Page 19 of Season of the Scoundrel
She heard someone enter the study, but they seemed to be alone. Then the door snicked shut as they closed it.
“I know you’re in here,” Blackbourne said in only slightly more than a whisper. “You might as well come out.”
For a moment, Ivy considered calling his bluff. She stood frozen, even held her breath.
In two steps, he was in front of her. She couldsensehis nearness.
“Shall I drag you out?” he asked on a husky rasp.
He was the only man she’d ever met whose mere voice could make her insides quiver. What was this power he had over her?
Flicking back the drape, she glared at him. “How did you know I was here?”
“When I realized this was his study, I suspected you were inside. Then I smelled vanilla in the air and noticed a particularly curvaceous bit of drapery. It didn’t take detection skills to work it out.”
Ivy let out a little huff of frustration and strode past him, back to the desk to pull out the top drawer, one she’d yet to explore.
“What on earth are you doing?” Blackbourne asked.
“Searching, of course. You could help me or you can continue glowering at me.”
He let out a sigh, then came around to stand beside her behind the desk.
“I’ve found mention of his shipping concerns. A Southwell Shipping and Carnwick Shipping. Two companies. One in Wapping, one in Southwark.”
“He invited me to the docks last evening, but I didn’t go.”
Ivy looked up, intrigued at that. “I haven’t checked those.” She pointed to the lower right-hand drawers.
His sleeve brushed hers, then the tails of his coat as he bent to search. Apparently, he found something because he pulled out a small black notebook and perused it carefully.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“He owns a club in Bethnal Green, it seems. The Black Opal.”
“Do you know it?”
Blackbourne gave a curt nod. “I know it.”
Ivy filed that information away and continued rifling through papers. One caught her eye because she spotted a name she recognized. She nudged Blackbourne with her elbow. “I think I’ve found something.”
“What is it?” He’d shifted so close, his breath warmed her cheek.
Ivy lifted the folder out and pointed to the name. “Jonas Martin.”
Blackbourne shrugged. “Who is that?”
“A gentleman who was in Penrose’s employ in a factory and then became a manager at one of his shipping concerns.”
“So we’ve found a folder on an employee.” He sounded deeply unimpressed.
“Martin was found dead a month ago. Severely beaten in Southwark shortly after he was sacked by Penrose. I spoke to a source who insisted that Martin had turned informer to the police about Penrose’s dealings.”
The voices of a lady and gentleman could be heard in the hallway outside Penrose’s study. She shoved the drawer shutand reached for Blackbourne’s hand, pulling him toward the draperies.
“Come,” she whispered, “we must hide.”
But, of course, she’d barely fit behind the curtain. With his height and broad-shouldered frame, Blackbourne never would. There was only one thing for it.
