Unlaced Corset Page 7

  He slumped lower in the chair. Whatever it was, he clearly didn't want to talk about it. That wasn't an option, not for Mary and not for him.

  She stood up and grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him as violently as her tiny frame would allow, throwing her full weight into it.

  "Snap out of it!" She let go and nearly fell backwards onto her bottom, stumbling across the room into a bookshelf. "Snap out of it, and tell me what's going on!"

  "He's gone," he answered vaguely.

  "What do you mean, he's gone? Surely you can call on him at home if his office is closed, for whatever reason."

  "No," James said, finally looking at her. "He's left the country. Gone to Europe. Spain, I think."

  Mary had never seen him like this. He had always looked so certain, powerful and confident. Now he looked like a lost child, or like a puppy that is waiting for his master to feed him. She didn't want to, couldn't, be his master.

  "What? When?"

  "I don't know exactly. The landlord was there, standing guard, since the place was abandoned. Apparently, the last time anyone saw him or his staff was yesterday. Yesterday afternoon. Then the place was left emptied out of anything important or useful. Someone locked up, but I don't know if that was done later."

  "What are we going to do now?"

  "I don't know."

  James didn't look like he wanted to give up, she realized, but he looked like someone who didn't know what could be done any more. She thought that sounded about right. Neither of them had turned up any new information since the first, and they were overdue for a win.

  "We'll go back to Dover," Mary said softly. "We've made it this far, there has to be another option, and once we find it, we chase that down, as well."

  James looked up. His jaw was clenched, and she could see the muscles flexing.

  "We're past that, Mary. We've already done everything we could, and we've lost. Your uncle's been ahead of us every step of the way, and this has just been another in a long series of failures." He looked back into his lap, staring at the palms of his hands. When he continued, it was soft enough that Mary could barely hear. "I've failed you."

  For a moment she couldn't respond. What did that mean? They could continue where they'd left off. She had the journal, and surely he'd be able to think of something, as well. If nothing else, he could go through the library, and then the master bedroom, and see if there had been any other clues left around.

  They'd be able to find more clues. The more she repeated it to herself, the better it sounded.

  "No," she said, firmly. "This is just temporary. We'll get by."

  She started walking back across the room toward him. He looked up at her, his eyes unfocused and tired. Then she closed her eyes and pressed her lips against his.

  He hadn't shaved in a couple of days and his stubble was scratchy, and for a moment she almost pulled away. Then he melted into her and stood up to meet her. She could feel his arms tightening around her waist, and then he lifted her easily up off the ground until she stood as tall as he.

  He pulled away and Mary saw that he was already looking stronger, more self-sure, but there was doubt there, as well.

  "We can't."

  "We can," she said. Her fingers started working at the buttons of his waistcoat without waiting for permission "And I think I'd like to."

  He smiled faintly. "No, we can't."

  Mary undid the last button and pulled his waistcoat open.

  "James Poole, if you don't get this corset off me, I'm never letting you back into my father's house again."

  He kissed her again, hard, and she could feel the electric want that was running through him.

  "If you put it that way…"

  He picked her up again and carried her through the door into the bedroom, then set her down on the bed. Mary could feel her breaths coming short and hard. She could breathe in her corset, though she'd been afraid of it when she was just a girl. Most of the time.

  But now, it seemed as if she couldn't take a deep enough breath to cool off the heat in her chest. He started undoing buttons on her dress, from the top down, but there were so many. She wanted it off.

  Then he undid the tie on her corset and pulled it loose, then undid that as well. Her vision blacked out as she breathed in, her head tingling from the heady mix of arousal and too-much oxygen. By the time her vision came back, she could feel James's fingers on her, rubbing.

  Her stomach tightened. She thought she'd been mad, before, with lust. But now she saw that had been only the tip of the iceberg, a small part of a much larger feeling. She needed him.

  She reached desperately for him, and found that he was still clothed.

  "That's not fair," she said softly. "I wanted to—"

  James put a finger to her lips to silence her, never stopping his ministrations down below. The tightness in her belly got worse, and worse, and then something exploded behind her eyes. She came to a moment later, and reached up for James's lips.

  He leaned down, reaching a hand between them to unbuckle his belt. They were pressed together and she could feel his hard want for her straining against his trousers.

  "Let me help," she said softly.

  She knelt down and undid his trousers, letting them fall. Then she kissed him and felt his hand on her shoulders, encouraging her further.

  She felt an ache deep inside her, but she continued, taking him into her mouth. She could feel him shaking with arousal and excitement, and she smiled. This was a powerful feeling.

  She stood back up and let James lay her back onto the bed. Then his hands spread her thighs, and he pressed against her entrance. She had heard this part would hurt, and she grit her teeth in preparation for the pain.

  James hesitated, and she could feel it.

  "If you don't want to—"

  Mary opened her eyes and held a hand up to his face, strained with mixed arousal and control.

  "Don't stop now, Mr. Poole, when you were doing so well."

