from this stinking fishnet, she would cause havoc on his person every moonlit night for the rest of his life. She jerked the biting ropes out from under her and tried to slide beneath them to the side.