looked back at her and even in the dim lighting she caught the flash of worry that crossed his eyes. Solid, confident, levelheaded Able was concerned. The fear she’d felt earlier came back, only this time it wasn’t creeping and cold. It came over her in a wave of panic that was cold and then hot, nearly sending her to her feet in a rush to do something. Anything.
“We need to find out where this letter came from,” said Able. He paced over to lean a hip on the edge of her desk, clearly too agitated to stay still for long. “I’ll start questioning the staff. There’s an account number here where you’re to deposit the money. We can have it traced.”
Yes, there were things they could do. She wasn’t defenseless anymore. She shoved the panic down again and held on to that one fact. “Right. That’s the first place to start.”
Able nodded. “I’ll go out in the morning—”
“No,” Glory interjected. “We can question the staff discreetly, but we can’t let anyone know about the note. And we especially can’t let anyone connect us to whoever owns this account.” She pointed at the numbers written on the piece of paper. Turning her attention to the man guarding the door to her apartment, she said, “Hunter, this is the main reason I came to you for help. Your family owns shares in the bank.” Hunter’s father was one of the wealthiest men in town. The Jamesons had been major shareholders in the bank since its founding. “Surely you can make some confidential inquiries and figure out whose name is attached to this account without tying that inquiry back to us? I think if we could make some headway on that front, we can wrap this up quickly.”
“I can make some inquiries in the morning,” said Hunter.
She nodded, already feeling a little better now that they were making plans to deal with this. As if sensing her disquiet, Able put his hand on her shoulder.
“He won’t be able to touch you here, Glory. You know that?” Able asked.
There was no need for Able to elaborate on who he was. He had been the dark phantom hovering over them ever since they’d escaped; the monster they both feared in the dark of night. She nodded and Able squeezed her shoulder. Here they were again after all these years. Trying to reassure each other that Justin wouldn’t get them. To be honest, she wasn’t quite sure she believed it fully. There were still times she woke up in the middle of the night expecting him to be there. If he found his way to them, she was certain that he would kill them.
Instead of putting voice to her fears, she squeezed Able’s hand and took his offer of comfort for what it was. He’d become the family she’d had to give up. An older brother who would always be there to look out for her. Only now that was threatened and she needed to do something about it.
Zane moved silently into the sitting area of Glory’s suite of rooms. The only light came in through the window facing the street, casting the small space in shadow and shades of gray. Alert to any movement, he switched on the wall sconce. Yellow light filtered over the landscape paintings on the wall and the overstuffed, comfortable-looking furniture that made up the bulk of the room’s decor. It was much cozier than he’d been expecting. All the furniture downstairs was elegant and chosen for fashion more than comfort. He’d been expecting more of the same in the madam’s private rooms.
It wasn’t a very large space, but it was relaxed and homey. A full bookcase sat on one wall and the other held what he assumed was a phonograph, though he’d never seen one in person. The large brass cone sat silently. Everything appeared well-kept and undisturbed.
On quiet feet, he glanced inside the tiled bathing chamber to find it empty before making his way to her bedchamber. A strange feeling came over him as he opened the door and switched on the light. A sense that he was intruding on her private sanctuary, the place she came to get away from the world, washed over him. It was a place he very much wanted to know. Her bed sat neatly made with a faded blue-and-yellow quilt. Given the understated elegance of the rest of the space, he’d expected something slightly more grand. Maybe something made of silk or satin. But it was an ordinary quilt. Her grandmother’s quilt, he realized.
How many people knew about that quilt? The rumor was that she never entertained men privately. While that seemed to be true, rumors could be wrong. At the very least, it was highly likely that her staff had been to her private rooms. The list of people who knew that detail was endless.
He tried to imagine her sitting on the bed, reading the book that sat closed on the nightstand. Her bare feet peeking out beneath the hem of her gown with her hair down around her. He couldn’t do it. He knew so little of the woman he couldn’t imagine her as anything other than the self-possessed Glory Winters. Calm, elegant and always proper. Did she ever lounge in her bed without a corset? He grinned at the thought.
Stepping farther into the room, the soft scent of roses washed over him. Nervous energy moved through him at the same time his skin tightened, muscles deep in his gut clenched in pleasurable anticipation. The scent of roses had always filled him with wary trepidation, reminding him of the words of warning he’d been given as a child. Roses were a sign of death. Yet, ever since he’d met Glory, he’d associated the scent with her, leaving his body a mess of confusion.
A dressing table sat across from the bed with cosmetics and perfumes scattered across the surface as if she’d dressed in a hurry that morning. He felt like an interloper as he examined it. He should be checking the armoire and under her bed, but he couldn’t make himself walk away just yet. He gently ran his fingertips over a handkerchief she’d left blotted with rouge from her mouth. The shape of her lips stared back at him.
A clouded glass bottle sat backed up to the mirror, and he picked it up. Bringing it to his nose, he closed his eyes as he inhaled the familiar scent of her perfume. It always lingered behind her, lying faintly in the air when she passed, sweetly calling him to his doom. The usual warning sounded in his head, warring with the desire that had flared to life within him. No matter how he reminded himself of the premonition, he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to inhale that scent directly from her skin.
He shook his head at the thought. In all the years that had passed since he’d left his mother’s people, he’d never quite been able to shake the words from his memory. His aunt had told him before she’d sent him away to his father that roses were bad for him because she’d seen it in a dream. That warning had stayed with him for years. He’d never even seen a rose before she’d told him that. She’d drawn a tightly budded flower in the dirt to show him, but he hadn’t been able to tell much from it. He’d grown up avoiding every flower he came into contact with. Now that he was older, he couldn’t decide if what she’d told him was real or something she’d imagined, but he still couldn’t shake the premonition that came over him.
He put the bottle back and forced himself to walk to the armoire and look inside. Empty but for stacks of brightly colored silks and satins. It was the same beneath her bed. A couple of wooden boxes were stored there, and he realized that he’d give his eyeteeth to know what was inside—evidence of who Glory really was. But he wouldn’t intrude on her privacy any further than he already had.
Turning the light off behind him, he moved back into the parlor. From his vantage point he noticed a wooden frame on top of a spindly table. The frame held a single rose pressed between two small panes of glass. He walked over and picked the frame up out of its little stand to examine it closer. The rose was dried, its petals various shades of faded pink.
A warning? It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t leave Glory to fight this battle
