Page 13 of A Game of Hazard

“Overt surveillance only. I’d be much obliged if you tell me exactly what’s going on behind those doors when you come out again.”

“Why do you not go in yourself?”

“I wouldn’t be admitted, even if I brought a warrant, and I don’t want to have to use force. I have a connection those within and hope that in time they’ll come to their senses and tell me what I need to know.”

Finchorn shook his head. “I will never understand the workings of the military.” He turned away and knocked on the door.

Giles’s weary limbs tensed painfully, and he paced up and down the pavement, trying to get his breathing back under control. This couldn’t be right. She couldn’t be dead. None of them could—it was all a ploy. It had to be. He grasped the iron railings in front of the house until they bit into his palms. He must feel nothing—he must remember his duty. Which was to capture the leader of a notorious band of smugglers by whatever means necessary.

Something caught his eye, and he glanced up. How very appropriate! It was a fresh wanted poster, pasted over the previous ones. The reward money was now set at five hundred guineas.

Wealth indeed! It was time he stopped letting his heart rule his head and took action, even if he was afraid of what he might find. He was a soldier and an officer, fearful of nothing. Bolstered by new determination, he marched up the steps of the Isaacs’s house, only to encounter the undertaker coming out, slow of step and pale of complexion.

“You are done already?” Giles couldn’t conceal the tremor in his voice.

“It doesn’t take long to measure up a young lady for a coffin.”

An icy fist seized Giles’s heart, squeezing it in an agonizing grip. “Which young lady?”

“It was the young lady of the house, a Miss Alexandra Isaacs. I did not wish to linger any more than I had to—there may be contagion within. You should be grateful they didn’t admit you, Captain—they did you a favor.” Finchorn touched his hat and trotted away.

Giles was at the door before he even knew he’d reached it. As soon as it opened a crack, he forced his shoulder inside and pushed it back, almost knocking over the manservant who’d opened it.

“Where is she?”

The fellow gaped at him, and he resisted the urge to take him by the shirt front and shake him. “Where is Miss Alexandra Isaacs? And where is her mother?”

The man’s eyes flicked in the direction of the stairs, and without waiting for further instruction, Giles took the steps two at a time and headed for the nearest open doorway.

There he was met by a sight that stopped his heart. In the bed lay Miss Alexandra Isaacs, her face as pale as the sheet pulled up to her chin. Her mama sat in a chair nearby, a handkerchief pressed to her eyes.

She leaped up at Giles’s entrance, then subsided into her chair and let out a tremulous sob. “Oh, Captain! I cannot believe it! How could she have been taken from us? She had barely lived! What happened at that tavern where she fell ill? You were there—did you see anyone who might have brought this plague upon us?”

His body had lost all feeling, but he forced his feet to take him across to the bed.

Alexandra’s hair looked damp as if she’d had a fever. Her eyes were closed, her pallid lips were drawn together, and the skin of her face was marked by a rash of red dots. He could see no sign of life.

She couldn’t be gone. This was all wrong. He leaned over and laid a hand on her damp hair. Her face, in repose, was even more beautiful than he remembered.

He’d never dealt with the death of someone like Alexandra Isaacs and hadn’t realized until now how much she’d touched his heart. How he longed to salute those lifeless lips, caress that pale cheek, hold her delicate hands in his own, and chafe the warmth back into the limp body!

He pulled his hand away, and his vision blurred.

Then he noticed there was something on his hand. White powder, from where he’d brushed against her brow. Hope charged through him like a lightning strike.

He shot a sideways glance at Miss Isaacs’s distraught mama but the woman had covered her eyes with her handkerchief again.

“A great loss,” he murmured, leaning down to brush his lips against the “dead” woman’s forehead. The vile taste made him rub his lips at once and spit into his handkerchief. White lead—if he wasn’t much mistaken.

He moved closer to watch the silent face beneath his own. Was that the tiniest flicker of an eyelid? Feeling bolder, he ran his thumb across Alexandra’s lips and was intrigued to see that it, too, came away white. No one in their right mind put white lead on their lips, so this must be flour. Her mouth was rosy and inviting where he’d wiped the powder away, so he bent his head and pressed his lips against hers. Their ripe fullness was cool to the touch but not cold. If he pressed a hand to her breast, would he feel her heartbeat? His own quickened at the idea.

“A final farewell.” He kept his voice low enough that her mother wouldn’t hear, but he was certain Alexandra heard him. Even so, she made no sign but persisted with the charade of being deceased.

If this scenario hadn’t given him such a shock, he would be laughing at its absurdity. But all he wanted to do now was draw her into his arms and kiss her until she could no longer resist—and must be forced to come to life again.

His lips were close to her ear. “The prince’s kiss has not aroused the sleeping beauty. I wonder what else might serve?”

He slipped the sheet down to her waist. Had her ribcage lifted a little? If he put his hand on her chest, he would feel her breathing, no matter how shallow she tried to make it. Leaning close in delicious anticipation, he detected the distinctive odor of laudanum. Great heavens—she was drugged! Had she done it herself, or had this been done to her?