Burning Lamp by Amanda Quick Page B

next flight. “I live alone except for Mrs. Trevelyan.”
    “You must find it difficult without your husband. My condolences on your loss.”
    “Thank you. It has been several years now.”
    “Yet you still wear mourning.”
    “Sentiment aside, I find the veil useful, as I’m sure you noticed today at the museum.”
    “Yes,” he said. “I can certainly understand the need for secrecy, given your hobby.”
    She ignored that. “As for the lack of visitors in this house that is due to the fact that I have only recently returned from America. I do not know many people here and I have no family.”
    “If you no longer have any connections to England why did you return?”
    “I don’t know,” she admitted. She had been asking herself the very same question for weeks. “All I can tell you is that it seemed like the right time to come back.”
    She rounded another landing and climbed faster.
    She set such a brisk pace on the last flight of stairs that by the time she reached the attic she was panting a little. Griffin, however, did not appear to be the least bit winded. In fact, it was obvious that he was in excellent physical condition.
    It occurred to her that she had seen any number of gentlemen in various stages of undress in recent weeks, thanks to her new pastime, but very few had been endowed with the sort of manly physiques that made a lady want to look twice. She knew, however, that if she were ever to come upon a nude Griffin Winters she would not be able to resist a peek. Make that a thoroughly detailed scrutiny, she thought.
    It was little wonder that Griffin was not breathless like her. He was not, after all, wearing several pounds of clothing. She had long ago eschewed the stiff bone corset and some of the multiple layers of undergarments that were currently fashionable. There was, however, no avoiding the great weight of the many yards of heavy fabric necessary to create a stylish gown, to say nothing of the petticoats required to support it. Her men’s clothing was infinitely more comfortable and far less exhausting to wear.
    “You were right,” Griffin said. His voice was very soft. “I haven’t seen the lamp since I was sixteen but the energy is unmistakable. I can feel the currents even out here in the hall.”
    She, too, was aware of the tendrils of dark energy leaking out from under the door. The dreamlight was so powerful that she could perceive it without raising her talent. But she was familiar with the lamp’s currents, she reminded herself. She had been living with them since her fifteenth year. For Griffin, however, the power of the lamp likely came as something of a shock to the senses.
    “Did you think I lied to you?” she asked. There was no logical reason why she should have been offended by his lack of trust. When had she come to care for the opinion of a crime lord?
    “No, Mrs. Pyne,” he said, studying the locked door. “I did not doubt that you believed you were telling the truth. But I had to allow for the possibility that you were mistaken.”
    “I understand.” She gentled her tone. “You did not want to have your hopes raised only to see them dashed.”
    He looked at her, brows slightly elevated, as though he found her sympathy charmingly naive.
    “Something like that,” he agreed politely.
    She cleared her throat. “I did warn you, it is not the sort of thing one keeps next to the bed,” she said.
    “As I recall, you mentioned that it was not the sort of ornament one kept on the maNtel ,” Griffin said neutrally.
    She felt herself turn very warm and knew that her cheeks were probably quite pink. She could not believe that he was making her blush. But to give Winters his due, he gallantly pretended the word bed was not now hanging between them like a razor-sharp sword.
    She inserted the key into the lock and opened the door, revealing the heavily shadowed interior of the attic. The low-ceilinged room was crowded with the usual flotsam and jetsam that tended to