Bronwyn Scott - Reckless Rakes - Hayden Islington

Hayden squared his shoulders, survey complete, and trod through the snow, leaving fresh, deep boot prints behind in his march to the door. He dropped the heavy knocker, a brass affair of a carved lion’s head, against the door, estimating the cost of such a thing as it fell. It would take two years’ salary for a mill worker to afford something as luxurious as this knocker which was nothing more than ornamental decoration to the wealthy.

The door opened, answered by a greying, dignified fellow who inquired about his business in quiet but authoritative tones. The hush of his tones took some of the power out of Hayden’s anger. “I’m here to see Miss Priess. She is expecting me.” Hayden handed the man his card and stepped inside, taking away the butler’s option to decide.

The first thing he noticed was the silence. It extended beyond the butler to encompass the entire house. There was none of the usual noise of a big home; no maids polishing bannisters and dusting mantels, no clink of silver being counted. There were a hundred casual sounds a house made and this home made none of them except one. Hayden could hear every tick of the long case clock tucked beneath the curve of the staircase.

The butler led him to a room near the stairs. Hayden could feel his anger dissipating with every step. Anger was a loud emotion. It didn’t fit in these quiet surroundings. The butler left him with the promise that Miss Priess would be down shortly and the encouragement to make himself at home. It wouldn’t be hard to do. The room was done in dark blues and creams and with all the necessary appointments of a sitting room — sofa, chairs, fireplace, a low table for serving refreshments, a sideboard with a decanter for the men, who likely made up the majority of callers in an industrialist’s home. But Hayden had no intention of remaining there no matter how attractive the room’s offerings.

Something was off. The pieces of this particular puzzle didn’t fit. Something was a lie, or someone was a liar and that liar wasn’t necessarily Jenna Priess. That did cause a spark of hope to flare up. Perhaps his intuition hadn’t failed him after all. Perhaps there was more at work here than he was aware. He wouldn’t know if he stayed tucked away safely in this room. Then again, his more cynical side asserted itself, maybe that was the function of this pleasant room with its fire and brandy and window overlooking the snowy lawn — to be so comfortable, so welcoming, one wouldn’t want to see what lay beyond the foyer.

A good investigator understood that truth was best discovered in its raw form first hand. If one waited for others to bring ‘truth’ to them, it was seldom unadulterated. Hayden took to the stairs. At the top of the landing, he picked up the sound of quiet voices further down the hall. He recognized Jenna’s. The other was hoarse and sounded as if it required effort to talk in long sentences. Her father maybe? Hayden edged towards the partially open door in time to catch the sound of a wracking cough and Jenna’s swift reassurances. He could hear the rustle of skirts and bed linens; pillows being propped, the sound of water being poured into a glass, a sigh of relief.

“There, there, take a deep breath, that’s it.” Jenna’s voice was soothing, gentle, a different variation of the tones she’d used with him. “Drink some more water and try to sleep. You’ll be fine.”

She was moving towards the door. There was no point in pretending he hadn’t been eavesdropping, or in making a run for the stairs. In a few seconds she would step out and see him. Hayden crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall to wait.

She showed only moderate surprise when she stepped outside the room and saw him. The softness went out of her eyes and they became the hard green jewels he’d seen last night. “I thought you were told to wait downstairs.” Her tone was harsh, no gentle soothing tones for him. But perhaps she knew what he’d seen and was already on the defensive. Suddenly, what he’d seen at the mill mattered less than the context of it. He wouldn’t get any information from her if he argued with her.

Hayden gave a nod in the direction of the door. “Will he? Be fine?” Coughs in winter could be deadly things and from her own indications yesterday this one had already outstayed its welcome.

“Yes.” She said without equivocation, her eyes daring him to challenge her response. She stepped in front of him and began the trip back downstairs with brisk purpose. He understood the desire to lead him away from that room, but he could not assume the motivation. Was she leading him away from her father out of desire to protect him in his illness from unnecessary stress or to protect herself? Perhaps she didn’t want news of what he might have seen at the mill to trickle to her father.

Hayden filed that bit of information away. Whatever else she was, Jenna Priess was a protector not unlike a lioness or mother bear looking after their young. While that sounded noble in theory, Hayden knew very well that protecting often extended to lying or other extreme measures. Whether she meant to be or not, Jenna Priess was dangerous. The sway of those hips as they marched downstairs was potent temptation — he was obligated to consider she might move like that on purpose. Would she stoop to seducing him in exchange for his silence? It was an interesting prospect and a tantalizing proposition even when he was supposed to maintain professional objectivity.

In the sitting room, a tea tray waited for them and Jenna took a seat on the dark blue sofa to pour. She might have been posed for a portrait, so well matched was the blue and green plaid of her wool afternoon gown to the décor of the room, and the neatness with which her hair was pulled into a chignon at the nape of her neck. Her chestnut hair shined with a healthy, well-kept sheen and she presented the womanly ideal of domestic tranquility as she presided over tea. Unfortunately for her, an investigator saw those efforts rather differently.

Perhaps she’d dressed purposefully for this interview knowing precisely the visual effect she would have on him — a feminine effect that would soften her conversational opener and perhaps derail any cynical thoughts he might be entertaining. Her ploys might have worked too except for the fact that he’d already been betrayed by a woman and had a certain level of awareness if not immunity. Today had proven Logan was right. He was susceptible to pretty faces; a pretty face was one of life’s little joys, but perhaps this time he would be wiser sooner to what might lie behind one.

Jenna gestured to the decanters on the sideboard and Hayden felt the stirrings of a thorough arousal. “There is brandy if you’d like something stronger with your tea than sugar and cream.” What man didn’t dream of a woman who anticipated even the slightest of his needs? And here one sat, looking like a domestic angel if one discounted those eyes and that mouth. Her eyes were too alive, too assessing and that mouth was too sensual with its full lower lip as proven. No, angel wasn’t quite the word to describe Jenna Priess.

She finished assembling her tea and waited for him to be seated after a trip to the decanters before she took a sip and fixed him with a stare over her cup. “How was your visit with the foreman?” If she knew what he would see and how it would affect him, she pulled the question off beautifully without any tell-tale signs of feigned nonchalance.

Hayden matched his response to hers, tamping down the initial surge of anger that had fueled him on the way over. “I did not speak with him.”

She set her cup down on the table and gave him a hard stare. “Why ever not?” It was said as more of a challenge than a question, as if she thought he’d might not have been resourceful enough to manage an unannounced visit.