Page 36 of The Hollow of Fear
Less isolated.
Every day he moved among people, dozens, sometimes hundreds of people: family, friends, neighbors, classmates, archaeological colleagues, fellow agents of the Crown, and this was not accounting for his staff and ranks upon ranks of acquaintances. But he had been alone for a long time—and had reinforced that loneliness even as he had despaired of ever being anything but alone.
Her touch, however, unleashed a monstrous need, so immense and chaotic he couldn’t be sure what he hungered for, or even whether he wished to take—or to give. He held still, terrified of this need, and just as terrified that she had already taken its measure, she who saw too much and gleaned everything.
But as her warmth poured into him, as she remained where she was, not leaving him to cope on his own, his hand lifted to rest against the back of hers, his fingertips brushing against the cuff of her sleeve.
It dawned on him that she was no longer wearing her jacket, waistcoat, and paddings. A man’s shirt was far more modest than the bodice of a ball gown—and he had seen her in plenty of those. But underneath the shirt she wore no corset, and through the layers of his own clothes he discerned the shape of her, pressed into his back.
Twenty-four hours ago he would have considered this impossible, that he and Holmes would be in each other’s arms—and that he wouldn’t immediately pull away. He had not written her since summer because even though Lady Ingram was never coming back, he remained a married man with nothing of value—at least in his own view—to offer her.
But everything had changed in a single day. He was no longer a married man. And at any moment he could lose his freedom—and possibly his life.
He did not move again. Not because he might startle her—she had ever been imperturbable in these matters. But becausehewas startled. He had thought he knew everything there was to know about his desire. Had considered it, so long fettered and trammeled, as tame, or at least manageable.
When it had always been feral. Primal.
Her lips touched his nape, just above the rim of his collar. He spun around, cupped her face, and kissed her on the mouth, a kiss that he might never be able to stop.
She was the one who eased them apart—and combed her fingers through his hair. “You are welcome to stay.”
He rested his forehead against hers. He wanted to. Badly. But not with his wife’s body still in the icehouse. “Tomorrow.”
“Then get some sleep. You must be exhausted.”
He’d taken a nap in the afternoon—and had slept like the dead until he was awakened to meet a frantic Miss Olivia Holmes. Still, he found himself swaying on his feet.
“Good night,” he murmured, kissing her on the cheek. “Scotland Yard arrives in the morning.”
Her lips curved, a barely-there smile. “Let them come,” she said. “And let them do their worst.”
9
Ironic that Treadlesentered Lord Ingram’s home for the first time not as a friend but a policeman.
It was also the first time that he investigated the death of someone he had met.
A few months ago, in the course of a different investigation, he had walked past Lord Ingram’s town house in London. At the same time, Lord Ingram had emerged from the house and Lady Ingram from her carriage. The greeting between the two had been so aloof that Treadles, who had never seen Lady Ingram before, had almost mistaken them for strangers who happened to cross paths. There had been none of the smoldering tension that one sometimes encountered between former lovers, only a void, a complete absence of affection.
On that day he’d understood why Lady Ingram never attended her husband’s lectures or accompanied him on his digs. On that day he’d also understood that he’d never be invited into Lord Ingram’s home, as long as Lady Ingram, who took no pleasure at all in meeting him, drew up guest lists and seating charts. Not that he’d expected or even wished for such an invitation, his station in life being so far inferior. Nor would he accuse her of any particular snobbishness; her dislike of him had been impersonal, indifferent, a mere reflection of the vast distance between her husband and herself.
It was the first and last time he saw Lady Ingram alive. He had left the encounter deeply saddened, but without the slightest premonition that tragedy would strike within months. Or that suspicions would fall squarely upon Lord Ingram.
“Lovely,” murmured Chief Inspector Fowler, when the manservant who greeted them had gone to inform the master of the house of their arrival. “As immaculate as the grounds.”
The entrance hall was white-and-gold marble. Fluted columns soared forty feet to a blue cupola. An avenue of statues led toward a grand double-return staircase.
“That is a Rubens. Those two are Rembrandts, if I’m not mistaken,” said Fowler, squinting through his wire-rimmed spectacles at paintings on distant walls. “And the three over there should all be Turners. We could be looking at a spectacular collection, Inspector.”
Although Treadles had acquired a decent education in the history of art through his wife, he ventured no opinions of his own, beyond an “I’m sure you are right, Chief Inspector.”
Fowler might appear friendly, even genial at times, but Treadles had learned not to trust that seeming affability. There was something predatory about him, a too-strong enjoyment in the nabbing of suspects. It was likely the man had no interest at all in justice, but only in the exercise of power.
And now he had Lord Ingram in his sights.
The manservant returned to lead them to his master. Beyond the entrance hall they crossed a picture gallery, three-stories high, glass-roofed, and dense with oils and sculptures. Fowler shook his head in admiration, whether at abundance of artwork or the soaring architecture Treadles couldn’t be sure. Perhaps both.
Treadles had known that Lord Ingram was well-situated in life. But well-situated could mean a prestigious title and not much else. He’d had no idea of the depth and extent of his friend’s wealth.
