Quicksilver

EIGHT

Virginia left the bookshop a short time later. It was late afternoon, but the fog had brought on an early twilight. The buildings on either side of the narrow street loomed in the eerie gray dusk. The vaporous mist was so thick that she did not notice the carriage in front of her town house until she was close to the front steps.

Owen vaulted down from the cab and came toward her. He wore a long, dark coat and a low-crowned hat pulled down over his eyes. At the sight of him, a thrill of excitement flared deep inside her. It had been this way when he had walked into her study yesterday. She responded to his presence in a way that was new and intoxicating to her senses. It was also somewhat disorienting. She had never experienced this reaction around any other man.

She paused at the bottom of her front steps, aware of a pleasant sensation that she had not experienced for a very long time. It took her a heartbeat or two to recognize the feeling. In spite of recent events, she felt happy, a little exhilarated.

She smiled. “Mr. Sweetwater. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I have been waiting for you,” he said coldly. “Your housekeeper told me that you had gone to visit a friend.”

The sparkling excitement inside her was instantly transformed into irritation. The one great, extremely positive aspect of spinsterhood, she thought, was that a woman was not obliged to answer to any man.

“I am returning from paying a call on a very good friend,” she said crisply. “Not that it is any of your affair, sir.”

“Under the circumstance, I had hoped that you would have the good sense to exercise some caution when it comes to your daily schedule. I told you that I have people watching your house at night, but I did not think it necessary during the day.”

She raised her chin. “What did you expect, sir? That I would lock myself in the house and sit by the fire until you concluded your investigation? I’m afraid that will not be possible. I have a living to make.”

“I comprehend that fact. But I do not like the idea of you going out, unescorted, while there is a killer running around who preys on women with your talent.”

“I am not an idiot, Mr. Sweetwater. This afternoon I walked along crowded streets and spent some time in the company of my friend in a shop. I was never alone at any time. I did not stroll down dark alleys or take shortcuts through empty parks. I even managed to refrain from accepting rides in carriages with strangers. Not that any strangers offered me a ride.”

He contemplated her with faintly narrowed eyes. “You are correct, of course. I have no right to tell you how to go about your daily life.”

“Is that an apology?”

“No, an observation. There is no point in my apologizing, because I will very likely lecture you again on the same subject in the near future. You can probably place a wager on it.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m trying to keep you safe and catch a killer, damn it. And because between the two of us, I am the one who has had some experience in dealing with the monsters.”

“I do realize that your intentions are honorable, sir,” she said, gentling her voice a little. “The problem we have is that you are obviously accustomed to issuing orders, and I am not at all accustomed to taking them.”

“I can see that.”

“I’m certain we shall muddle through. Now, then, why did you come here to see me today? Have you some news?”

For a moment she thought he was going to ignite the embers of their disagreement into a full-blown quarrel. But evidently concluding that he did not have logic on his side, he abandoned the field. She suspected the retreat was only temporary.

“Later tonight I would like you to accompany me on a visit to the house of one of the glass-readers who was murdered, Mrs. Ratford,” he said. “I noticed at least two mirrors on the premises when I went inside. Perhaps you will be able to perceive something helpful in one of them.”

Anticipation ghosted through her. “Yes, of course.” She went up the steps to the front door. “There is no reason to stand around out here. Won’t you come in? I’m sure Mrs. Crofton will want to serve tea. I fear that if I do not invite a few more guests into the house, she will grow bored and quit.”

Mrs. Crofton opened the door. She gave Virginia a disapproving look.

“Mr. Sweetwater has been waiting for you, ma’am.”

“Yes, I know, Mrs. Crofton,” Virginia said. She removed her bonnet and stepped into the hall. “It is his own fault. He did not send word that he intended to call this afternoon.”

“I invited him to wait in the parlor and offered tea, but he declined,” Mrs. Crofton said. “He and his carriage have been standing in the street for nearly forty-five minutes.”

“I understand, Mrs. Crofton.” Virginia put some steel into her words. “You may serve tea to him now. We will be in my study.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mrs. Crofton took Owen’s hat and gloves with a solicitous air. “I have some tarts fresh out of the oven that will go nicely with the tea.”

Owen smiled at her. “That sounds wonderful, Mrs. Crofton. I haven’t eaten in hours.”

Mrs. Crofton beamed and sailed away in the direction of the kitchen.

Owen followed Virginia down the hall. This was only his second time on the premises, but she was acutely aware that he seemed very much at ease in her house now, as if he were in the home of a longtime friend. Or the home of his lover. Where in blazes had that thought come from? She had obviously spent far too much time discussing treatments for female hysteria with Charlotte today.

“Your housekeeper is an interesting woman,” Owen said. He sounded amused.

“I’m afraid Mrs. Crofton does not really approve of me,” Virginia confided as she led the way into the study. “She has recently come down in the world, you see. Her previous employer was a wealthy woman who moved in exclusive circles. Sadly, the lady was somewhat absentminded. She died owing her staff several quarters’ worth of back wages.”

“Let me hazard a guess. The heirs saw no reason to pay the back wages.”

“No. Poor Mrs. Crofton found herself without funds and without a post. She was obliged to accept the first position that came along. I’m afraid the post was in the household of a woman who not only conducts business but often does so at night.”

“You.”

“Indeed.” Virginia sat down behind her desk.

Owen lowered himself into one of the reading chairs with a fluid, masculine grace that struck Virginia as decidedly sensual. She realized that he had brought an aura of energy into the room that stirred her senses.

“Have you considered letting Mrs. Crofton go and perhaps replacing her with an employee who might not be so concerned with her own social status?” he asked.

She took a grip on her overheated imagination and forced herself to pay attention to the conversation.

“That would be quite impossible,” she explained. “Those in service are every bit as concerned with their social standing as those who move in society. Besides, Mrs. Crofton is an excellent housekeeper. I am very fortunate to have her.”

Laughter glittered in Owen’s eyes. “I have the impression she is well aware of that.”

Virginia sighed. “Yes, and there is no doubt but that she can do better than this household. In fact, between you and me, I am quite certain that I will not have her much longer.”

“Why do you say that?”

“She received a letter earlier this week. I could not help but notice the return address. The letter was from the Billings Agency. That is the agency that sent her to me. I have a feeling that Mrs. Billings now has a better post to offer Mrs. Crofton. But enough of my domestic problems. Did you learn anything when you examined the clockwork carriage?”

“A few things,” he said, “but I’m not sure any will prove helpful. The quality of the materials used to construct the device and the fine detailing are reminiscent of some of the elaborate clockwork curiosities crafted during the Renaissance. That leads me to believe that the person who created the carriage considers himself to be a true artist.”

“But the carriage is a weapon, not a work of art.”

“The distinction between the artist and the armorer has not always been obvious. During the Renaissance, fine weapons were produced that were also masterpieces of craftsmanship. There is a long tradition of swords and armor and daggers that are encrusted with jewels and detailed with gold.”

“Have you started searching for the clock maker?”

“I’ve asked my cousin Nicholas Sweetwater to pursue that angle of the investigation.”

“There are no doubt a great many clock makers in London.”

“Yes,” he said. “But Nick has a talent for that sort of hunting.”

Owen went home an hour later, satiated by the excellent tea and tarts that Mrs. Crofton had served, and energized by the time spent with Virginia. He could grow accustomed to calling regularly on Number Seven Garnet Lane, he reflected.