  He snorted, and then got control of himself and started working his way inside her. She could feel a stretching sensation, more and more, and she winced to try to shrug off the pain—and then he was inside her, and moving.

  Deep down in her, something started setting off fireworks in her mind, spreading out from her sex to the rest of her body. The want was deep and refused to be ignored, and she didn't want to ignore it.

  He moved inside her, and she clutched at him, unable to deal with the sensations, until with a deep thrust she felt another warmth spreading inside her. She could feel his weight on her, but it was good. Comforting.

  She wasn't sure what was going to happen next, how they were going to deal with her family troubles, or with their relationship.

  But that was later. Right now, she was happy with what she had.

  16

  James

  For a moment, James Poole couldn't explain the weight on his arm. He was back home. That much was certain, but he lived alone, and no animals to lay in his bed, either.

  Then his mind came back to him and he remembered. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and saw the woman in his arms. She smiled at him and pressed her lips into his, and he knew that he had made a big mistake. That he didn't regret it only made it worse.

  He'd gone and done it, now. Her life, for all intents and purposes, was now well and truly over. She wouldn't have any hope of marriage prospects with her innocence compromised. He pulled her closer and kissed her back.

  "Did you sleep well," he said softly.

  He could see that she was holding something back when she nodded, but he didn't press her on it. He rolled onto his back, and for a moment he thought about picking up where they'd left off. But he had work to do.

  "Good." The words came out as a hoarse whisper.

  He couldn't think straight with her around, and the more time that passed the more it was becoming clear that he needed to be at his best. He was beginning to realize that walking away from her wasn't an option
any more.

  That meant that he needed to find some way to make up for his inability to think clearly. Mary was smart as a whip, even if she tried to hide everything from him. He smiled and sat up.

  "Come on. Let's get dressed." He was already pulling his trousers back on as he said it. "I'm finished with business in London, and we need to get back to the Geis estate to get back to work."

  It wasn't true. He could feel the letter on his coffee table drawing his attention like a magnet. He needed to pay for his father's hospital bills, and he needed to do it now, but it would need to wait. He didn't have time now, and as much as it surprised him, he had more important things to address.

  He could see doubt on Mary's face, and he pursed his lips. It didn't matter what she knew or thought, as long as she let him do what he had to do. As her face changed, he knew it was too much to hope for.

  "You've got a letter," she said. She didn't go on, but she didn't have to.

  His face pinched together, and for a moment he struggled with a flash of anger. Then he put it away and his face blanked back over.

  "That's not important right now," he hissed.

  And it was true. He'd gotten involved in something bigger than him, in a pensioner's hospital bed. Even if that pensioner was the man who'd raised him, who'd given nearly everything for him.

  It hurt to admit it to himself, but right now there was nothing anyone could do. He'd been thinking about it a lot, lately—even with all the distractions that dogged him constantly, it seemed as if there was always the implication hanging over his head.

  If there was anything he could do to change it, then he would move heaven and earth to do it, but there wasn't. He shut his mouth tight.

  "James, he's your—"

  "I know who he is!" He shouted. "I know! What do you think this has all been about? Why do you think I came to your house?"

  His voice boomed loudly through the room, and he realized that he was breathing hard, hunched over in a predatory posture. Mary sat back onto the bed and started to cry.

  James touched his forehead. His head ached, and he'd regretted the outburst before it had even ended, only finishing through sheer momentum. He shut his mouth and watched her.

  The train ride back to Dover was tense—as tense as the first had been, but with fresher wounds. James sat, watching the scenery trundle by, and tried to think hard.

  The entire situation didn't make any sense to him. Oliver was making a considerable play, here. The death of Lord Geis would bring a close eye, and if indeed he were involved then it couldn't have been a good option. James was surprised they hadn't seen more investigators, but he pushed the thought aside; it wasn't useful to think of what should have happened.

  He needed to focus on what was happening.

  The money was fairly easy to understand. Either he needed it, or he needed Mary's father not to have it. In either case, though, that left him at square one. Why would a Colonel in His Majesty's Army need money? Surely his day-to-day expenses were covered by his stipend.

  If he wanted his brother not to have it—why? Was he trying to sap him completely dry? He was doing a perfectly adequate job of it, if so.

  Every answer, every possible answer, only had more questions. James shut his eyes and tried not to think about Mary, sitting across from him. He tried to push the image of her, sitting on his bed and softly crying, out of his mind. He would make it up to her, in time, if he could. Now he needed to help her with something larger and much more important.

  But he couldn't distract himself long enough to solve the problem, and he couldn't find the words to ask her for help.

  They arrived back at the house in the late afternoon, after having eaten supper in town, in a steely silence. He didn't know what he expected, but James was surprised to find the place in the same condition they had left it. He thought they'd find it ransacked, or find someone waiting for them.

  Instead, the lock eased open and when they went in, the place was empty. He carried their bags, one in either hand, to her room, and then to the room he'd claimed for himself.

