Love Between the Lines (31 page)

She tried to draw a deep breath and didn’t succeed. “Is the substance that potent?”

“I wish I knew, but I haven’t attempted to locate a doctor. Perhaps you should consult an expert. If you can locate one.” He twiddled his mustache a few more moments, then pushed himself up from the chair.

For a moment he stood, rocking; then Mr. D. gave her a nervous glance and made a show of taking a watch from his waistcoat. “Gracious, look at the time. Miss Ambermere, I must be on my way. No, no time for tea. I thank you.”

He rocked harder, then said, “Please lock the jewels and the box up, my dear. Keep them safe and away from…people. And sell that box and its powder as soon as possible. I’m having your cousin’s other valuable items delivered this afternoon. Several crates. But I wanted to give you these personally.”

He looked down at the box and put his hands behind his back, as if resisting touching it one last time. With a bow, he declared he’d see himself out, but she walked with him to the door. After bidding him good-bye, she washed her hands.

Mr. Reed and Mr. Clermont.

She shouldn’t have let them into her parlor, and now she couldn’t stop thinking about Mr. Reed’s hands, for heaven’s sake. Or his shoulders. She’d noticed them as well during their visit. His form was muscular, which wasn’t the style at the moment.

Rosalie went to her room, determined to shake her strange distraction and change into an afternoon gown.

She’d wear something less restricting, she thought. She didn’t bother to summon her maid. After struggling to undo the tiny buttons, she threw off her gown and collapsed on the bed for a moment. She ran her hands down her corset.

Such a glum man, Mr. Reed. Why didn’t she have that interesting twist in her belly as she thought of Mr. Clermont, with his easy, sparkling smile and thick, blond hair—he’d obviously appreciated her.

He and Mr. Reed had known each other at school, Mr. Clermont had told her, though they hadn’t been friends. They didn’t appear especially friendly with each other now.

Mr. Reed, despite the interesting handshake, had not been particularly amiable during the visit. He’d been more like a man sitting in a doctor’s waiting room than a visitor to a lady’s parlor. While Mr. Clermont occasionally broke the silence between her bouts of polite chatter to ask about her adopted city of New York, Mr. Reed had stared around the room, gazed at the paintings, and didn’t speak, his dark eyes shadowed. His mouth had been drawn in a straight line, yet his lips were still full. Odd how she could vividly recall the details of a man’s lips days after meeting him.

She fought the languid desire to take off her corset and chemise, and she pushed herself off the bed. Best to go with the uncomplicated brown and cream gown. Something easy to don so she could throw it over her head and yank it on quickly before she gave in to the temptation of getting into bed.

But the thought of Mr. Reed still tugged at her. He had no right to haunt her like this when he’d barely tried to be agreeable during that visit.

Maybe he’d heard that nearly silent, scowling men with unruly black hair were all the rage with hostesses. Or perhaps he hated her sitting room and her refreshments.

Never mind. They were gone, and she had been the one to push them out of her house. Not literally, of course, but she knew how to get rid of undesirable men.

It had been difficult. First she’d allowed her conversation to lapse into yawn-inducing dullness. She spoke of lace and bobbles and the price of shoes and watched Clermont’s eyes glaze over. Interestingly enough, Mr. Reed’s expression didn’t change, although she wondered if perhaps she’d caught a small smile at one point.

And Mr. Reed’s other smile. She’d forgotten it. Recalling it made her grin like a lunatic.

He hadn’t been stern the whole time. Late in the visit, Rosalie had been sitting on the bog oak sofa, and Mr. Clermont had joined her there, gradually shifted closer to her. He’d actually brushed his fingertips across her nape, making some remark about the way she bundled her hair loosely.

Rosalie had twisted away from him. She’d widened her eyes and contorted her mouth—a comic contortion—aiming the look of mock alarm at Miss Renshaw.

The older lady hadn’t noticed. Rosalie’s companion was present in body and her brown eyes were open, but her mind, as usual, had wandered to more interesting places.

But Mr. Reed had met her eyes and must have seen Rosalie’s silly grimace. That had to explain his sudden grin—a real one that lit his eyes and showed white, nearly even teeth. His expression was unexpectedly sweet, entirely transforming his forbidding features. Of course she had to grin back, and their exchanged smiles had felt like a shared amusement, a joke they both appreciated.

