He didn’t mind the darkness. At least, not anymore. He’d grown accustomed to using all of his senses to take measure of his surroundings.
Already his eyes adjusted to the pale rectangle of light bleeding in through the transom above the door. He tasted the closed-in staleness of the air that told him no one had been here to disturb the dust since he’d left.
But there was a new fragrance here now, teasing his nostrils with the allure of something warm, powdery and feminine—a scent that belonged here about as much as a debutante belonged in a brothel. And, in that instant, he knew this was a mistake.
He never should have invited Pickerington and his meddling cousin to his home. Surely, he could have figured out some way to leach the pink from his skin, even if he had to scrub himself raw with lye to do it.
So then why had he brought them here?
He wasn’t used to having visitors. Wasn’t even used to having a home of his own. In fact, other than Reed Sterling, this peculiar debutante and her cousin were his only guests in the six months he’d lived here.
So it came as a complete surprise to realize that, in some small way, he wanted them to like it. Or, more to the point, that he wanted her to see that he was more than just a brown thread.
What a clodpole he was.
“I’ll just light a taper or something,” he muttered, trying to put the ignorant thought out of his mind as he moved past them to the console table.
It wobbled when he slid open the drawer for the tinderbox. The short third leg was on a long list of things he’d yet to fix. But he’d get to them all in time, he thought as he lit a tallow candle and a thick curl of smoke rose from the wick.
“So, this is where Raven lives,” Duncan Pickerington said as the golden light flickered to life, gilding dust motes in the air of the narrow foyer. His block-shaped head fell back to look up at the flat ceiling, his mouth falling slack on an awed exclamation as if gazing up at the heavens instead of huge yellowed scales of torn plaster. “Where’s your landlady?”
“On holiday,” Raven lied, never one to share more information than he had to.
After lighting all six tapers in a bronze brace, he turned his head and saw the inquisitive Jane lower her hood to scrutinize her surroundings. Framed by the mask, her midnight-blue eyes reflected a circlet of flames. Her lips began moving in that soundless murmur again and he waited for her to say something—an observation, a cutting remark, anything—aloud. But she kept her thoughts frustratingly hidden from him.
“You’re lucky,” Pickerington added glumly. “When me dad and me lived in our last flat, we was always being hounded by the landlady. It was likely her who’d done put him in debtor’s prison.”
Jane lifted a hand to her cousin’s shoulder. “Your father will not always be there. Just as soon as his debts are paid, he will be free once more and reunited with the entire family.”
Mollified, Pickerington nodded and commandeered the candelabra with a careless swipe of his meaty grip, guttering two of the candles. Holding the brace aloft, he began to tromp up the stairs ahead of them, leaving his cousin behind. So it was up to Raven to ensure her steps didn’t falter in the more rickety places. He was planning to fix those, too.
In the meantime, he took Jane’s slender wrist in his grasp and tethered her to his side. Touching her bare skin, he instantly recalled the glove he’d stowed in his pocket. But he wasn’t in a hurry to return it. If she could keep her secret thoughts to herself, then he could keep his.
But when she lifted a round-eyed glance to him and he felt the tender spurring of the pulse nestled against his palm, he reflexively stroked his fingertips over the downy skin to soothe her. “The railing isn’t secure.”
“Even so, you cannot simply seize a woman whenever you wish. You offer her your arm and wait for her to accept,” she chided softly. Slipping free, she maneuvered his arm as one would a puppet in a fantoccini then curled her slender limb around him to rest her hand on his sleeve. “This is the proper way to escort a woman up a questionable set of stairs.”
Dubious, he looked down at the disheveled topknot of golden-brown hair, her head coming only to his shoulder. It seemed that his was the more proper way because, like this, he could feel the warm, small curve of her breast press against his arm through the tailored wool.
“If you say so,” he offered. “But take care on the next tread. It might be loose.”
When she pressed even closer, a grin tugged at his mouth.
Who was he to argue against propriety?
Reaching the first-floor landing, he led them down an L-shaped hallway, the walls stripped to the lath and creaking floors underfoot. These repairs to this old boardinghouse were also on his mile-long list.
His carpentry and pargeting skills were learned primarily by trial and error. Plenty of error. But he found he enjoyed the labor, the process of demolishing and clearing out the old in order to make way for the new. And beyond this door at the end of the hall, everything was new.
The agitation that had been with him downstairs dissipated on a slow exhale of expectancy as he turned the key in the lock.
The door swung open on oiled hinges that no longer screeched like a cat. Candlelight gleamed against cream-colored walls.
Stepping inside, Raven breathed in the scent of fresh paint and admired the gloss of his waxed floor. It had taken a good deal of sweat to make this space shine and there was plenty more work ahead of him as well. But all he could see when he looked around him was a life of his own making.
Puffed with pride, he glanced down at Jane’s upturned heart-shaped face.
Her feathery brows knit together above the slender strip of her mask and her lips formed a frown. “Where is your furniture?”
Clearly, they weren’t seeing the same room.
She slipped her arm from his and he was struck by an uncanny impulse to draw her back, to feel her slight form at his side while he explained the hours he’d spent toiling and cursing and despising crown molding. But instead, he shrugged against the taut bands of tension gathering along his shoulders.
“Most of it was broken and moldering. Sold the lot for a few crowns,” he said and felt the fool for expecting her to marvel at the bare floor and walls when the true show-stopper was in the next room. “Besides, everything I need is just through there.”
Taking the brace from Pickerington, he moved toward the varnished door on the far wall and knew that curiosity would oblige Jane to follow. Then, standing just beyond the threshold, he kept his grin tucked away and waited.
This room was sure to impress even the likes of a pampered debutante. It hosted two tall windows, draped in deep blue brocade. They flanked a wide canopied bed with thick walnut posts that dominated the space. On the far wall stood a round-bellied wardrobe at least twice the size of the rat-infested cupboard that he’d been stuffed into whenever he’d been caught running away from the Devil’s workhouse.
An involuntary shudder slithered through him at the errant memory. He swallowed and shook it off, reminding himself that those days were as far gone as the rubbish he’d cleared out of this room.
He followed Jane’s inquisitive gaze as it skimmed quickly past the bed and to the glossy Chippendale side table with a gold tasseled key resting in the drawer lock. She only gave a cursory glance to his spindled corner washstand, paying no attention to the pristine porcelain basin that didn’t have a single crack or chip along the rim. And he’d wager she didn’t know that the tall, leather wing-backed chair by the hearth was more comfortable than any other chair in the world, he was sure.