Burning Lamp by Amanda Quick Page A

imagine him at work in a secret laboratory, stoking the fires of an alchemical furnace in search of arcane knowledge. Passion burned deep inside him but she sensed that it was securely locked behind an iron door. Griffin Winters would never allow that side of his nature to govern his actions. An oddly wistful sensation fluttered through her.
    Don’t be an idiot, she thought. The man is a crime lord, for heaven’s sake, not a lost dog in search of a warm hearth and a kindly hand.
    “At least I now know why I felt obliged to hang on to the lamp all these years,” she said. “It appears that I was waiting for the rightful owner to claim it.”
    “Don’t tell me that you believe in destiny, Mrs. Pyne?”
    “No. But I have a great deal of respect for my own intuition. It told me that I ought to keep the lamp safe.” She turned to walk away down the gallery. “My carriage is waiting in the street. My house is in Lexford Square. Number Five. I will meet you there. You shall have your lamp, Mr. Winters.”
    “And the woman who can work it?” he asked softly behind her.
    “That remains to be negotiated.”
     
     
    HE ARRIVED in an anonymous black carriage that carried no markings or other identifying features. One would hardly expect a man in his profession to go about in a vehicle inscribed with his initials or a family crest , Adelaide thought, amused.
    She watched from the drawing room window as Griffin opened the door of the cab and got out. He paused a moment, giving the square with its small park and respectable town houses an assessing glance.
    She knew what he was doing. During her years in the American West she had seen others—lawmen, professional gamblers, gunfighters and outlaws—conduct the same quick analysis of their surroundings.
    Griffin Winters no doubt possessed any number of enemies and rivals, she thought. She wondered what it was like living with the constant threat of violence. But he had chosen the path, she reminded herself.
    Griffin went up the steps of Number Five and knocked once.
    Mrs. Trevelyan’s footsteps sounded in the hall. The housekeeper, excited by the unusual prospect of greeting a visitor to the household, was hurrying.
    The door opened. Adelaide heard Griffin enter the front hall. A strange excitement fluttered through her in response to his presence in her home. She got the uneasy feeling that for the rest of her life she would know whenever he was in the vicinity. And, more disconcertingly, when he was not nearby. It was as if during that brief meeting in the museum she had somehow become attuned to him.
    “My name is Winters,” he said. “I believe I am expected.”
    “Yes, sir,” Mrs. Trevelyan said. Her voice bubbled with enthusiasm and curiosity. “This way please, sir. Mrs. Pyne is in the drawing room. I’ll bring in the tea tray.”
    Adelaide stepped quickly out into the hall. “No need for tea, Mrs. Trevelyan. Mr. Winters won’t be staying long. He is here to collect an item that belongs to him, that’s all. It’s in the attic. I’ll show him the way.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” Mrs. Trevelyan’s face fell, but she rallied swiftly. “It’s very dusty up in the attic. I’m sure you’ll both be wanting tea after you come back down.”
    “I don’t think so,” Adelaide said firmly. “Mr. Winters is a busy man. He’ll wish to be on his way as soon as possible and as I have plans to go to the theater tonight, I don’t have a great deal of time to spare, either.” She looked at Griffin. “If you’ll follow me, Mr. Winters, I’ll show you to the attic.”
    She gripped the key ring tightly, whisked up her skirts and moved quickly toward the staircase. Griffin followed.
    “Your housekeeper appears very eager to serve tea to your guests,” he remarked halfway up the stairs.
    “I suspect that she gets quite bored with only me and the daily maid for company.”
    “Yours is a small household, I take it?”
    She reached the first landing and started up the