Eleven
The next morning, Jack stepped into a bath. Since he’d killed off Sebastian Courtenay, Marquess of Fayne, he’d gone by the name Jack Granger. It was less refined, less noble, and it truthfully suited him better. But he hadn’t told Lottie of his new identity. Didn’t know how to or if he should. Scratch that. Heknewhe shouldn’t. His superior would undoubtedly have his hide for letting her know he was alive; if he told her the rest…
Draping his arms over the sides of the tub, he tried to relax. Steam lifted from the lukewarm surface, and he stared broodingly at the wisps rising toward the yellowed ceiling. He had a few moments to unwind before the water grew cold.
Not that he found it easy to relax in London. The cacophony of Spitalfields filtered through the thin glass panes: hawkers conducting their trade in booming voices, carriage wheels clattering, and babes and animals squalling. Even indoors, the air held a distinct pungency of coal smoke, brine, and rotting things. The efforts taken to ameliorate the odors—in this instance, a vase of wilting flowers left by Mrs. Clooney, the annoyingly coquettish widow who operated the lodging house—made matters worse.
The stink was only one of the myriad reasons why Jack hated London. For him, the place unearthed memories best left buried, and he avoided it as much as possible. Since his work kept him abroad, this had not been a problem…until now.
Now the lethal, faceless enemy he’d been hunting his entire career was here.
And so was Charlotte.
My Lottie.His gut twisted with a familiar ache—a torturous longing that he’d learned to live with. But she wasn’t his any longer. If he were honest, she’d never really been his. He had deceived her at every turn, and even if he’d done it to protect her, he knew he was not deserving of her trust.
Not deserving ofher.
Thus, he’d done the best thing for her and left.
But Fate had crossed their paths once again, and he would do everything in his power to keep her safe, even if she wanted nothing to do with him. Agitation and desire stirred as he considered how the years had changed her. She’d always been intelligent, passionate, and far too willful for her own good. Since their parting, she’d obviously shed some of her youthful insecurities—the baggage that her papa had selfishly heaped upon her—and now she radiated feminine confidence as well.
Jack remembered how she’d once bemoaned her lack of genteel accomplishments. She had feared disappointing him—feared that she wouldn’t make him a proper marchioness. The irony of it had knifed him in the chest. He, of all people, would never judge another for their upbringing. Moreover, he’d always known she was a lady, not just by birth, but in the ways that mattered.
From the moment he saw her fighting off those brutes in Marseille, he’d been awestruck by her resilience. Learning how she’d escaped her dastardly guardian and planned to take charge of her own destiny had deepened his admiration. To top it off, he’d discovered that her indomitable spirit was tempered by uncommon care and compassion for others. She was not the sort of woman to stand by when she saw others being victimized. Whether it was a shopgirl being harassed or a street urchin being bullied, Lottie would not hesitate to step in, even at her own peril.
He wasn’t surprised that she’d started a “charity” to help those in need.
Society of Angels, indeed.
He would have found her brazen thumbing of her nose at societal conventions amusing if it weren’t for the fact that her investigation was leading her directly to a nest of vipers. With smoldering rage, he relived the attack in the alleyway.
What if I hadn’t been there to help her? What if I’d arrived even a minute later?
After taking down those bounders, it had taken all his self-control to leave her when his every instinct clamored to hold her and never let her go again. He'd had to tear himself away right before help arrived…in the form of that bloody Adonis who worked for her.
His hands clenched on the tub’s edge as he flashed to the too-handsome bastard kissing Lottie in the orangery. Another man’s mouth on his wife?—
No, don’t go there. She’s not yours any longer. You made sure of that.
Nonetheless, Jack couldn’t stop the demon of jealousy from eviscerating him. It didn’t help that, twelve years ago, he had left Lottie to shield her from the very group that Quinton was leading her to like a lamb to slaughter. For fifteen years, Jack and his team had been hunting the shadowy anarchist organization known as the First Flame Society. The group had an insidious agenda: to foment chaos and violence and destroy the established order at any cost. It knew no borders and was behind riots, mobs, and assassinations. The blood of countless innocents stained their hands.
Jack was part of a team brought together by international interests to root out the First Flame and put an end to its reign of terror. Whilst he and his group had foiled several plots, they’d never managed to bring in a member of the First Flame alive. The anarchists were zealots, ready to sacrifice themselves for their cause. The chameleon-like society shifted in its location and sometimes went quiet for extended periods. Their latest dormancy had lasted three years, and Jack had begun to hope that perhaps the group had disappeared for good.
He ought to have known better. They were like weeds, their spread vigorous and underground. The only way to fight them was to think and act like them. Jack had lived in so many places, under so many assumed identities, that sometimes he forgot who he was.
But it was easier that way. Burying himself in work, even if it was dangerous, posed less of a threat than allowing himself to remember who he was and what he wanted. To recall the one taste of happiness he’d selfishly taken—that had tormented him ever since.
Seeing Lottie again had made everything worse. Because she wasn’t just a memory: she was a living, breathing woman…who, by some miracle, was still free. For reasons he would not allow himself to examine, she had never remarried.
And she remembered the time ball.
He’d had to hide so much of his past from her, but she’d obviously tucked away what he’d said about the Royal Observatory all those years ago. As if what they had shared meant something to her. As ifhehad mattered.
Even though he had no right to it, hope burgeoned in his chest…and other places as well.
Beneath the cooling suds, he was already hard. It was a common condition whenever he thought about Lottie, as was what he did next. The water rippled as he fisted his erection, closing his eyes and pretending that the hand surrounding his rock-hard shaft wasn’t his but hers. His wife’s. Fantasy and memory wove seductive images, and he lost himself in the pleasure-pain of it.
Of remembering…and wanting.
