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A thin strap of leather, worn and dark, hanging down to nearly the top of his breastbone even in his supine position. A necklace of sorts, which she had never noticed before. Why would she?
But she knew that button. She knew every detail, every scratch, every faint etching, and she knew the tiny initials that had been laboriously scratched into the underside. She knew that leather strap it hung upon, and she knew where it had come from. She had cut that strap herself. Had threaded the button upon it. Had worn the charm herself as a talisman against danger and loneliness. Had clung to it during hundreds of dark nights while crying for her losses. It was her button, her leather, her talisman. She had not seen it in almost fourteen years. Not since the night she had happened upon a
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Minerva had gone by Hatch in those days, a token of her birth name, Minnie Hatcher, and no one had known anything of her story.
She had taken off her necklace, the only emblem of her father, and tied the leather strap tightly above the arm wound as a tourniquet.
The others had driven him away, but Gent had given Minerva a thoughtful look. “Come see me this week in White Lyon, any day around eleven. We need to talk.” She had agreed, and later on that week found herself invited into the ranks of operatives in London. Being a child, she hadn’t been thrown into work straight off, but she had been adopted into the Rothchild Academy and found herself taken out of the streets for good.
No one else had a reason to have her father’s button, but if it had proven lucky for the man she had saved, it was entirely possible it could have been passed on when he had no need of it. Or if he had died on some future mission, perhaps a partner would have taken it up. But in her heart, she knew. Griff was that man.
Her father had died, her mother had been dead for years, and there was no relation to take her in. Rather than submit to an orphanage or poor house, she had taken herself into the streets and learned how to survive on her own.
Was headed to work for the Foreign Office when his commission was up. I certainly hope they made better use of him than the army, if his bearing was any indication. Martin, I believe. The surname, I mean. Couldn’t tell you his given name, but it was dreadfully boring.” Griff’s ears began to burn, and he quickly looked at his droning companion with new interest. “Indeed? A cousin to the viscount?”
Griff looked appropriately obedient. “Yes, ma’am. If I behave, may I have dessert?”
“I was a very good thief in another life. Some things not even time can erase.”
There were at least fifteen years of records here, and he made a mental note to examine the housekeeper’s parlor at any house he was investigating in the future.
Her memories of her father had not dimmed with its absence, nor had her affection for him as the years had passed. But she needed to know why Griff had worn it during their fight. Did he know who she was? Or was it simply something he had kept?
Minerva went to the bureau in the room first, inspecting each and every clothing item carefully, particularly the buttons. The reports had stated that particular buttons were used to indicate operatives, but the lack of such buttons would not clear Galveston.
She pulled the page out and showed him, a thrill of pride racing through her veins when she heard his own breath catch. A page of music ought not to give anyone so much reaction, but when it was the music for “Suspendez à ces murs,” one felt the intense desire to either bellow in victory or heartily embrace the nearest human.
“Hang on these walls,”
For some godforsaken reason, Minerva glanced at Griff’s crooked grin, the heat of her delight seeming to concentrate in the center of her chest and, oddly enough, on her now buzzing lips.
Griff swallowed, which was suddenly the most fascinating thing she had ever seen, and then he took her hand and brought it to his lips, which was a far more exhilarating experience than it had been before, now that her gloves were gone.
“What do we need?” she hissed, curious as to what had piqued his interest in Partlowe’s study. “Family names,” he replied without looking up. “Anything documenting extended relations. Trust me, something will be here.”
She began scanning the rows of books on the shelves, looking for any sort of family Bible or history among them.
She tapped the family name. “Martin,” she whispered. He nodded and ran his finger down the page. “Charles Alexander William Martin,” he breathed. “Seventeen ninety-seven. Older than I thought.” “Surely not,” Minerva retorted. “His service record…” “Shows nothing,” Griff overrode, his whisper firm without being harsh. “I only discovered tonight that he was in uniform, and that should have been in his file in London. There must be discharge papers somewhere, but it would be at least ten years ago.”
“My archives room.” Partlowe rose and gestured for Griff to follow him. “Trust me, no one goes in there. I mean, I do, but not during events. My wife doesn’t use it, and I have never seen the need to lock it. I think you will find it conveniently located, as well.”
My father’s sister has a son who was injured in service some years back. You should see the reports of valor in his discharge papers. I was quite envious.”
Had anyone ever made note of the clerk’s having a limp or disability? What sort of hindrance would keep him from continuing in the army and still allow him to be recruited for their work? Recruited during school, yet given a commission in the army? There were so many disconnecting points with this story, Griff wasn’t certain what to believe anymore.
That he wasn’t still attracted to her, in all honesty. It didn’t prevent him from working with her, nor respecting her skills as an operative. It didn’t cloud his judgment nor his abilities. It had nothing to do with anything, except that it existed. And sometimes, it really existed.
The duke had taken some time to fully comprehend his brother’s true occupation when they had first arrived the week before, but he seemed to be completely supportive now.
