Her Majesty's Necromancer (The Ministry of Curiosities #2)(10)

He left the door open and strode toward me. I backed away and stumbled into a table, causing the lamp on it to wobble. His hand lashed out, reaching past me. He caught the lamp, but the action brought him closer. We were a mere inch apart. His breath fanned my hair. His pitch black eyes searched mine and instead of anger, I saw something else in their depths. Desire. I was certain of it. Almost.

My heart stopped dead in my chest. It didn't dare beat for fear that any movement might frighten him away. I waited for his kiss.

It never came. He drew in a slow, deep breath then turned away. He pressed his hands to the surface of the desk and lowered his head. My eyes fluttered closed and I tried to will my chest to stop aching. I should have encouraged him instead of remaining still. If only I'd had enough courage to instigate a kiss instead of hoping.

"Lincoln—"

"Next time Gus asks you to do his chores, tell him no."

"Your knuckles," I muttered. "They're cut and bruised."

He crossed his arms, hiding his hands. "I had to interrogate some of the patrons."

I smiled a little, but my heart wasn't in it. "And did your interrogation reveal anything useful?"

"That people don't like to lose at dice," he said, not quite meeting my gaze.

"Let me see your knuckles."

"They're fine."

"You ought to rub a salve onto them. Let me fetch—"

"There's no need," he growled. "Goodnight, Charlie."

Well. So be it. I turned to go, but he called my name softly before I reached the door. I expected him to approach, but he remained near the desk, his arms still folded. He didn't look quite so fierce, however.

"I'm sorry for my temper," he said. "I mean no offence."

I sighed. "I know. I'm used to it now."

The corner of his mouth quirked to the side. "Take the day off tomorrow."

"Your apology was sufficient."

"You've been working hard and haven't had an entire day to yourself since you started."

"That's because I don't know what to do with all that spare time." Although Lincoln paid me a wage every month, I had nothing to spend it on. There was no need for clothing, since I wore a maid's uniform, and the Lichfield library housed enough books to keep me occupied for another year or so.

"Go to the theater," he said. "Or the museum."

"Alone?"

He lifted one shoulder. "You don't like to be alone?"

I'd spent five years feeling utterly alone in the world, despite always being in the company of boys, and ought to be used to it. But I disliked solitude now that I'd found friends. I craved company more than ever. "Not particularly."

He leaned back against the desk and clutched the edge with his hands. He looked down at the rug. "You'd better go."

I slipped out and shut the door. The conversation had been odd, but at least he hadn't remained angry with me. Nor did he seem to assume I was stealing. I would have hated for him to think that I was.

I undressed for bed and drew on my nightgown quickly, as it was a little chilly in my room. By the time I snuggled under the covers, I had three ideas for occupying myself on my day off, none of which involved museums or theaters. First thing in the morning, I would find out where Lady Harcourt lived.

***

Lady Harcourt's late husband had left her their London residence in his will, while his eldest son from his first marriage inherited the "crumbling country pile," as Seth called it. Seth seemed to know quite a lot about Lady Harcourt, but perhaps that was because he was from a noble family too. I still couldn't imagine she would risk losing Lincoln's respect by secretly dallying with his employee.

I caught an omnibus to Mayfair, where most of England's nobility lived when in London. The streets were lined with five story townhouses, strung together like pale jewels on a necklace. Their tall windows and smooth fa?ades commanded attention. The view from the top floor of Lady Harcourt's residence must take in much of the city.

I wasn't sure whether to knock at the service entrance below street level or the main front door. In the end, I decided I was calling on the mistress of the house and had every right to use the same door as her other callers. It was answered by a smooth faced butler of indeterminate age. He took in my drab housemaid's attire—minus the apron—and wrinkled his beaky nose.

"Go downstairs. Someone will let you in." He went to close the door, but I stuck my foot through the gap. Unfortunately he didn't notice and the door came down rather hard on it.

"Ow!" I cried. "Bloody hell."

"There'll be none of that language here," he whispered hoarsely. "Be off with you."

"I'm here to see Lady Harcourt and I won't be leaving until I do."

"She's not home."

I sighed. "We both know it's too early for her to be paying calls. Tell her that Miss Charlotte Holloway is here to speak with her about Mr. Fitzroy. She'll agree to see me."

Lincoln's name must have meant something to him. He let me in and indicated I should wait in the entrance hall. While the hall wasn't as grand as that at Lichfield, it was very impressive, with a white marble staircase sweeping up to a balconied second floor where Lady Harcourt appeared a few minutes later. She glanced down at me then dismissed her butler with a small nod.