“Come any closer and I shall be forced to use this,” she said, holding an indistinguishable object in her hand that looked something like a fat candle. “And I must warn you, it has the potential to be quite dangerous.”
Pretending to appease her, he stayed where he was beside a fern on a marble pedestal. It would only take him four strides to reach her. Three if he leapt over the tufted hassock.
He watched her with rapt fascination as she placed the object on the sill with extreme care. But then he caught the flash of uncertainty in her fine-boned features.
A slow grin tugged at his mouth. “You’re only trying to hoodwink me.”
“And what purpose would a baseless warning serve in such a place? Surely, you cannot suspect that I would come to a brothel defenseless.”
She reached inside her cloak once more, withdrawing flint and steel.
He shrugged. “You’re a stranger. I’ve no idea what you’re capable of doing.”
“I suppose that makes two of us,” she said with a light laugh, flashing a grin that revealed the smallest, most intriguing little gap between her two front teeth in an otherwise perfect arrangement of pearly whites. “Nevertheless, please remember that I did warn you. And, whatever you do, do not come near this window.”
With a quick strike, she lit the strange candle on the sill. Then she ducked her head and slipped out the window, holding onto the edge.
He rushed forward to keep her from falling. But she dropped lithely to the ground before he could reach her. Emitting a shrill whistle, she then loped gracefully toward the back alley.
Hoisting his leg over the sill, he prepared to follow.
Yet, hearing the creak of the floor behind him, he turned to see Moll, her tall voluptuous form draped in a gown of burgundy velvet and trimmed in ostrich feathers.
“Who was the girl, Raven?” she asked, her voice curling and raspy like the smoke rising from the cigar pinched between her thumb and forefingers.
He cursed, hoping that tonight’s cockup hadn’t put a nail in the coffin of him ever being allowed back in her good graces. “I can explain—”
But before he could utter another syllable, the candle flared suddenly, crackling in sparks. Then, all at once, it quieted on an ominous poof as a dense cloud of thick pink smoke began to flood the room.
* * *
Jane’s breath caught as she closed the carriage door and saw billowing curls of pale smoke rolling from the brothel window. Grinning, she clapped her bare hand against the gloved one in muffled glee.
Her urgent escape smoke experiment had worked marvelously!
Withdrawing the ledger, she angled it toward the lamplight to jot a quick note of the ratios she’d used. She would require more of these in the future, she was sure.
But, before she could lick the tip of her pencil, all the events of this evening flooded her at once. She sank back against the squabs as her cousin spurred the horses and they set off toward home.
A brothel! Only now were the dangers of her escapade beginning to seep into her sentient mind, her heart racing beneath the shallow rise and fall of her breast. She’d barely survived the encounter unscathed!
But the things she’d learned made it all worthwhile. Why, with another visit, the primer on the marriage habits of the native aristocrat would be so full of useful information that every finishing school in England would teach from it.
Jane beamed from ear to ear. She could already imagine the future accolades. Scores of young women would line up at bookshops for the only tome that would change the course of their lives.
Her lashes drifted closed as she tried to commit the night to memory. But all she could see were a pair of gray eyes, so pale they nearly lacked color altogether. And that voice . . . so deep and rough-edged, it still seemed to be inside her, belaboring every pulsebeat.
She’s mine for the hour.
How positively primal! His tone had been so authoritative and commanding that even she was tempted to believe him.
Then, and now, it caused tingles to race over her skin in anticipation, tightening every hair follicle and gathering in her lungs. A breath stuttered past her parted lips. What might it have been like to be his for an hour?
But there, her mind went as blank as a freshly mopped slate. She had absolutely no experience in being the object of a man’s desire. Had this episode been removed from the allure of a brothel and placed in a sedate ballroom, he would have looked straight through her.
Even so, his actions toward the lecherous gentleman who’d pulled her from the alcove were nothing short of predatory. She’d never witnessed such an aggressive display of dominance. Quite thrilling!
If only she could study him for the primer. It would surely be the most fascinating chapter in the entire book. The subtitle would be: The Primitive Man in All His Glory.
It was a pity she’d never see him again.
Feeling the carriage slow to a crawl, she opened her eyes and tapped on the hood. “Cousin, we mustn’t dally near Haymarket at this time of night.”
“But I’ve got to stop,” Duncan called down through the small square flap, thick titian eyebrows knitting perplexedly above his thrice-broken nose. “It’s Raven and I couldn’t run him over.”
Jane smiled up at him patiently, knowing that beneath his battered Wellington and the burly exterior of an ox, Duncan Pickerington had a heart of toffee pudding and a brain the size of a walnut. “I’m certain the bird will instinctively fly away before the horses can trample it.”
“Oh, but he isn’t a bird. I work with him at Sterling’s. Although . . . I don’t know why he’s pink.”
Now it was her turn to be perplexed. Sometimes Duncan said the strangest things.
But curiosity had always had a way of taking over her better sense. So she opened the door, intending to lean out and have a look for herself.
“A raven would be black, certainly not pi . . .”
Her words dissolved away as a form emerged from the shadows and stepped into the light of the carriage lanterns.
Suddenly, she was face-to-face with those frost-gray eyes again.
“Raven,” her cousin called down with a merry chuckle. “How did you come to be so pink?”
The man seethed at her, nostrils flaring. “I ran into a meddlesome little debutante who had no business being where I found her.”
Jane swallowed down a rise of nerves. “Goodness! Your skin is quite caryophyllaceous, isn’t it? Must have been the dried beet powder I used for fuel. I’ll have to make a note of that.”
However, when lifting the ledger earned her a low growl, she thought better of it. Perhaps she would jot down her findings later when it was more appropriate.
“Don’t worry, Raven. Jane can set you back to rights. She’s brilliant. Comes up with all sorts of things.”
Dark brows arched sardonically over those icy eyes, and every deep syllable he spoke spilled acidly from his lips. “Is that so? How lucky for me.”
“I sense a trace of unnecessary sarcasm in your tone. I assure you that—”
“Pickerington,” he interrupted, calling up to the perch but without taking his gaze from her. “Mind delivering me to my flat? I think I’d like to have a chat with the brilliant Jane.”
She studied the long-fingered hand that fell on the door and recalled his ferocity when battling those men, especially the largest one. And she was never more aware of her petite stature as she was in this moment. “Regrettably, we have no time for a detour.”