And there was something inconceivably attractive about Griff the man that had nothing to do with a visible throat or fighting skills or a crooked smile. This was a whole, real, all-encompassing human whose outer appearance had a rather heart-stopping nature, but whose entity, stripped of the characters he inhabited, was soul-stirring. And her soul was stirred.
How strange. Pippa had no husband, no children, and never mentioned family of any kind, apart from her niece that she was guardian for at the school.
She’d known warmth and affection in childhood, adored her father to distraction, and clung to the faint memories of her mother.
What Minerva wanted was a family. No, not a family, necessarily. She wanted to belong.
And Thistle came by to give her opinion on our partner fighting. Her mastery of footwork is truly remarkable.”
But Thistle had lost her entire team on her last mission, and the damage of such a loss had been great, indeed. Minerva suspected that Thistle had actually been in a relationship with her partner, Dart, but nothing had ever been confirmed.
His brother had often complained about that, never understanding why Griff was at a distance when in England. He understood now, and the relationship between the brothers had never been better. And oddly enough, being at Kirkleigh with his brother was rather perfect.
Her exposure as a fraud had been a bitter sacrifice to his brother’s heart, as he had considered Clara a traitor and a thief rather than an operative at first. But deciding she was worth it, he had pursued her, and therein discovered the truth.
She was lovely in any state, he was coming to learn, but this was his preferred version of her, and he’d have admitted it to anyone.
We are both arguably the best in our fields independently, yet never part of the great duos or teams we know. Surely there is some meaning in that, and something we can learn from each other.”
He wanted her to be fascinated by him, not as an operative, but as a man. He wanted to be interesting to her. Attractive to her. Compelling. Worthy.
“that talisman, or whatever it is. Will you tell me?” If it would settle the madness at war within him, he’d recite his entire life story for her. “It’s from my very first mission as an operative,” he began, his voice rather gruff and low, even for speaking softly in the night. “I was working down in the dockyards, looking for some connections Trace had passed over to us.
“Someone found me,” Griff said, his voice sounding rather distant to his own ears. “A girl. Somehow, she carried me to a warehouse or something—the memories are hazy. But she tended my wounds. Bound my arm in a tourniquet with this strap.” He pulled out the talisman, showing her the leather, his fingers running over the surface of the faded gold button at the end of it. “I was carted off to Suds sometime after. According to him, it saved my arm. She stitched up the wound crudely, but enough to keep the blood loss at a minimum.
“I tried to find her afterwards to thank her and to return this. Hatch, she was called. But there was no hint of her on any of the streets, and no one would say a word. So I kept it. A talisman against such stupidity and recklessness. I’ve never been as close to death since, even when I was in prison in Portugal. It’s habit to wear it now. And there is an uneasy feeling about me whenever it’s gone.”
“And the button reminds me daily that I owe my life entirely to the deeds of another. And not to waste a single moment.” “No,” came the breathless response from the most perfectly parted lips known to man.
He touched his lips to hers once, shivered at the contact, then pressed against their fullness further, finding no hint of resistance from Minerva. On the contrary, she returned the pressure, her lips parting enough to catch his upper lip between them in the most delicious action he’d ever experienced. There was a slow give and take to the kiss, a perfect, leisurely waltz that had a rawness to its edges and something unrefined in its beauty.
Griff captured the fullness of Minerva’s bottom lip, tugging ever so slightly and smiling against the faint moan he heard from her at it.
Minerva sighed against him, and Griff let the kiss fade on his part, more than willing to continue if she wished, but satisfied if she chose to end it. Her lips fell from his, and her nose brushed against his chin as she leaned against him.
“No, that… I didn’t mind.” She swallowed and pulled back, meeting his eyes. “At all.” The change in her demeanor made him smile, and he stroked her cheek again. “Good. I didn’t mind it either.”
“You, me, the kiss, standing out here like this… it’s all fine. Don’t overthink it.
“Because there was no pretending there. I don’t want to pretend with you. Not anymore. Not about anything.” Her eyes seemed to brighten at that, even in the darkness of the night around them. “I don’t want to pretend with you either.”
“Yes, ma’am. Understood. I only thought I would seal the agreement between us. No more pretending.” “A handshake would do just as well,” she said primly, holding her hand out in a businesslike fashion. He took it, shaking firmly. “But not nearly so enjoyable.” He brought her hand to his lips, chuckling against the skin as she shivered, despite the disapproving look.
He was not questioning her abilities or her willingness to do her job. He respected her enough to know better. It was entirely possible that she had never been fonder of him than at this moment.
“You are way too kind, sir,”
“It was an expensive boutique in Paris. I shouldn't have gone to so much trouble." The woman shook her head at once. “On the contrary, it was well worth the funds.”
"No," Minerva contradicted sadly, heaving a sigh, "I'm afraid it's too much. I don't blend in with other English ladies."
