“No, of course not!” She blinked the tears from her lashes. “Bloody hell, I never cry.”
“I didn’t think so.” He touched a fingertip to her cheek and gently wiped away a bead of moisture. “It must be the steam from Ashton’s invention.”
Charlotte nodded, unwilling to trust her voice. Now that all her pent-up fears had spent their fire, her mouth felt filled with ashes. She hadn’t realized just how terrified she had been at the thought of losing him from her life.
And how terrified she was now at having to face her innermost feelings.
“It works, you know. Ashton was right about the new design,” went on Wrexford, seemingly unaware of her inner turmoil.
Thank God—one never had to fear that the earl’s ironclad scientific reasoning would ever bow to emotion.
“I suppose we may take a small measure of satisfaction that its power has been saved from falling into evil hands,” he mused, “and will, as Ashton intended, be used for good.”
“No small thanks to you, Wrexford,” pointed out Charlotte. “You refused to give up on finding the truth.”
“As did you.” His smile had its usual mocking curl. “You have to admit, we make a formidable team.”
“Yes, God help any miscreants who cross our path,” she murmured, taking care to match his sardonic humor. “They usually end up dead.”
At the offhand mention of death, her brooding concerning the earl quickly gave way to another unsettling thought. “Speaking of which, if Blodgett was the villain, what of Mr. Hillhouse? Poor Miss Merton—”
“There’s no need to worry,” interjected Wrexford. “Hillhouse is safe in one of the rooms below. It turns out the fellow is entirely innocent. He was abducted and forced to build the valves—the one missing part to the new engine design—becauseBlodgett threatened to harm Miss Merton. And then Blodgett nabbed me because . . .”
He paused. “Well, it’s rather a long story—”
“Then I suggest you wait to tell it,” said Charlotte. “As Miss Merton and Jeremy, along with Mr. Sheffield and Mrs. Ashton, have played an integral part in fighting Blackstone and Blodgett’s evil plot, they deserve to be present to hear all the gory details at the same time as I do.”
Charlotte darted a glance at the massive iron-hinged door. “And besides, I’m not sure how long Mr. Sheffield can hold off Griffin. The Runner didn’t see through my disguise last time we met, but it would be foolhardy to press my luck.”
At the far end of the room, lit by the oily glow of a single lantern, was a narrow stairwell.
“So I think it best if I slip away.” A coward’s retreat perhaps. And yet she suddenly wasn’t sure how to express her emotions—or whether Wrexford would welcome them. “But first, promise me something.”
The floorboards creaked loudly as Wrexford shifted his weight from foot to foot, an oddly uncertain expression rippling to life in the shadow-dark depths of his eyes.
“Promise me that you will be more careful next time you decide to take it upon your lordly self to solve a heinous murder.”
A short, cynical laugh rumbled deep in his throat. “I would think my demise would be cause for celebration—you wouldn’t have to endure any more of my awful moods and irascible snarls.”
It was said lightly, yet the simple statement seemed to quiver in the air, tangling itself in multiple meanings. Or perhaps it was just her own overwrought imagination that was tied in knots.
“If you’re implying that I would be happy if you had met your Maker, I do confess my first impulse was to throttle you myself. However . . .” A pause. “However, life might be a trifledull without your sharp sarcasm and overbearing arrogance to stir scandal and gossip.”
Charlotte let her gaze trace the angled ridge of his cheekbone, where the faint stubbling of a bruise was darkening to purple. Strange how all the subtle contours of his face had become so familiar—the shape of his eyes, the aquiline jut of his nose, the tiny creases pulling at the corners of his mouth when he wasn’t quite as sure of himself as he wished to appear.
It was that small hint of vulnerability that impelled her to go on. “Do I hope there won’t be a next time?” she said. “Yes, of course I do. However, I fear a passion for justice has burned itself into your blood.”
“I don’t have passions,” pointed out Wrexford. “Merely ill-tempered flaws.”
“But you have an unyielding sense of honor.” She reached up and tucked a tangled lock of his hair behind his ear. “Which may be even worse.”
“Me? Honor?” He made a self-mocking face. “Ye god, don’t letthatcat out of the bag.”
Their eyes met and Charlotte couldn’t hold back a smile. “I—” The rest of her words caught in her throat as he suddenly caught her hand and brushed his lips to her knuckles.
Her heart thumped against her ribs. “Was that a . . .”
A kiss?No, surely not.