The smile had vanished almost at once when Clermont touched Rosalie’s arm and murmured some more compliments at her—the man was a confirmed murmurer.

She’d managed to drive the two men out of her parlor soon after that by using her proven tactic of more boring conversation followed by some plain speaking. Nothing so unladylike as telling them to go away, of course.

But would she have pushed so hard to make them leave if Mr. Reed had sat that close to her? Absurd notion, but the thought of him so near her that she might feel his breath on her neck, taste it with her mouth, made her own breath come fast and shallow, causing something inside her to stir and grow heavy.

Mr. Reed might have been standing right in front of her, smiling, his strong fingers reaching to touch her. Perhaps if
his
hand trailed across her nape…

“No more of this,” she said aloud.

Determined to shake her strange mood, she rang for Murphy to help with the buttons in the back of the gown and to fix her chignon. The chatty maid was a marvel at driving unwelcome thoughts from one’s head.

The rest of the afternoon had no more strange sensations or visitors, unless one counted the cursing Italian carriers who came to the back entrance with several wooden crates.

Rosalie ordered the crates to be placed in the library and then forgot about them. She had no idea what else Johnny had left her—and after the peculiar restlessness she’d felt after touching the box, she wasn’t eager to find out.

After dinner, Rosalie sat in the drawing room, sorting letters, when Miss Renshaw knocked firmly on the door and strode in without waiting for a response.

“Is something the matter?” Rosalie asked. Miss Renshaw usually scratched at a door and entered a room as if unsure of her welcome.

“Ah, Rosalie! Isn’t it all marvelous?”

Rosalie had been requesting Miss Renshaw use her Christian name for a year, without success. She put down the letters and examined her companion. As always, Miss Renshaw wore a cheerful expression, but not her usual unfocused smile. Her eyes were hungry and alert. With her rather beaky nose, she resembled a fierce hunting bird.

Miss Renshaw closed her eyes and shivered as if she had twisted her whole body into some kind of new, tight-fitting gown. Her cheeks, normally rather pale, were almost as rosy as her pink brocade gown.

“Miss Renshaw? Are you well?” A sudden unpleasant suspicion seized Rosalie. “What have you been doing since dinner?”

“I was straightening your desk. And looking through two crates of his lordship’s…er… There is a sculpture that quite made me blush.”

Beels came in with the fresh bottle of ink Rosalie had asked him to fetch. Miss Renshaw, already glowing like a lamp, brightened. “Beels.” She gave him a wide, toothy smile. He put down the bottle and took a step back. Miss Renshaw laughed, a loud peal unlike her usual polite ripple of laughter. “No really, I shan’t harm you. I declare, you are skittish. Mr. Beels.”

“Miss Renshaw. Emily.” Rosalie spoke sharply to get her attention. “This is important. Did you look in the box? I mean, a red, well-polished little box on my desk?”

“The wooden one. Yes. My dear Rosalie. What is your Christian name, Beels? Yes, yes, I recall. Horace. The so-wise poet. A lovely name.”

Beels started to edge toward the door. Miss Renshaw went after him and clasped his sleeve with her pale fingers. “Please. Do stay. I would so like something cool and refreshing.” Her gaze fixed on his mouth, she inched closer to him.

“Ma’am. Miss,” he pleaded, looking over Miss Renshaw’s head at Rosalie.

Rosalie nodded to him. “You may go. Please bring us some lemonade.” Panic and laughter clawed at her throat—she wasn’t sure which was going to win the battle inside her.

Miss Renshaw’s overbright eyes gleamed. Rosalie called after Beels. “And if Cook can spare some ice, please put a few shards in the lemonade. I believe it should be made as cold as possible.”

He left. Miss Renshaw stood swaying for a moment before she drifted to the sofa.

“Miss Renshaw, this is important. Did you open the box?” Rosalie asked as soon as the door closed.

