Chapter Seven
Either Hazel wasdelirious in the wake of her world travels, coupled with a full day of investigative work, or the Duke of Arden was staring at her mouth. Her lips parted, a slow breath escaping her as her heart pounded.
The hour was late.
She and Arden had been alone in his study for an indeterminate span of time. The servants had all retired for the evening, leaving the house in a hushed state, which was interrupted by nothing save the ticking of a mantel clock and the occasional din of the street.
A frisson of awareness slid through her. A desperate, mad yearning pulsed from deep within. It was the sort of longing she had not experienced in years. The sort she never, as a rule, allowed herself to even contemplate. And for a wild moment, she imagined leaning toward Arden, brushing her lips over his.
Then she recalled why such fancies were not just wrong, but impossible. She cleared her throat and returned her gaze to the map laid out upon the surface of his massive desk. The London streets blurred, bisected by railways which formed the arteries of the city.
“Are the bulk of the railways underground, then?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer for herself, having pored over half a dozen London travel guides prior to her arrival.
“Most of them, yes,” he answered, his voice sounding strained. “They run through a network of tunnels built beneath the city streets.”
His finger, which had been still upon the map, traced over the railways, stopping just short of grazing hers where it lay over Leadenhall and Fenchurch Streets. She bit her lip, staring at his hand, so large and so near to hers. Another disastrous urge swept through her, strong and sudden. The impulse to slide her hand atop his, to touch his heat and strength, to feel a man’s fingers laced through hers after so long… It was as overwhelming as it was ruinous.
“The Inner Circle,” she forced herself to elaborate, irritated by the breathless state of her voice, clearly discernible to her own ears.
“So named, because they run in a circular pattern over most of the city’s interior,” he agreed. “From Aldgate here,” he paused as his finger slid along the map, trailing over the stations as he named them, “to Bishopsgate, all the way to King’s Cross, then onward to Baker Street…Praed Street Station…” He continued, until his finger reached Mansion House. This time, when he returned to Aldgate, his finger did graze hers, and there it lingered. “And back to Aldgate once more.”
One small touch, his forefinger against hers, and she felt as if she had been set aflame. Her awareness of every sense was heightened to an almost painful level. The divine scent of citrus-laden musk struck her. Her heart beat faster. Heat pooled in her belly, and lower still, between her thighs. Her nipples went hard. She could hear the hitch in her own breathing, just above the ticking mantel clock and the frantic thud of her heart.
She ought to move her finger away, to sever the connection and effectively reverse whatever spell he had seemingly cast upon her. Yet, some wickedness within her considered moving away a retreat. A failure. And she could not bear to be bested by Arden. Could not possibly allow him to see how very much he affected her.
Hazel forced herself to remain still. To focus upon the case and the very real possibility the Emerald Club was about to send a group of men to London to wreak havoc upon the underground railway as she had been led to believe by her investigations.
“The trains run all day in steady intervals, correct?” she asked.
“Correct,” he confirmed, his voice a deep rumble near her ear. “They begin at six o’clock in the morning and end close to midnight, with the fastest time in between trains running from eight o’clock in the morning through eight in the evening.”
She swallowed, her gaze fixed upon the map, but in truth, also his finger, still touching hers. Why had he yet to move it? More importantly, why did she not simply remove hers?
“That is an incredibly high volume of daily travelers and stops,” she observed.
“A staggering amount,” he agreed, his baritone sending a shiver straight through her.
His voice seemed even nearer now. So too, the heat from his tall, masculine form. Inexplicably, the memory of his well-defined thighs, long legs, and broad shoulders hit her.Pure, sensual torture.Why did she torment herself? Even if she was attracted to the Duke of Arden, she could never act upon her wayward impulses.
Never, she told herself sternly.Only think of what happened with Adam.
Attempting to keep the tremor from her voice, she mustered up yet another query. Another means of distraction. “How many, do you suppose, Arden?”
“I cannot begin to guess, Miss Montgomery. Something such as one hundred thousand passengers a day, I would venture to say.”
“One hundred thousand in a day,” she repeated, a swift rush of futility assailing her. “With so many people traveling about the city, and so many stops, it will be impossible to keep a bombing from occurring. Surveillance on such a grand scheme is difficult and costly, which is precisely what McKenna is counting upon.”
Silence descended upon them once more. But still, neither of them moved. His presence burned into her back in the same way the fleshy pad of his lone finger seared hers.
“Unless we have names or aliases to trace, the best we can do is prepare ourselves for the inevitable.” His tone was bleak. “And from what you have said, you have only one here in London.”
The Nightingale, yes, and unfortunately, the trail leading to him was sparse at best. Though Arden’s words were a reflection of the awful realization dawning in her own mind, she did not want to hear them. Before she had found herself in the vast, thriving metropolis of London, she had been hopeful her information could thwart the attacks almost certainly being plotted by McKenna. But what she had witnessed today, coupled with the map before her, and the knowledge she had gleaned from her guide book and Arden himself, suggested the impracticality of doing so.
“I do not know the identity of The Nightingale,” she said, wishing she had more information to rely upon. But given the secrecy of the Emerald Club, it was a miracle she had managed to obtain what she had. “I overheard a discussion concerning a trip to London for two. This was in conjunction with discussion of Praed Street and other stations. McKenna’s closest and most trusted friend is a man named William Flanagan, and though I do not have conclusive evidence of it, I suspect he is the man who is tasked with choosing members for various missions.”
Deciding she had played the coward for too long, she lifted her finger from the map, then turned to face Arden. To her shock, he had drifted even closer than she had supposed, rendering them uncomfortably near. Uncomfortable in the most delicious way possible.
Her breath caught. His expression and gaze were both inscrutable, as if he were utterly unaffected. As if he did not feel the spark that had ignited deep inside her, burning into a roaring flame.
