Right. At least I could see to the task that had brought me here in the first place. I needed to find the invitation list. A wisp of moonlight zigzagged in a sliver of illumination, making a jagged line over the rug, a chair . . . and a large writing desk.
Listening for the sound of anyone approaching, I set to searching the drawers of the desk. These weren't simple sliding drawers. It took me a few seconds to figure out I had to flip a switch that unlatched the drawer. Then it eased open with a soft purr. Blasted cognoggin thing.
It was too dark to see clearly, but I didn't dare chance lighting the wall sconces. Hopefully the invitation list would be clearly marked and in large enough writing for me to read. She must keep one, for how would-
A beam of light shot into the drawer I was rummaging.
"Needin' a bit o' glim there, luv? 'Ard t'see what yer buzzin' wivout a light."
I looked to my left. He stood there, cloaked in shadow. How had I not heard him? The man moved like a ghost! Only the hint of chin and cheek were visible from the shadows. He held some slender device that aimed light in a narrow beam. Right over my nosy fingers.
"Is that how you found what you were looking for?" I sneaked a sideways glance back down into the illuminated drawer. No invitation list yet.
"I warn't lookin' fer swag, luv," he said, shifting the light as if to give me a better view of his face. "But if ye don' believe me," he said, his voice dropping, "then yer welcome t'turn me over and look fer yerself." His eyes gleamed with humor and challenge. "Surely a bold one like ye'd 'ardly flicker a lash at the doin'."
"I suspect you'd enjoy it entirely too much if I searched you." Blast if my palms didn't go damp at the thought. "But I've no doubt you've found something of value to make off with from Lady Isabella's cache, and I suggest you return it immediately."
"Nay, luv, I ain't got nuffin' on me o' any value nor b'longin' t'anyone but meself," Pix replied, his Cockney so thick I could hardly understand him. "But ne'er say I ain't a gennulman at 'eart. Ye got a rum thin' goin' 'ere, Miss Stoker, but it ain't me place to be makin' like a beak an' judgin' ye on what yer after. I'm cer'n ye 'ave a good reason t'be weedin' through this 'ere desk. 'Low me t'elp ye."
His movements were quick and smooth, and he placed himself on the other side of the enormous desk. Out of my reach, for the moment.
"This drawer here," I said, turning the brass knob that set the mechanism into motion. As Pix beamed the light down, the drawer slid open. I allowed him to think I trusted him enough to accept his assistance. Once I finished searching and his guard had dropped, I could . . . apprehend him?
That train of thought stopped as if it slammed into a brick wall. My throat went dry at the very idea of engaging in any sort of physical contact with him.
"Wot'sa matter, luv?" Pix asked. "Did ye find what yer lookin' fer?"
I returned my attention to the drawer. And there it was. My aimless rummaging had uncovered what looked like a guest list. I snatched it out of the drawer, giving thanks for small favors, and Pix obligingly moved the light closer.
I heard the sound of voices approaching. Someone bumped against the door, and then the knob began to turn. Pix extinguished his light. The door opened, and I ducked behind a long, heavy curtain. So did he.
What were the chances of us both ending up in the same small place? Unbelievable. But there we were, muffled together in close quarters. His strong fingers closed around my arm, and his solid, warm presence rose behind me. I focused on the fact that Lady Cosgrove-Pitt needed a new downstairs maid because the dratted curtain was really dusty. But overriding that musty scent was a pleasant smoky and minty aroma coming from the man behind me.
"Iffen I din't know any better," he murmured in my ear, "I'd be thinkin' you like slippin' into th' dark wiv me. Two nights in a row, is it?"
Right. He'd be so lucky. Still cloaked by the curtain, I moved as far away from him and his arrogance as possible. But I couldn't go far, because two people had entered the chamber. From behind the curtain, I couldn't see anything but a glow of light, which implied the new arrivals had no reason to hide their presence. They were also speaking with no attempt to keep their voices down. Servants. I could tell by their speech and accents.
Pix's soft, warm breath buffeted against my ear and temple, and I had to close my eyes against the distraction. It was almost impossible to keep my breathing steady and my heart from pounding. Drat him anyway.
Was that his mouth against my hair? Just above my ear? I bit my lip as warm sizzles rushed from my sensitive ear down through my body. When I got out of this situation, I was going to drag this rogue of a pickpocket down to Newgate and toss him into a cage myself.
"Ye smell nice," he had the effrontery to say. In my ear. While there were people in the room. "Ver' nice, luv. Like . . . mmm . . . lemonade."
Lemonade? I heard the laughter in his voice and wished I dared to expose him right then and there to whoever was in the room. Blasted man.
Desperate to put some space between us without shifting the curtain, I turned my attention to what was happening beyond the dusty velvet swags. By the conversation, it was obvious two maids had been sent by their mistress to retrieve something from the study. They found whatever they were looking for and left the chamber before Pix created any more mischief behind our curtain.
As soon as the door closed behind them, I flung the velvet panel aside and erupted into the cool, clean air. Thanks to Pix, my cheeks were burning hot. I turned back to confront him, and I heard a soft creak. The curtains moved, and then all at once, I smelled the fresh night air.
No! I got to the open window just in time to see a figure land on the ground one story below. He did a neat somersault and then disappeared into the shadows.
Incensed, I considered going after him. My ear still felt warm, and my palms were damp. I didn't care if I ever saw him again, except to point him out to Scotland Yard. But I still held the invitation list, and that was all that mattered. I had what I came for.
Two minutes later, I finished reading it, and I had at least one answer.
Mayellen Hodgeworth was on the list.
Chapter 7
Miss Holmes
An Unwanted Encounter
The day after the ball at Cosgrove Terrace, I was in my laboratory working on a new project. Like Uncle Sherlock, I spent a great amount of time conducting studies and experiments, and writing treatises. On this particular day, I was making notations for an instructional paper I intended to write regarding the residues of various powders and creams, in particular those found in a woman's boudoir.