Voices rose and fell around them, punctuated by the clank and bustle of the waitstaff rushing plates back and forth from the kitchen.
Ada forced herself to sit back and fold her hands in her lap. Whatever his decision, she would carry on her own investigation.
There was no denying it would be safer with Edison by her side.
“I’m going to hate myself for this,” he said finally.
His smile warmed her to her toes, and she grinned back, a giddy relief bubbling up in her chest.
He lowered his brows, clearly trying for a stern expression, but the rueful smile curving his lips undid his efforts. “You’ll have to obey me.” He pinned her with a look. “On everything.”
Ada paused, tamping down her relief to give his words the consideration they deserved. “Agreed.”
“Everything.”
“As long as it doesn’t involve sending me away,” Ada amended.
“Agreed.” His mood clearly lightened, he eyed her untouched food. “Are you done with that?” he asked, his fork already hovering over her fish.
With a laugh, she pushed the plate in his direction.
He tucked into the food with the same enthusiasm he’d given his first serving.
While he ate, the waiter glided closer, his expression intent, clearly trying to judge their mood. He held up a silver teapot.
Ada slid her cup toward the outer edge of the table. “Tea would be delightful. Thank you.”
Edison wiped his lips with his serviette. “And the bill, please.” He pulled his pocket watch out of his vest pocket. “We’ve a number of tasks to complete before dark.”
Ada detected a dangerous glint in his eye when he made that announcement. “What sort of tasks?”
The dangerous twinkle sparked into a wicked grin. He snapped the watch shut and stuffed it back into his pocket. “Your first test.”
Ada shrugged, refusing to be goaded. “I’m not concerned.”
“You should be.” Edison rose and moved to pull out her chair. He leaned in so close the heat from his body wrapped around her. “I have a devious sense of humor, Mrs. Templeton. One might even say wicked.”
Despite her bravado, Ada shivered. The way his warm breath caressed the back of her neck, the intimate way he closed in on her, the sensual promise in his words spelled danger.
Sensual, virile, knee-weakening danger.
*
He shouldn’t have come.
It was a grave risk, but he couldn’t stop himself.
The urge had been building since he heard about the explosion—since he realized she hadn’t been caught in the blast.
The urge had swelled into a compulsion. He couldn’t concentrate on the simplest of tasks, couldn’t think of anything but her fear.
So he would allow himself a small concession.
Fate appeared to agree with his decision. The minute the hired cab turned onto her lane, he spotted a clear length of curb with an excellent view of her door.
He jabbed the roof of the hansom with his cane. “Stop here.”
Careful to sit as far back from the windows as he could, he pulled the front of his silk hat low and hunched down until his high collar cut into the sides of his cheeks.
Prudence dictated he not tarry.
Her house was on a fine street in a fine part of the city. Marble columns, not so large as to be vulgar yet large enough to imply a certain level of wealth and power, topped the short flight of stairs to the front door. The fine-grained granite facing, a sedate gray, made a delightful backdrop for the white columns.
It was a house of taste and refinement. A house an embarrassment to womanhood like that bluestocking Ada Templeton didn’t deserve.
He pressed back against the worn cushions, letting the rage fill him. Empower him.
It was the cottage that really called to him. He wanted to see it, to savor the smoking ruins where she’d almost died.
Where she’d felt the terror she deserved.
But self-preservation won out.
The village was too small, the cottage too far outside of town. Someone would have noted his presence.
But he would allow himself the indulgence of seeing her home. He grinned up at the dark windows. Elation swirled through him with every breath.
Knowing he’d put her out of her house, knowing she was on the run—afraid for her life—because of him, dulled his disappointment at her escape.
She was out there in the chill fall air, huddled against the cold in some unremarkable inn, believing she’d outsmarted him. Believing he thought her dead. Believing he’d actually allow her to present her device to the world and take credit for its creation.
She might play at science, but in the end, Ada Templeton was as dim-witted as any other female. It might take a few days—a week even—but one way or another she’d nibble on the bait.
Wind gusted down the street, ripping the last of the yellowed leaves from the maple tree at the foot of her stairs and scattering them about the landing.
As if they were scattered across her tomb.
The thought sent a pulse of heat to his loins. A heat he hadn’t felt in years.
A heat that required easing.
He laughed and banged his cane on the roof of the hansom. “Take me to the nearest bawdy house. One with clean whores. Hurry.”
Chapter 12
Wind gusted through the streets, whipping open coats, fluttering hems, and sending the last dead husks of leaves skittering into doorways and curbs.
By the time the hansom pulled to a stop in front of a smart-looking townhouse, Ada was thoroughly homesick.
The homes lining both sides of the lane managed to appear both elegant and unconcerned with their presentation. Newer and smaller than the mansions in her own neighborhood, they sparkled with sophistication. She imagined them filled with young socialites thrilled to live just blocks from the beating heart of the city. Theaters and cafes surrounded the area, lending it a hint of the bohemian.
They left her missing the stolid granite facade of her own home. She missed the quiet. She missed Grandmama’s confused rants. She even missed Haversham’s simmering disapproval.
She missed her life, the whole of it.
Ada sighed and heaved herself out of the cab after Edison. He had bounded up the stairs of the nearest house before she tackled the first step.
He gave the door a hearty rap. “We’re here to see Miss Parvenue,” he announced to the sleepy-eyed parlor maid who answered.
The maid motioned them in. Though the space was small compared to her own over-large home, the entry was designed to impress. Gilt wallpaper, gilt-edged coat racks and end tables topped with gilt-accented vases, and landscapes nestled in gilt frames, crowded in on her.
What wasn’t covered in gold was upholstered in large, dramatic patterns.
The room should have felt oppressive. Instead, it exuded a curious warmth and a strong sensual energy.
It was the gold.
Not having much interest in decorating, Ada would never have considered the effect so much precious metal could create.
The maid bobbed a curtsey. “I’ll see if she’s receiving.”
“Tell her it’s—”
“Sweet! You dog. It’s been too long.” A vision in white lace floated down the staircase.