Amanda Quick - Quicksilver

“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.

Owen returned to Garnet Lane that evening in an anonymous hired carriage. Virginia was waiting for him. She wore a hooded cloak against the chill of the night. He sensed the mix of excitement and foreboding that animated her. When he took her gloved hand to assist her into the carriage he could have sworn that electricity sparked between them. The hair stirred on the nape of his neck.

They spoke little on the drive to the quiet street where Mrs. Ratford had rented a small house, but Owen was intensely conscious of Virginia’s nearness the entire time. He would have given a great deal to know if she felt the same sense of awareness.

When they reached their destination he sent the carriage on its way. There would be other cabs about later, when they left the scene of the murder.

There was an empty, shuttered feeling about the house where Mrs. Ratford had died. The curtains were drawn closed across the windows.

“You’re certain there is no one home?” Virginia asked.

“I checked again earlier today. The house is still vacant. The rumors concerning the former occupant’s death have probably made it difficult to attract new tenants. Prospective renters are no doubt reluctant to move into a house in which the previous resident may have been dispatched by spirits from the Other Side.”

Virginia looked at him. A gas lamp burned close by in the mist, but he could not see her face clearly. Her features were shadowed by the hood of her cloak.

“There are always rumors about those of us who read mirrors,” she said. “Many people are convinced that we see ghosts and spirits. They do not understand that what we perceive are simply afterimages caught in the glass. Mirrors are nothing more than paranormal cameras that capture some of the energy given off at the time of death or near death.”

“I understand.”

They went down the alley behind Number Fourteen. Owen opened the gate that guarded the tiny garden. They went up the back steps. Owen inserted the lock pick into the kitchen door. The lock gave way immediately.

“May I ask where one buys that sort of tool?” Virginia asked.

He smiled a little at the bright curiosity in her voice.

“This particular pick was crafted by one of my uncles. He has a knack for that sort of thing.”

“Yours is an interesting family, sir.”

“That is certainly one way to describe my relatives.” He opened the door and listened for a moment with all of his senses. “Still vacant.”

Virginia moved past him to enter the house. He heard the soft, sultry swish of the ruffles at the hem of her gown as they brushed across the toe of his boot. Her scent briefly clouded his mind. He was aroused not just by the anticipation of the hunt but by the woman who shared it with him tonight.

He followed her into the narrow hall, closed the door and turned up the lantern he had brought along. The light did little to alleviate the heavy gloom.

“Death always affects a house, doesn’t it?” Virginia looked around. “One can sense it in the atmosphere.”