Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)(104)

In the center lounged a bed. No, not a bed. A monstrosity of velvet draping and sturdy posts and firm pillows and mattresses of no doubt specially-ordered size. Not much sleeping went on in it, she would wager. It looked more like an erotic gymnasium. She cringed, hoping he didn’t wish to make love to her here.

But he skirted the bed entirely, heading for a bookcase in the far corner of the room.

He beckoned her close. “So you’ve seen Julian Bellamy’s house. Now I’m going to show you where I live.”

“What? What do you mean, where you live?”

In lieu of an answer, he put his hand into the bookcase, stretching to reach the hidden recesses of the third shelf. He gave a swift pull on whatever it was he’d grasped, and Lily felt a change in the room, as if the wall had released a gust of breath. When Julian stepped back, the bookcase swung out from the wall, revealing a dark space. She lifted the candelabrum but could make out nothing within.

She blinked and tried again. This time she discerned a few faint curving glimmers in the dark. Perhaps … a row of brass hooks?

Lily swallowed hard. Her Bluebeard fancies returned with a bloody vengeance.

“It’s only a closet,” he said, stepping backward into the newly revealed space and extending her his hand.

“You live in a closet?”

“No,” he said, smiling. “There are more rooms on the other side.” His fingers crooked to beckon her. “You did say you wanted to share my life.”

So Lily accepted his hand, screwed up her courage, and followed him into the dark.

They went through the closet and emerged on the other side, into a modest, humbly furnished apartment. If two small rooms with a closet could be called an apartment. There was a narrow bed, made up for one. It displayed no more signs of actually being slept in than the grandiose Mount Mattress in the other room had done. But the rest of the space showed signs of life. On the desk blotter, a penknife and quill lay yearning for one another, separated by an expanse of blank paper. A discarded cravat was draped over the back of a chair. The grate had some ashes in it, and a scorched rag hanging on a hook by the kettle suggested someone rather inexpert at the task had recently been making tea.

A new light source flickered to life as Julian lit a lamp and placed it on the table. He went to the small mirror on the wall and began pushing his hair flat against his scalp.

“You live here?” she said.

He nodded, shrugging out of his coat.

“You. Live here.” She gestured first at him, then around the place, still not comprehending.

“Until we married, I did.”

“Why?”

“It’s convenient. My offices are just below.” He frowned at his waistcoat, seemingly displeased with it. But evidently he and waistcoat reached some kind of truce, for he let it alone. He reached for a new topcoat, this one from the hidden closet.

“Your … your offices?” She finger-spelled the word to make sure she’d understood him correctly.

“Yes.”

He donned spectacles and a brown felt beaver, and the transformation was complete. Here was her theater escort—the boring, overworked clerk. Mr. James Bell.

“Come downstairs. I’ll show you.”

This time, he carried the lamp. Lily followed him out of the small apartment and down the narrowest staircase yet. This one folded in half on itself on its journey downward. It ended at a nondescript brown door.

Julian seized the handle, paused for a second, and then thrust it open wide to reveal …

Offices. He’d been true to his word.

Though it was growing dark, it was only late afternoon. People were still at work, in shops and factories all over the city.

This establishment was no exception. From two orderly rows of desks, two orderly rows of clerks jumped up, snapping to attention. They made a chorus of greetings, which Julian acknowledged with a nod. The clerks all retook their seats, but they kept stealing glances at Lily. They peered at her as though they’d never seen a woman before. Or at least, not one on their employer’s arm. Comforting, that.

A man in a brown suit hurried toward them. Lily thought he looked vaguely familiar.

“Mr. Bell.” He bowed. “Sir, how very good to see you. We weren’t expecting you in today.” The man’s gaze slid to Lily. He was visibly squirming with curiosity, but his employer did not indulge it.

“Enough, Thatcher. I’ll call if you’re needed.” Lily’s husband—she wasn’t even certain what to call him anymore—steered her toward a partitioned office at the back of the room. She barely had a chance to read the lettering on the door’s frosted window: Mr. J. Bell. Manager, Aegis Investments.

Once inside, he directed her to sit at the large desk. From here, a large plate window gave her a view of the two rows of clerks seated at their desks. She looked out at them. In unison, they jerked their gazes away and dipped their quills.

Before her, her husband worked to clear away a haystack of papers and envelopes.

“Sorry,” he said, sifting through the papers and piling them in a neat stack. “It’s not usually so disorderly. I haven’t been in much of late, and I’m behind on my correspondence.”

“What is this place?”

“It’s … mine.” His chest rose and fell. “You’re now the only soul alive who knows that. Except Faraday, apparently, and a very discreet solicitor. Thatcher and the clerks—they all believe I’m the manager of Aegis Investments, reporting to wealthy investors. But in truth, the investments are all mine. I own it all.”