“Yes. And the other box inside was difficult to open too. I couldn’t even open the little container. When I shook it, I heard a tiny rattle. Perhaps they were beans? I do wonder what was in that, my dear. I feel so very odd.” Miss Renshaw ran her fingertips over her mouth, as if feeling the shape and texture of her thin lips. “Some dust was on the outside of the container. It was so…” Her voice trailed off, and she heaved another deep sigh. “It’s lovely. Gold and purple dust. Heavy substance, light dust. Whatever is inside created that dust, I believe, but I don’t think it’s an opiate, for I’m not at all sleepy. I do think it contains something powerful, however.”

“I think so as well.” Rosalie remembered Mr. Dorsey and his dire warnings. Perhaps he hadn’t exaggerated after all.

Her companion was back on her feet. She spread her thin arms wide and threw back her head, tottering a little like a child who’d turned in circles until she was too dizzy to stand upright. As a rule, Miss Renshaw had very little conversation. She was even quieter than Mr. Reed. Now she chattered and looked about, alert and without a trace of her sleepy manner.

“I don’t believe I’ve felt this alive in years. I’m so very hungry.”

“Please, sit down. I’ll order some food as well as lemonade. Cook just made a poppy seed cake.”

“I couldn’t sit still, and I’m not hungry for something so silly as cake. No, no, I don’t want that. Oh. Something more. Something new.” She shivered again. And her hands strayed to her throat to stroke the skin there, then slowly, slowly traveled over her breasts.

Miss Renshaw’s eyes were closed, and she seemed not to care that a horrified Rosalie watched her.

Beels returned with the lemonade.

He put down the tray and glanced at the door. Rosalie jumped to her feet in case Miss Renshaw tried to go after him again. Watching her companion, she said, “Thank you, Beels. That will be all for now.”

He didn’t run from the room, but he moved more quickly than his usual stately progress.

Miss Renshaw picked up a glass and pressed it to her forehead. “Cold. Perfect.” She pulled a chip of ice from the drink and sucked on it. Water dribbled down her wrists and chin. She sucked harder.

Rosalie stared. Miss Renshaw usually had exquisite manners. The lady nibbled her food and barely touched a roll with her fingers at meals. Now she gulped down the lemonade as if she were dying of thirst.

“Delicious,” she said brightly. “I’m quite refreshed, and now I think I shall go for a stroll.”

“No.” Rosalie’s panic surfaced. “You can’t leave when you’re under the influence of this peculiar substance. I think it best you go to your bedroom and sleep.”

“Sleep? La, Rosalie, it is madness to sleep when I feel this—It was this substance, you say? I’m alive for the first time since I was a girl.” She laughed. “Sleep? No, thank you.”

“Please. Miss Renshaw. You are not yourself tonight, and I think you’ll regret going out.” She hoped she’d put enough iron in her voice to make it clear it was a threat.

“No.” Miss Renshaw still smiled brightly.

Rosalie tried again. “If you leave this house in this state, I will have to find a new companion. I will dismiss you.”

“Really?” Miss Renshaw raised her thin brows. “I must be behaving very badly, then.” She didn’t sound at all concerned.

“It isn’t your fault.” Rosalie decided to tell the whole truth. “You see, the dust that you touched awakens certain animal appetites in people.”

“Aha. That explains a great deal!” Miss Renshaw laughed. “How amusing to think we are animals after all. How long will this effect last?”

“I don’t know, Miss Renshaw. I wish I did.” She had the appalling thought that the effect would never go away, but then she recalled Mr. Dorsey, who’d obviously opened the box and overcome its influence. For a horrifying moment, she imagined him in an aroused state similar to this, but pushed the image out of her mind.

Miss Renshaw still pirouetted toward the door, and Rosalie had to speak loudly to make herself heard over the waltz her companion hummed. “But I hope you understand it is for your own good that I will, um, put a guard outside your door.”

The companion’s brightness dimmed. “My own good,” she said. “All my life, everything that has been for my own good has not been at all amusing or interesting. Did you know that?”

“Miss Renshaw. Emily. I am sorry. I understand what you are saying. But do you truly wish to become disgraced? Lose your good name and possibly even your virtue?” Good God, she sounded like her father when he had lectured her about her meetings with Cousin Johnny, but Rosalie pressed on. “What might happen should you give in to baser impulses?”