Tidy and thoroughly bedded.
She radiated beauty. Her lips were still full from their kisses, her cheeks sweetly flushed, but it was the sparkle in her eye that gave it away.
Edison grabbed a scone and eyed his family, relieved that Ada’s transformation seemed not to have registered. Yet.
“Good morning,” Meena greeted her and slid the plate of scones in Ada’s direction. “You look well.”
Edison didn’t like the speculative gleam in his cousin’s eye. He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Fogle is well I assume?” he asked about Ada’s grandmother.
“She’s delightful.” Meena smiled at Ada. “She’s taken quite a shine to our Mr. Hapgood.”
Ada grinned. “I’d advise him to be on his guard. Grandmama has a certain…preoccupation with handsome fellows.”
Meena looked between them. “Nothing wrong with that.”
Edison stared down at his plate. He recognized that look. Meena was on the scent. He cleared his throat. “The advert specified two to three pm,” he reminded them before taking a bite of scone. “That gives us plenty of time to scout the area.”
“Barton’s Theater, you said?” Meena’s brow furrowed. She propped an elbow on the table and cupped her chin. “Place’ll be empty that time of day.”
“Not if there’s a rehearsal,” Briar said.
Crane nodded. “That would help.”
“I’m hoping not,” Briar says, eyes twinkling. “If the theater’s empty, we can stage our own performance.”
“Because adding more complications would be eminently helpful.” His sister lived for drama and excitement and unnecessary complications.
Across from him, Ada took a scone. She split it in half and reached for the butter, but he could tell her attention was on the conversation at hand.
“We’ll need diversions,” he pointed out. “I’ll run by the office, pick up a few things.”
Crane nodded. “Take Mrs. Templeton with you. She’ll be helpful. You can pick up Nelly. She came back from Brighton with us.”
Meena slid the basket of scones in Edison’s direction. “We’ll give the theater a look and meet you back at the office.” She looked around the cold, dusty space. “No reason for you to remain here.”
Ada eyed him, her mouth a flat line.
Edison winked, willing her to see he’d find a way—make a way—for them to come together again.
After they rounded up the steaming pile of refuse who wanted her dead.
“All right then.” He rose and brushed the crumbs from his trousers. “Better get on with it.”
Purpose electrified his movements. He had a full belly. Disaster had been averted. And there was a good chance he’d get to punch someone in the face before supper.
The day was looking up.
Crane rose as well. “We brought the clarence. Why don’t you and Mrs. Templeton take it? We’ll get by with your hansom. Where did you it, anyway?”
“It’s on loan,” Edison said. “Should get it back to the driver after this is done.”
Crane nodded and headed out of the kitchen.
“Let me help you pack,” Briar said to Ada. “I can gather my brother’s things. No need to subject you to his foul socks.”
Ada smiled. She shot him a look, a look full of promise. Wicked promise. Then she followed Briar out the door.
Yes, the day was most assuredly looking up.
The kitchen returned to its cold quiet. Just he and Meena and half a basket of scones.
He turned toward the butler’s pantry. “I’ll pack up the battery.”
“Edison, a moment.” Meena stood behind him, hands clasped behind her back. She had that serious look in her eye, the one that made him feel like a naughty school boy.
She whipped a hand out from behind her back and dangled a scrap of blue ribbon in front of his nose. “Ada isn’t one of your actresses. Dallying with a woman like Mrs. Templeton could leave a mark.”
Edison swiped the hair ribbon from her fingers. He conjured up his best roguish grin and shrugged. “Nothing I can’t handle,” he lied.
Meena was right.
Ada’s vast intelligence and her refreshing lack of reliance on typical female ploys, had hooked him from the start.
Finding her to be such a responsive and exciting lover only drove the hook in deeper.
When it came time to part, she’d leave more than a mark.
Chapter 15
Ada’s cheek itched terribly, but she didn’t dare scratch the puckered scar Briar had so carefully sculpted. Briar and Meena had assured her the jagged white line running from the corner of her eye to her jawline would make people flinch, preventing them from studying her face too carefully.
Between the scar, the rags wrapped around her head and the ill-fitting old dress, there was little about her anyone would recognize.
There was little she recognized.
Somewhere in the transition from silks and perfume to rags steeped in onions and cabbage and stale sweat, Ada Templeton, scientist and widow had vanished.
Inside, Ada the woman still reeled from that night of passion. If it weren’t for the soreness in her thighs, she might’ve imagined her time in Edison’s arms.
She scratched the back of her neck where the rough material of her shift dug into her skin. She recalled every kiss, every touch, every stroke of him inside her.
She could see his face—intense, yet intriguingly playful—hovering above her as he found his release. The way the gold flecks in his brown eyes sharpened as his own passion overcame was a sight she’d treasure.
The flashes of memory made her breasts swell, aching for his touch.
Ada slammed the brush down. What if there was no next time?
They’d made no promises. No plans.
Had she been like his other conquests? A convenient tumble?
He was a passionate man. And she was a widow—a woman society allowed a certain amount of leeway. No reason to think otherwise.
Much as she was prepared for that eventuality, the notion left her hollow.
Now, with her breakfast barely digested, she’d been transformed into a filthy charwoman. She spared a thought for the bright blue jewel of a dress and the sensuous feel of satin sliding over her silk-covered legs. Now ragged cotton stockings bit into her knees as she pressed into the dirty tile floor.
It was as if her life had become the preposterous plot of a sensation novel.
Were the situation not so deadly serious, she would have laughed.
Ada dipped the worn brush into the bucket of cold water and swirled the dirty leavings over the floor. She was on her knees in a ragged dress and ill-fitting boots secured about her ankles with snippets of twine, scrubbing the tile floor below the stage of Barton’s theater.
The League’s office girl, Nelly, knelt across from her, scrubbing her own section of floor. Above them, actors strode back and forth across the stage in ordinary dress, reading their lines to an invisible audience.