  That was when he noticed it. It wasn't ransacked. His things were in bags, the way he'd left them. His papers weren't strewn about the floor. But as he looked, he could tell. Someone had gone through them, while they were gone. And then they'd put them back, hoping that he wouldn't notice.

  "Mary," he called out loudly. He couldn't tell if she heard him, and he didn't know if she would answer if she had.

  The halls seemed longer, now. As if the anxiety were keeping her further away from him.

  "Mary!"

  He felt as if he'd been walking forever when he got to her door. He wasn't sure what had possessed him of the idea, but he pounded on it; he absolutely had to talk to her, and immediately.

  She opened the door wordlessly. There was a book on her bed, a leather-bound journal that he hadn't seen before.

  "Mary, thank God you're alright." James took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to get himself back under control. His heart thudded in his ears. "Someone's been in the house. They went through my things."

  "Are you sure?"

  For a moment he wondered why she had asked. But that wasn't important. It was only important that he communicate it all to her.

  "Certain."

  "Is anything missing?"

  James blinked. He hadn't thought to check, beyond his room. He couldn't make a complete inventory of any place in the house, except... Without answering, he started to walk toward the study.

  It looked right to him. At first. A stack of ledgers, neatly arranged. The papers had been pushed aside, he recalled with a blush, by Mary's bottom. He'd never put them back in order. Now they looked like a jumbled mess on the table, just like he'd remembered them looking.

  It seemed strange, though. Something seemed slightly... off. He started sorting through them, and then it became clear.

  Several of them—the ones that had led them to Oliver Geis in the first place—were missing. P and D were still there, as was B and R, but O was mysteriously absent.

  If someone were presented with only this evidence, then they'd never have gotten even as far as James and Mary had. It would have all looked like the records were incomplete.

  He opened one of the ledgers. They were the same as he remembered, except the last. On the bottom, as he opened it, someone had written in handwriting that could have passed for his own, one word: "Embezzled?"

  James sat back in the chair and stewed. What on earth was going on here? He laid back and let out a long sigh. The day had already been long. He'd been upset and confused before he ever got on the train, and then things had been incomprehensibly tense. The discovery that the house had been broken into was triply worrying.

  But now he had a new reason to worry, a big reason to worry.

  Someone was going back to cover up their tracks.

  17

  Mary

  Mary sat down and waited for her heart to slow down, and her brain to catch up with what James had just told her. The house had been searched? But why? Even with the knowledge that someone was working against them, to stop the investigation they'd begun—if it could be called that—what could they have hoped to find?

  There had been ample time in the week since her father's death. At least four of those days were completely uninterrupted, with her hiding in the Library and pretending not to realize that something was going on. So why now, all of a sudden, had someone taken a renewed interest in the house?

  The only answer she could think of was that they had figured something out, and were heading in the right direction. If she had figured something out along with James, that meant that there were still clues in the house somewhere.

  The only place, though, that she had found anything was her father's journal. And she'd brought that with her to London. She had thought it would be stupid not to, and now it seemed as if she had been right to think so.

  There were the scraps that her father had collected befo
re his death, as well, but they weren't proof of anything at all. They'd had to guess at their meaning, and the guesses were hardly accurate. They were almost certainly not what the burglars had been looking for, she thought.

  They were only meaningful along with the journal. So if she was going to find answers, she realized, she was going to need to look through it again.

  She'd been distracted from her attempts to decipher the dense text by the discovery of the letter to James, and the subsequent research they had been doing in the study. She hadn't even mentioned that she had it to James. It wasn't exactly a secret, but somehow it felt private. As if it were hers alone.

  She had taken it out again when she got back, while she packed the rest of her things back into her armoire, and now she turned to look at it. It looked so ordinary, and yet Mary was afraid of it, now. She couldn't be sure, but she thought that it was probably what had brought down the invasion of her home on her head.

  She cracked the spine and read the last pages again, going backward. His "adventures" with this Pearl woman were mentioned almost daily. He certainly had been going into town quite a bit, but she'd assumed it was on business. She put it out of her mind as best she could. After all, it was her father's business, not hers.

  Further, they needed to find people that her father was involved in. It was becoming clearer and clearer that they needed to find more people who had known him. If they didn't have the answers, then Roy Stump wouldn't have left town in such a rush, no doubt at the prompting of her uncle's mysterious guest.

  She shuddered hard, having already guessed who her uncle had been hosting. There was no way that Davis was anything other than a kind old man. And yet, now that she thought of it, it seemed harder and harder to justify anyone else being involved.

  For the past month, he'd mentioned only five names in his journal: Roy, Oliver, Davis, Pearl, and an 'M'—Mary herself, she guessed. It felt odd to read memories of herself, and she did her best to skim over those parts.

  A month ago was the first mention of Pearl, and the only mention of her with her name fully written out. She lived in Canterbury, which seemed awfully far to visit a woman. Still, perhaps it was an effort to maintain his local reputation.