Still, the scenario seemed much more complicated than mutual want. She and Fielding had been thrust together in extraordinary circumstances. Ancient curses with a death warrant and a desire so strong for him she could barely catch her breath.
“Are you suggesting I offer myself to Fielding as his mistress?” Esme asked.
Thea stopped moving, her jewelry in hand. “Most certainly not. I was thinking of something more permanent,” she added with a tilt of her head.
“Marriage?” Esme asked, unable to hide the wistfulness in her tone.
“Why not? You sound as if the notion never crossed your mind. I’ve seen the way you look at him.” Her aunt smiled knowingly.
Truth was, Esme hadn’t thought about it; she hadn’t allowed herself to. The desires Fielding had awakened in her—not merely the sensual desire, but the heart-wrenching need for a family of her own—were dangerous, and she’d done her best to swallow them at every turn.
“There is nothing to keep you from making a good match with him. He seems fond enough of you as well,” Thea said.
Fondness was nice, but would it be enough? Sure, there was desire as well. She’d felt Fielding’s hot and demanding desire for her in the way that he kissed her and the way his hands caressed her skin. She shivered with the memory.
“And who wouldn’t be?” Thea added. “You are, after all, the most charming girl in all of London.”
Esme snorted. “Charming, perhaps some might agree. But none would call me a girl. I am well past marriageable age.”
“Poppycock.” She turned her back to Esme and pointed at her buttons, which Esme promptly began to undo. “I see announcements in the Times of brides twice your age.”
“No doubt after burying husband number one, perhaps even two,” Esme said, patting her aunt’s back to let her know she was done.
Thea stepped out of her gown. “Always an answer for everything, child. Listen to your old aunt; I know love when I see it. And you’d be a damned fool to walk away from it when you have it in your grasp.”
Fielding glared at the man behind the large desk. Jensen picked up a glass and took a sip of the amber liquid. “Would you care for a brandy?”
Fielding rubbed the back of his neck. “No.” “You might as well take a seat,” Jensen offered. “How did you—”
“Know you were coming?” Jensen interrupted. “I didn’t; I was already here sorting through a stack of membership recommendations.” He bent and withdrew a massive leather-bound volume from a drawer and set it on top of the desk. “But I do suspect I know why you’re here.”
Fielding sat. “I want to know who was there with him.”
“The day of the cave-in?” Jensen provided.
“Yes. I know there were two other men with my father. Two other members of Solomon’s. But we were never told who.”
Jensen inclined his head. He cracked open the book and turned the crisp pages. “Here we are.” He turned the book to face Fielding. “Right there,” he said, pointing at a section on the left page.
In flourishing penmanship was a recounting of all the steps Fielding’s father had taken to research and locate the Templar’s Treasure. The final entry, dated September 4, 1873, detailed the trip to Hadrian’s Wall his father had taken, and listed his companions on the trip: William Higginsworth and Stephen Piper.
“As you’ve already been informed, there was a cave-in,” Jensen said. “William and Stephen did what they could to pull your father out. When they finally retrieved his body, it was determined that he’d died when a particularly large rock hit his head.”
The two names stared up at him. Fielding recognized one of them, Higginsworth; even remembered that he’d been his father’s closest friend. And yet after his father had been killed, Higginsworth hadn’t bothered to inform his friend’s family of exactly what had transpired in that cave.
He’d imagined this moment over and over. It seemed he should feel . . . something. Anticipation or perhaps satisfaction.
Yet, for the first time he felt himself questioning his own motives. Would making these men pay for encouraging his father’s futile quest really bring Fielding any contentment?
Before he could search his conscience for the answer, Jensen spoke. “I can give you the men’s addresses.”
“No, I can find them myself,” Fielding said.
“It was an accident.” For the first time since they’d met, Jensen’s voice had an undercurrent of compassion.
He sipped his brandy again. “Going after those men will not bring your father back, nor will it answer all of your questions.”
The kindness didn’t soothe Fielding; instead it seemed to fuel his anger. “You don’t know anything about me,” he said.