Page 77 of Unmasking the Diamond
Charlotte gestured towards a nearby bench nestled beneath a rose arbor. “Come, sit for a moment and collect your thoughts.”
“I don’t want to sit.” His eyes burned with a new kind of fire. “I want to fight.”
A faint smile touched her lips. “Then that is an excellent beginning. What is the plan?”
Luca blinked, brushing the moisture from his eyes before it could fall. “I have a lead on Miss Dawlish’s son. He manages one of the factories owned by the Ravenhurst Trading Company. I intend to speak with him.”
“By yourself?”
“No,” he said, his tone steady once more. “I’m going to ask Lord Rupert to accompany me.”
Charlotte exhaled, some of the tension easing from her chest. “That is wise. There is something oddly reassuring about Lord Rupert. He is far more capable than he allows people to see.”
“A sentiment I share.”
Charlotte held his gaze for a long, unsteady moment. Her fingers lingered on the fabric of his sleeve, the warmth of him seeping through the fine wool. For one breath—perhaps two—she allowed herself to feel it. Then realizing her folly, she withdrew her hand and said, “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
Luca’s lips curved into that maddening half-smile that always made her want to shake him. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about me.”
“So what if I am?”
He leaned in until his breath tickled against her ear. “If you want me to kiss you,” he murmured, “just say so.”
Charlotte took a step backward and pressed her hand against his chest. “Do not flatter yourself,” she said briskly. “Why do I even bother with you?”
Luca looked down at her hand, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Please, Charlotte,” he said in mock sympathy. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
She gasped at his audacity and dropped her hand. “Go and get yourself killed, then,” she snapped, spinning on her heel. “See if I care.”
His low chuckle followed her retreat. “I promise to return to you,” he called after her.
“I don’t care,” she tossed back without looking over her shoulder.
“I think you do,” came his confident reply.
Charlotte quickened her pace, unwilling to grant him the satisfaction of seeing her blush. She reached the back door and stepped inside, letting the familiar coolness of the townhouse embrace her. Her heart, however, had yet to calm.
Infuriating man.
However, as she walked down the corridor, she could not entirely banish the sound of his laughter from her mind, nor the way his teasing—so improper, soLuca—somehow managed to feel comforting. Familiar.
Endearing, even.
Heaven help her.
Luca sat across from Lord Rupert in the coach as it rattled towards the docks. The air within the compartment was thick with the scent of damp leather and the faint tang of salt that seeped through the window seams. Outside, the cobblestones grew uneven and the gaslights sparse. He peered out at the streets. They were narrow, crowded, and half-swallowed by shadow.
The buildings that lined the lane were blackened with soot, their windows cracked or boarded up, and the slumped silhouettes of the people who passed by seemed to belong to another world entirely. Thin children darted between wagons, barefoot and grim-faced, while women huddled in doorways with baskets of stale bread or scraps to sell. Even the air felt heavy here—thick with smoke and despair.
He had reported on poverty before, but it was another thing to see it, to smell it, to feel the weight of it pressing against the glass. “These poor people,” he muttered under his breath.
Rupert looked up from his gloved hands. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” Luca turned from the window. “Thank you for accompanying me.”
Rupert’s lips twitched. “It was the least I could do, considering I’d rather you not die.”
“I have been in worse places than the docks,” Luca said, though even to his own ears, it sounded hollow.
