He knocked, then glanced at Joanna out of the corners of his eyes. “Remember, you are—”
“Not even here,” she said sweetly.
“Why are you being so agreeable?” Suspicion flickered in his gaze. “What are you planning?”
“Why do I have to be planning something?” Their walk, while not long, had been brisk, and she was beginning to perspire beneath the weight of her coat. Shrugging out of the garment, she laid it over her arms and regarded Kincaid with an innocent smile. “You needn’t worry. I shall endeavor to be on my best behavior.”
His expression darkened. “That’sexactlywhat worries me.”
Joanna made a scoffing noise. “You hate me when I don’t listen, and you hate me when I do. You’ve placed me at a severe disadvantage, Kincaid.”
“I don’t hate you, Miss Thorncroft, I—”
Unfortunately, whatever Kincaid felt for her would have to wait for, at that very inconvenient moment, the blue door opened to reveal a butler. At least, Joanna assumed he was a butler. She’d never met one personally. But she had read about them in her beloved gothic romances.
They were always dressed in black (which this man was) and looked disapproving (which he certainly did). Invariably, they were named Dobson or Gibbs, and were either a hindrance to the hero whenever he tried to visit his lady love or gave sage pieces of wisdom which no one ever seemed to heed.
“Can I be of assistance?” the butler asked coolly.
“Yes.” Kincaid stepped forward, filling the doorway with his long, lanky frame and forcing the servant to take a step back. “My name is Thomas Kincaid. I believe you were told to expect me. I have a few questions for the staff in regards to Miss Eloise Bancroft.”
A mottled red crept up the sides of the butler’s neck. “I am afraid that will not be possible. We were not given a time, and the servants are busy. Not to mention they, and I, have already been interviewed extensively by Scotland Yard.” He spared a dismissive glance at Joanna before refocusing his ire on Kincaid. “Should you have any further questions, I would direct you there.”
“If I wanted to go to Scotland Yard, I would be at Scotland Yard. Mind your step, Miss Thorncroft.” Grasping Joanna’s elbow, Kincaid steered her past the blustering butler and into a high-ceilinged foyer that had been stripped of all its furnishings.
While Kincaid conversed with the butler in low, furious tones, Joanna wandered over to the wall and absently ran her fingertip along the wainscoting. She frowned when her glove came away covered in a black layer of dust. If the servants were otherwise engaged, as the butler had indicated, they certainly were doing something other than cleaning. The marble tile was scuffed, the windows were dull, and the chandelier hanging above her head was filled with cobwebs. The house appeared as though it had not received a proper cleaning in weeks, if not months.
“Who is Miss Eloise Bancroft?” she asked Kincaid after the butler had stormed off, muttering about “inconveniences” and “we will see about this”. What a truly unpleasant man. “Does she live here?”
“Shelivedhere,” the detective corrected. “She was murdered the same day you arrived in London. I’ve been hired to find the culprit.”
Joanna’s eyes widened. “This is amurderinvestigation?”
“Indeed. Well, suspected murder, I suppose, as Eloise’s body has not yet been found.” Removing his spectacles, he polished the lenses with his handkerchief before slipping them back on. “Dumped in the Thames, most likely.”
She suppressed a shudder. “But…then how do you know she was murdered, and not kidnapped? Or maybe she ran away.”
“Given the amount of blood that was found splattered on the walls of her bedchamber, I doubt very much she is still alive,” he said, speaking with the casual bluntness of someone who had witnessed enough violence and death to be unfazed by it.
Unaccustomed to the darker side of Kincaid’s profession, Joanna pressed a hand to her mouth as bile burned the back of her tongue at the vivid picture his words invoked. “How awful,” she whispered. “That poor woman.”
He let out an oath. “I apologize, Miss Thorncroft. I should have curbed my tongue. I am used to keeping company with other peelers.” In two powerful strides, he was across the room and had his hands resting protectively on either side of her waist. “You shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have brought you here. Let me take you to the office, or to your boarding house. Whichever you prefer.”
As her initial unease subsided, Joanna slowly exhaled. She may have been startled by Kincaid’s carelessly graphic description of the crime, but she was no shrinking violet.
“Ipreferyou not think of me as a helpless damsel who is in danger of swooning at the first mention of blood. We Americans are made of sterner stuff than that.”And hotter fire, she added silently as she felt Kincaid’s thumbs pressing into her hipbones through the combined layers of her dress and petticoat.
A few inches higher, and he’d be touching her ribcage. Then her breasts. Her nipples tingled, swelling to hard buds that strained against her bodice as heat pulsed between her thighs. Her slender throat convulsed in a forced swallow. There was a time and place for passion; the middle of a stranger’s foyer wasn’t it. Unless Kincaid indicated otherwise, of course.
At this rate, she was willing to kiss him in the broom closet.
Or the pantry.
Even the library would suffice.
Books and desire…would could be better?
She peeked up at him to find he was staring intently at her, his gaze fixated on her mouth. She wet her lips, and he made a hoarse sound as his grip tightened, dragging her even closer until the only two things separating them were their clothing and his unwillingness to succumb to his potent desire.
