God help him—she was remembering it too: their bodies moving as one, every delicious tremor, the way he’d wrung every last whimper from her, broken her breath into ragged little gasps he still heard in his head.
Oh, Gabriel … Gabriel.
His cock stirred at the memory.
If she touched him now, they’d be arrested for indecent conduct.
“If not in bed, where then? How will you divert my mind from our current predicament?”
Oh, he could think of a hundred ways.
None of them fit for church.
He chose the most likely to please a woman with a passionate heart and an inquisitive mind. “Julius Caesaris playing at the King’s Theatre tonight, and I have a private box. It’s time we were seen together in public, and the tragedy may shed light on your father’s warning.Beware the Ides of March.”
Excitement lit her eyes, and he would never be the reason it faded.
“It will give me a chance to wear one of the gowns the countess sent, and there has to be some connection to the play. Why else would my father take such pains to hide the clue?”
“It is a play about murder and political ambition.” Theimage hidden in the miniature was warning enough: unrest, conspiracy, danger closing in. “Which is why I must insist you sleep in my room until we identify the traitor in the house.”
Before she could respond, footsteps echoed along the aisle.
“Hello? May I help you? Are you here to see Reverend Clay?”
Gabriel turned to find a short, tubby fellow in a black cassock approaching. “And you are?”
“Mr Plunket, sir. The verger here at St Luke’s. I’m afraid the rector is away for most of the day, giving a sermon at?—”
“The Ladies’ Benevolent Society, I know. We’re here at the magistrate’s behest to search the burial records and the sexton’s books, if they’re kept here.”
Gabriel presented his calling card.
Plunket accepted it. The instant he read the name, his hand gave a sharp tremor. “My lord … my lady.” He dipped into a hurried bow, nearly dropping the card in his haste. “Forgive me. Perhaps I might be of service.”
“Good. We welcome your assistance, Mr Plunket.”
The man would likely prove more helpful than the Reverend Clay, whose word could not be trusted.
“Of course, my lord.” His manner changed at once. “This way.” He hurried ahead, cassock swaying about his ankles, and gestured to a narrow door beside the vestry as he led them down the nave. “The burial registers are kept in the clerk’s office. We maintain records going back near a century.”
Gabriel held the door for Olivia, the scent of old paper and damp cloth drifting out to greet them.
Plunket bustled to a tall oak cupboard and produced a ringof keys. “Which records did you wish to see, my lord? We’ve the churchyard registers, the new ground, and there’s an older set for the plots out east of the rectory.”
“Yes, the old burial ground,” Gabriel said.
Plunket paused mid-motion, a flicker of something crossing his face, then nodded. He selected a long, leather-bound volume from the shelf. Dust motes spiralled as he carried it to the clerk’s desk.
“Folk rarely ask to see these, my lord.” He placed the register down, the heavy leather thumping against the wood. “Not unless there’s been a dispute over a plot—families arguing over who owns which corner, who was buried where, that sort of thing.” He flipped the cover open, but seemed possessed of a need to keep talking. “Or if there’s confusion about dates. What year did you say you were searching for?”
Gabriel looked at Olivia, hoping she remembered.
She frowned slightly. “The inscription gave the year in Roman numerals … MDCCCXIII. I believe that’s 1813.” Almost as an afterthought, she said, “Yes, the fifteenth of March, 1813.”
Gabriel stilled. Plunket seemed unaware of the importance as he turned another brittle page and sneezed into his handkerchief.
“The fifteenth of March,” Gabriel echoed. “The Ides of March. When Caesar was struck down in the senate.”
