LITMIR.BIZ

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the thickness of the casing beneath his jacket belying the injury. His other arm was positioned above his head, the gold ring on his finger seen in the light.

      Not a robbery then. Not a targeted wealthy man who had come to the wrong place at the wrong time and run into one of the shady characters off Whitechapel Road. Someone he knew had done this, a strike from behind without a notion that it was about to happen.

      Walking to the bed, she took the bag and flicked open the buckles. Surprise made her eyes widen. Nothing lay inside, every pocket emptied and all the compartments clean. The perpetrator had been after this then, the contents of the satchel, and for such information had been willing to kill. Loud shouting made her stiffen, the sound of boots coming up the steep stairwell and voices in the night.

      With only a whisper of noise she crossed from the room to the doorway and let herself out. She couldn’t be found like this—in the garb of a street boy with a weapon in her belt—and she did not have the time in hand to make it up the next flight of stairs to safety without being noticed. With care she picked the lock of the room opposite and eased herself through the door. No one was in the bed and for that she was more than thankful. Dulling the noise of the closing door with the cloth in her jacket, she jimmied her foot up against the wood and flipped the latch.

      * * *

      Nat did not move a muscle from the alcove he stood in by the window, his breath shallow. Outside the noises were getting louder and inside the intruder stayed immobile. Was the newcomer a child? A youth of the house, perhaps, trying to escape the nefarious pursuits as best he could? The glint of a knife told him otherwise and he was across the room before the other knew it, his hand hitting out at the arm that was raised and knocking the weapon away.

      He knew it was Cassandra Northrup even before she turned, the scent and the feel of her, the knowledge of each other burning bright. Bringing her against him, he felt the lines of her body even as she fought him, the fuller contours unfamiliar.

      ‘Stop, Sandrine.’ Whispered. Danger was everywhere and the discovery of a lady within the confines of such iniquity would be scandalous. Her breath was ragged, the warmth of it against his hand where he held it flat across her mouth.

      She stilled, as much to listen to the noises outside the door as to obey him, her head tipped to the wood, jumping as a heavy knock sounded against it.

      ‘Don’t open it. A man is dead and I cannot be found like this.’ Whispered and frightened behind his fingers, the quicksilver change into a woman startling.

      ‘Hell.’ He let her go. She filled out the boy’s clothes much more generously these days, though the thinness was still there, too.

      ‘Take everything off and get under the covers.’ Already he was peeling away his own clothes, throwing each piece against a chair. Randomly. Trying to give the impression of haste and passion mixed in a room that was conducive to neither.

      ‘Sex,’ he said as he saw she was not moving. ‘This place expects it.’

      He pulled one dusty quilt off the bed and hung it over the other chair, hopeful in hiding the fact that female attire was missing. On a quick glance an observant onlooker would imagine them beneath.

      ‘Open up.’ A voice of authority. Probably the law.

      It was enough to make her decide as her fingers flew to the buttons of her jacket and shirt, the lawn chemise beneath left on as she added her boots to the pile of clothes.

      He brought those beneath the sheets with them, her body underneath his, concealed. He heard her gasp as the door opened, the correct key finally fitting the lock and giving way.

      ‘What the hell...?’ He barely needed to feign the anger as he looked around, two men in the uniform of the constabulary and the woman he had seen downstairs accompanying them. ‘Get out, immediately.’ He made himself sound breathless, the full blush of ardour in the words, a client in the middle of a ‘paid for’ assignation and surprised by the interruption. He also used his most aristocratic tones, the persona of a simple fellow disappearing into expediency. And carefully he shielded her from view.

      He knew he had them as they faltered, a rush of apology. ‘I am sorry, sir, but there has been a murder just reported in the house. If you could get dressed and come downstairs, we need to ask you some questions.’

      Releasing a long rush of air, Nat nodded. ‘Give me a few minutes and I shall be down.’ No entreaty in it. Just authority.

      The door closed behind them.

      Silence.

      Warmth.

      Her skin against his own.

      And then a curse. In French.

      He pulled away and stood, making no attempt at hiding his body. ‘Did you kill him?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘But you know who did?’

      She shook her head.

      ‘God.’

      ‘Why did you help me?’

      ‘Misguided instinct, though I am certain I shall now pay for such kindness. Is there a way out of here that does not involve going downstairs?’ He reached for his clothes and began to dress.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Then I would advise you to take it.’

      Already she was up, her shirt and jacket quickly donned, the boots following.

      ‘I will expect you tomorrow.’

      ‘Pardon?’

      ‘At eleven p.m. Through the window of my town house to explain all this to me. Properly.’

      ‘And if I refuse?’

      ‘Then I will come to see you instead.’

      ‘I will be there.’

      ‘I thought so.’

      ‘Will you be able to manage...everything?’

      ‘Easily.’

      She smiled. ‘I always liked your certainty, Monsieur Nathanael Colbert.’

      The music inherent in the way she said his name made him stiffen, and then she was gone.

      * * *

      His indiscretion was all over the town by midday, a lord of the first water visiting a brothel in the back streets of one of the worst areas of London and being caught out in doing so.

      ‘You should have sent for me to come with you, Nat,’ Stephen said as they sat in his library drinking brandy. ‘Why the hell did you think to go there in the first place?’

      ‘A man whom the prostitutes thought was acting strangely had been seen in the vicinity for each of the last two nights. They said he had slept at the brothel and was tall and well to do.’

      ‘Was the dead man our murderer at the river, then?’

      ‘No. He was short and stocky with ginger hair.’

      ‘Memorable.’

      ‘Exactly.’

      Hawk suddenly smiled and leaned forward. ‘There is something else I am missing here, Nat. It’s the youngest Northrup daughter, isn’t it? She was there at Whitechapel with you?’

      Nathaniel ignored the query.

      ‘The man killed at Brown Street last night was in the room opposite to mine and I heard nothing.’

      ‘You paid for a room?’

      ‘With a wide view of the street below. If the same man the girls spoke of was there, I would have seen him, Hawk, but I didn’t.’

      ‘Do you think the murder was related to our case?’

      ‘Perhaps. The contents of the dead man’s satchel was missing, though I found this in the corridor

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