brother’s direction. Dulcie could not look away.
“I am only just returned to town, sir. The necessity of assuring his presence never occurred to me.”
Jack lied. He stood under oath to God, and lied--about his brother--the lamplighter. Lies stole the light. Ramsay’s dimmed and shrank.
“And your reason for absenting yourself from London?”
“My sister’s wedding, sir,” Jack said. “I gave the bride away.”
He detailed the events of the evening in question.
Dulcie watched Roger.
As if he felt her stare, he turned and looked at her. The visual connection struck Dulcie as physically as a blow to the chest. Her hand flew to her throat. Dreamlike memories surfaced: fog, the blood, a gun gone off--Roger the lamplighter! He was the mysterious Gargoyle. Agent provocateur!
She could see the truth of it in his eyes as he turned and made for the door.
Slipping from her seat as the proceedings drew to a close, slipping, too, Lydia’s company, she plunged into the crowd that pushed from the gallery down the stairs leading to the street--in pursuit of him--in pursuit of the truth.
Emerging into the temporarily blinding daylight, she ran, quite literally, into her quarry. Strong hands briefly steadied her, sending pulses of energy through her arms, fingertip to shoulder blade, as though she were iron filings and he a magnet, as though a force within pulled her to him.
“Miss Selwyn.” He doffed his hat, the shine of him leaving her breathless.
“I am pleased your brother still lives.”
Like a candle caught in a draft, his eyes, his light, flared wide. Then he had her by the arm, pulled her out of the stream of passing people, to say with a dangerous nonchalance, “As you see, Jack yet breathes, with no inclination towards suicide. He claims never to have met you. Has, in fact, no idea who you are.”
His hand on her arm, linked her to him with a chain of images. Oranges. She saw oranges, rolling across a sunlit floor. A man falling.
She freed her elbow from his grip. “We have never been introduced, but I know you both far better than you might imagine. What I do not understand is how you could sit and say nothing while he lied for you.”
Cobalt flared and then sank to a low glow next to his skin. His lips tightened.
She squinted at the small, round, black silk kissing patch beside his mouth and remembered her dreams of passionate lips that shimmered with suppressed heat.
His eyes narrowed. A provocative half smile moved the patch. “You are all grown up, Miss Selwyn,” he drawled. “But just as full of mad notions as when first we met. You believed me blue on that occasion, did you not? And now?”
“Still blue.” She could not deny what her heart knew to be true, what her fingers had divined more than once. Like a moth to flame, she reached out to touch the low burn of his color, almost to touch the patch at the side of his mouth.
“Not dying,” she murmured, surprised. “Not ill!”
He fell back a step, frowning.
“Your arm!” She touched the air above his shoulder with a sigh. “Heals nicely,” she said with all certainty.
Chapter Twelve
Outside the Old Bailey
Roger glanced about, unnerved. Sharp and cunning, this lovely bit of lunacy kept intruding upon his life. How did she know of his shoulder, recently dislocated? His injury was not common knowledge. That he suffered the pox was. And yet she knew it for a lie.
He had not deceived her when all else were completely fooled.
“Last time we met, you said you saw death, Miss Selwyn.”
“It’s shadow has faded, sir. Now, you carry secrets.”
“We are all possessed of secrets.” He waved his quizzing glass.
“You hide more than most.”
He could not easily brush her aside. Her searching blue eyes frightened him, too keenly knowing, stripping him of all subterfuge. As she stared into the darkest corners of him, words poured from her lips recounting memories--his memories.
“Oranges, rolling across
“I am only just returned to town, sir. The necessity of assuring his presence never occurred to me.”
Jack lied. He stood under oath to God, and lied--about his brother--the lamplighter. Lies stole the light. Ramsay’s dimmed and shrank.
“And your reason for absenting yourself from London?”
“My sister’s wedding, sir,” Jack said. “I gave the bride away.”
He detailed the events of the evening in question.
Dulcie watched Roger.
As if he felt her stare, he turned and looked at her. The visual connection struck Dulcie as physically as a blow to the chest. Her hand flew to her throat. Dreamlike memories surfaced: fog, the blood, a gun gone off--Roger the lamplighter! He was the mysterious Gargoyle. Agent provocateur!
She could see the truth of it in his eyes as he turned and made for the door.
Slipping from her seat as the proceedings drew to a close, slipping, too, Lydia’s company, she plunged into the crowd that pushed from the gallery down the stairs leading to the street--in pursuit of him--in pursuit of the truth.
Emerging into the temporarily blinding daylight, she ran, quite literally, into her quarry. Strong hands briefly steadied her, sending pulses of energy through her arms, fingertip to shoulder blade, as though she were iron filings and he a magnet, as though a force within pulled her to him.
“Miss Selwyn.” He doffed his hat, the shine of him leaving her breathless.
“I am pleased your brother still lives.”
Like a candle caught in a draft, his eyes, his light, flared wide. Then he had her by the arm, pulled her out of the stream of passing people, to say with a dangerous nonchalance, “As you see, Jack yet breathes, with no inclination towards suicide. He claims never to have met you. Has, in fact, no idea who you are.”
His hand on her arm, linked her to him with a chain of images. Oranges. She saw oranges, rolling across a sunlit floor. A man falling.
She freed her elbow from his grip. “We have never been introduced, but I know you both far better than you might imagine. What I do not understand is how you could sit and say nothing while he lied for you.”
Cobalt flared and then sank to a low glow next to his skin. His lips tightened.
She squinted at the small, round, black silk kissing patch beside his mouth and remembered her dreams of passionate lips that shimmered with suppressed heat.
His eyes narrowed. A provocative half smile moved the patch. “You are all grown up, Miss Selwyn,” he drawled. “But just as full of mad notions as when first we met. You believed me blue on that occasion, did you not? And now?”
“Still blue.” She could not deny what her heart knew to be true, what her fingers had divined more than once. Like a moth to flame, she reached out to touch the low burn of his color, almost to touch the patch at the side of his mouth.
“Not dying,” she murmured, surprised. “Not ill!”
He fell back a step, frowning.
“Your arm!” She touched the air above his shoulder with a sigh. “Heals nicely,” she said with all certainty.
Chapter Twelve
Outside the Old Bailey
Roger glanced about, unnerved. Sharp and cunning, this lovely bit of lunacy kept intruding upon his life. How did she know of his shoulder, recently dislocated? His injury was not common knowledge. That he suffered the pox was. And yet she knew it for a lie.
He had not deceived her when all else were completely fooled.
“Last time we met, you said you saw death, Miss Selwyn.”
“It’s shadow has faded, sir. Now, you carry secrets.”
“We are all possessed of secrets.” He waved his quizzing glass.
“You hide more than most.”
He could not easily brush her aside. Her searching blue eyes frightened him, too keenly knowing, stripping him of all subterfuge. As she stared into the darkest corners of him, words poured from her lips recounting memories--his memories.
“Oranges, rolling across
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